The Cameron Legacy: The Fall of the Star League

[masterarminas]

Yeah...very very bloody. Am I right in thinking that a good chunk of Amaris' Navy is now dead and gone?

Probably a good quarter to a third.

MA

[masterarminas]

Chapter Thirty Two

October 11, 2767
Branson House, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony

We stopped them, Stephen thought. But god in heaven, the cost! Forty-nine Combine WarShips destroyed, another twenty-four fit only to send to the breakers; every last one of the remaining fifty survivors damaged—some critically, including Mikasa, the sole surviving Combine battleship. At the end, even the six carriers had closed to weapons range and opened fire on the enemy, suffering damage themselves. Commodore Hall’s 247th Armed Transport Flotilla had suffered even worse casualties, proportionately. Of the twelve ships she had brought to the fight, six had been destroyed. None of the rest remained capable of performing a jump, and if the six survivors had enough intact weapons between them to arm a corvette, it would surprise him. At least her transports had remained behind at KV-112; the unarmed JumpShips would have been slaughtered had they followed her. They were here now, though, with the late General Christophos’s two divisions and support personnel.

There had been sixty thousand dead and wounded aboard the ships and fighters of the Combine and the Star League. But those casualties paled when compared to the Rim Worlds forces. None of the Rim Worlds vessels had surrendered—they fought until they could not fight any longer, and then tried to ram. Of the one hundred and fifty thousand crewmen Commodore Daragou had begun this operation with; there were a grand total of three hundred and forty-seven survivors, mainly aboard the ships lobotomized by General Kerensky.

Kerensky and Kurita and their staffs had worked wonders; from the depths of the Combine the last reserves of the Kurita Fleet had answered their call. Minoru had stripped his borders of WarShips completely, though it would be months before they all arrived. A massive redeployment of SLDF assets—begun a month earlier—had been increased vastly in size and power. Those ships and troops would start arriving very shortly. Still, with the arrival of Admiral Genda and the Saffel Strike Force yesterday, their strength was actually higher than it had been for the fight nearly two weeks ago. If you included in the count the as of yet unrepaired WarShips of the Combine that could still somewhat engage in combat, that is.

And Genda brought word of Saffel with him. When he left Jinjiro and his people behind, he also left a satellite in orbit; that satellite recorded everything that had occurred once the Strike Force ran—and the Rim Worlders had pursued. It told the tale of Jinjiro’s final stand, and of what happened afterwards. The Rim World Fleet broke off their pursuit and returned to Saffel where they boarded all of Amaris’s troops. Then, seemingly in a fit of pique, they bombarded the world with nuclear weapons from orbit. Saffel—and her population of one hundred and forty million—was now dead; a world contaminated by radiation, locked in the grip of a new ice age brought on by the thousands of nuclear detonations. It would be centuries—perhaps millennia—before man could set foot there again. Compared to those deaths, the twenty-six thousand additional casualties suffered by the Strike Force had seemed insignificant. Insignificant to all but Minoru Kurita. Today the Combine mourned the loss of his heir and eldest son. Stephen had offered his condolences, but though Minoru wept in private, he insisted that Jinjiro had redeemed his honor. That he had become a true Kurita in the mold of Shiro and Urizen at the end. And Stephen agreed; mourning not for Jinjiro, but for the pain inflicted on the man he had come to know as a friend, Minoru.

There was good news, though. He had received a reply from John Davion. The Federated Suns had declared war on Amaris and were mobilizing for action. In fact, an AFFS Task Force would be accompanying the Davion Prince here for the conference next month, the Task Force to remain when John Davion returned to his realm, which should increase our naval strength by about a third. Barbara Liao would be attending as well, and while she was not declaring war, she did say that in order to ensure her safety, she would be accompanied to Asta by no less than forty warships of the Confederation Fleet. None of those would remain when she left, but her ‘volunteers’ were beginning to arrive on Northwind, as eager for action as the Highlanders they followed. Robert Steiner would be attending, but he was bringing only a single ship, the LCS Tharkad, one of their newest battlecruisers—and that ship would also take him home afterwards. Kenyon Marik had not even bothered to reply to his message. That worried him, for the Free Worlds had one of the largest Fleets among the Great Powers; second only to the Star League’s own navy—though a distant second.

All three of the periphery leaders, Nicoletta Calderon, Janina Centrella, and Allyce Avellar would be present as well. None would bring any WarShips—they didn’t have any, or rather they weren’t supposed to have any—or troops. That was fine with Stephen; for soon enough he would have the troops and ships he needed to end this war. End it on his terms.

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

Aleksandyr Kerensky sat in the First Lord’s office, waiting for his arrival. He was no stranger to casualties—not in his thirty-eight year career as an officer in the First Lord’s Defense Force. But, he had forgotten—if he had ever learned—just how bloody naval combat between two bitterly opposed forces could become. Once, just once, in their entire history had the SLDF and allies acting under its aegis taken such heavy casualties, the Taurian Campaign of the Reunification War.

And the Taurians did not have the SDS, he thought. He shuddered, as he considered the eighty-four worlds equipped with the defensive networks. And then, there is Terra. Mother Earth. The homeworld, whose defenses are more powerful than anyone in history had ever assaulted. But, they would have to face the ‘Caspers’ and the SDS ground bases—because once the SLDF arrived here in force, Amaris would have to withdraw from worlds not protected by those shields. The thought of those casualties though, that sent his blood pressure soaring.

The door opened, and Stephen Cameron walked in, alone.

“Good morning, General Kerensky, thank you for coming to see me,” he said as he walked over and shook the General’s hand.

“I am a serving officer, First Lord. Your request is literally an order for me.”

“Would you care for some tea, General?”

“Yes, that would be kind of you.”

Stephen sat behind his desk and pressed a button, “Hiroyoshi, General Kerensky would like a cup of tea, please, and may I have a cup of coffee? Thank you.”

Hiroyoshi entered, carrying two cups on a tray, which he sat down, handing one each to Stephen and Kerensky, then withdrew.

Kerensky sipped the hot liquid, considering Stephen. For the last week, he had been . . . depressed was too strong a word, ah, perhaps moody. The number of casualties had hit him hard, and his reaction had been quite revealing. Be careful, my Lord, he thought. Your empathy does you credit, but your enemies will seek to turn it against you. This Stephen, though, the one sitting before him now, this Stephen showed so signs of his emotional struggles.

“If I may ask, First Lord, why did you summon me here?”

Stephen leaned back, looking at Kerensky. For a long time, he did not answer; he just sipped his coffee and looked at Kerensky. Finally he set the cup down.

“Two reasons, General, Aleksandyr. We won a great—but pyrrhic—victory here two weeks back. I know that you—and your staff, and Minoru’s staff—are working on where we go from here; but I have been considering Saffel. Having nightmares about Saffel, actually, Aleksandyr.”

He looked up and gave Kerensky a weary, sad, smile. Kerensky was beginning to get concerned—we cannot have the First Lord suffer a nervous breakdown, by all the gods, no, not now.

“I have spoken with Sam and Ezra, and I think I have the gist of what you have planned next.” He paused and waited, until Kerensky motioned for him to continue.

“A slow, steady, and unrelenting campaign that will retake about a dozen Hegemony worlds a year—and create panic in Amaris’s command structure as they realize they can’t stop you. That not even the SDS will stop you. You plan to take the outer systems first, to cut Amaris off from the flow of supplies and material he is shipping to Terra from those worlds. Then hit Terra with everything you have left. Right?”

“At its most basic, First Lord, that is indeed the seed of the plan that we now have.”

Stephen slumped in his chair, and then looked back up, staring Kerensky right in the eyes. “It’s the wrong plan, General.”

Kerensky stopped in the middle of taking a sip and looked at Stephen. He sat back, and once more motioned for the Fist Lord to go on.

“You are—pardon me if this treads a little too close to home, sir—treating this as if it were an action against a Periphery State. As if we are fighting the Reunification War, again. You want to break the morale and the will of Amaris’s troops, but while you do that, the SLDF will be gutted, General. I know that, and you know that. And your commanders know that.”

“So, First Lord, what would you have us do?”

“The one thing Amaris will never expect, General. We gather every last man, every last ship we have and that our allies will contribute and we hit Terra itself next. We smash his command and control there and sever the head from his armed forces.”

Kerensky shook his head. “The casualties from the Terran SDS, First Lord, it . . . “

“. . . will be there, Aleksandyr if we assault in January or ten years down the road. We will still have to fight our way past those defenses, and if we wait, our casualties before that might prove to be our undoing. Right now, General, we are as strong as we will ever be. Now, not in ten years, not after liberating over one hundred worlds. You just saw in the naval battle here what we will be fighting. Now is the time, General. Terra should be our next target. Decapitate the Rim Worlds forces, and maybe we can convince the rest to lay down arms, without a fight.”

Kerensky set down his cup on the saucer. “I know you are concerned, First Lord, and I will have my staff look into your request and . . . “

“It’s not a request, General,” Stephen said roughly. He slid a paper across the desk. Kerensky lifted it and read it quickly. It was a directive, a direct order from the First Lord, the Commander in Chief of the Star League Defense Forces to him, the Commanding General, ordering him and staff to plan and prepare to execute an assault upon Terra within the next year.

“And if I refuse, First Lord?”

“Then I will ask for your resignation, General Kerensky, regrettably.”

Kerensky nodded. “If . . . IF I do this, First Lord, put together an operations plan and have my staff run simulations, and I find that it is too risky, I will not give the execute order.”

“Fair enough, General. Just look at the idea, that’s all I ask. If it can work, we can end this war in one year instead of ten—or more.”

Kerensky sat back, and looking down at the floor, smiled suddenly. Well, he is definitely not a Richard; be careful of what you wish for Aleksandyr, you just might get it. He looked up.

“You said there were two things, First Lord. What is the second?”

Stephen looked down, his face flushed. Then he looked Kerensky in the eyes. “My family and I owe you a great deal, Aleksandyr. You are the heart and soul of the SLDF, the one man who can make this work—and give me time to preserve the League. I intend to see that you are well rewarded for what you have done; what you have suffered in the doing. When this is over, I want you to retire from the SLDF.”

A sudden cold shock ran through Kerensky’s body. Retire? From the only life he had ever known?

“They say the only reward for a job well done is another job, General Kerensky. And when this is over, I have one for you, if you will take it.”

Kerensky nodded as the First Lord paused.

“I will not permit any surviving Amaris—or anyone associated with Amaris—to hold any position of power or influence in the Rim Worlds, Aleksandyr. So I intend to appoint a new leader, a leader of the Rim Worlds Protectorate, replacing the Rim Worlds Republic. I want to appoint you, Aleksandyr Kerensky to serve as that leader and reform the Rim Worlds into something we can all be proud off. Something that will ensure that some good comes from all this shit Amaris unleashed. So will you think about taking the job, Lord Kerensky, of House Kerensky? Or do I need to find someone else to take up this burden?”

[masterarminas]

Chapter Thirty Three

October 22, 2767
Asta Defense Headquarters
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony

Aleksandyr sat in the office Stephen had insisted that he be given. It was quite a nice office, complete with an adjoining bed-room suite, a private dining room, and a separate study. Following the defeat of Commodore Daragou’s attack, the Astans had been ecstatic in their joy and pleasure at both the SLDF and the Combine who had given so much in their defense. For the better part of the past month, anyone wearing the uniform of either the Star League or the Draconis Combine had not had to open their wallet for a meal, a drink, or a bit of friendly ‘companionship’. Truly, for the common soldier and sailor, Asta had become a type of paradise found only in myth and legend. Kerensky grinned, for he too had once been young, on his first deployment, on leave in a strange culture, wearing his best uniform and trying new experiences.

The Astan’s reaction had not ended there. No, thousands had volunteered to finish completing this new defense headquarters—they had even agreed to travel to the site in vehicles with covered windows, without knowing where they went. The Astan’s had not been allowed out until the vehicles were parked in the underground bays; when they finished their days work, they returned home in the same manner. And in the time since the attack, they had worked a magnificent job on the HQ facility. All of the walls were now lined with hand-carved feroak panels, polished to a dark, glowing sheen. Carpet? Not for our Headquarters, the craftsmen had proclaimed. No, they had cut tiles from the native marble found in the far western mountains, a mesmerizing blend of grays and greens and blues. In the central alcove of the upper floor, near the reception desk, the masons had laid a mosaic of the Cameron Star and the Kurita Dragon, superimposed upon each other in a stunning array of cunningly shaped and fitted tiles of multi-colored marble, deep rich red polished granite, and pure black obsidian.

False ceilings had been placed overhead; and somehow—no one quite knew exactly how—artwork had made its way on base. Paintings and sculptures, intricately woven tapestries and heraldic shields carved from feroak and painted in the colors of every world of the Hegemony; the artisans of Asta had created a spectacular feel for this place, unlike any other SLDF facility Aleksandyr had ever before seen. Rolling along the corridors yesterday in his wheel-chair—accompanied by Colonel Hall and a gaggle of other aides—he had seen for the first time the shield representing Saffel. The craftsmen had placed a thick swath of black silk around the shield and carved the words ‘We Shall Never Forget’ upon its base—and a lump had grown in Aleksandyr’s throat. Some anonymous trooper had placed a small table beneath the shield, along with four dozen candles—each in its own polished glass holder—and a glass jar containing matches. Many of the candles had already been lit, and fresh flowers lay strewn before them on the table. One of his aides—Captain Trevor Nielson—had inhaled sharply, and with shaking hands lit one of the remaining candles, tears welling in his eyes. Captain Nielson, Aleksandyr remembered, was from Saffel.

Aleksandyr turned back to his work, pushing aside the wool-gathering. In four hours time, the first Star League reinforcements would finally arrive. The SLS McKenna and the Task Force—the Fleet—that had been built around her on the day he left Apollo two months earlier. The 144 WarShips and 240 transports were carrying the entire 11th Field Army—three Corps with twenty-two Divisions and sixteen independent regiments of ‘Mechs, armor, infantry, and aerospace fighters. 10,800 BattleMechs and 3,564 Aerospace Fighters, plus over two hundred thousand infantry, armor crewmen, artillerists, engineers, military police, and many, many others. That number did not, of course, include the Navy crews of the WarShips, JumpShips, and DropShips, and their own aerospace fighters.

And this Field Army was one of just twenty with which the SLDF had begun this war. Casualties during the eighteen months spent fighting the Periphery Uprising and during the first months of the Coup had utterly destroyed or gutted four of those Armies, and damaged half-a-dozen others. The survivors had been consolidated en route to Apollo, with General DeChevilier and Aleksandyr reorganizing the entire SLDF on the fly. When the dust settled from the administrative shake-up, he found that he was left with fourteen Field Armies—each one at or above full strength. Forty-two reinforced Corps—310 Divisions and 224 Independent Regiments—of the Star League Defense Forces remained at his command, out of the 450 Divisions and 304 Independent Regiments the Star League had just three short years ago.

And then there was the Navy. 2,016 WarShips and 3,360 transports provided transportation for the fourteen newly reorganized Field Armies. An additional 6,720 transport ships were devoted to supply, repair, and other sundry tasks; escorted by 1,344 more WarShips. 2,744 WarShips had once been assigned independent operations, but were now gathering in fourteen Fleets, each 196 vessels strong. His Naval casualties to date had far lighter—except in the Hegemony itself, during the Coup.

He looked back down at the study on his desk, tapping the fingers of his right hand across the polished wood. It is a risk, he thought. But, Lord Stephen may be right about this. It just goes against everything I have learned in thirty-eight years of military service—the last seventeen spent as the Commanding General. We always soften the target before we go in—and Amaris knows that. He can bleed us to death on one hundred worlds; death from a thousand cuts. And maybe, just maybe stop my troops on Terra. That path was what his original plan had called for, a ten-year campaign against the Usurper. For Stephen was wrong on one point. They were not as strong as they could be, not yet. Volunteers from all the Great Houses had descended upon SLDF recruiting stations in force. It would take time though to train and equip those troops, months, if not years. Yet . . . he might just have the firepower to crack Terra’s defenses now. And end this war decisively. Capturing Amaris would break the will of many of his officers—and if he could be convinced to order their surrender on the other Hegemony worlds . . .

His hand stopped tapping the desk-top as he sat upright and turned to the keyboard of his computer system. He quickly wrote a simple order, and pressed the send key. Saving the document, he shut the system down, and prepared to retire for the night. I will greet General Montoya tomorrow, he thought. As the weary, injured man wheeled his chair into the conveniently located bedroom; the screen began to shut down, leaving an afterglow which—for just a moment—could still be read.

Aaron, it said, I need you here; report to me on Asta as soon as possible. Leave two Field Armies and two Fleets to garrison the Rim. Bring everything else with you. Kerensky.

[LadyTevar]

Oh yeah, this is going to be FireWorks.

[MondoMage]

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.

Drag? In space? I may be totally off base on this, but shouldn't that be something more along the lines of mass? Unless I am missing something, which occurs far more often that I really like

[masterarminas]

Chapter Thirty Four

November 1, 2767
Branson House, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony

Stephen smiled as he shook the hands of his guests. General Esteban Montoya clasped his hand firmly, then took Marianne’s, bowed before her, and kissed the back of her hand. Straightening, he entered the large ballroom, where dignitaries stood waiting, dressed their most formal, interspaced with the men and women of eight separate militaries all wearing their own dress uniforms. He hated these affairs; always had, ever since he had been forced to attend such gatherings in his youth. That had been one of the many reasons he had entered the Military Academy at the age of 18—to escape these boring, formal parties. Marianne, on the other hand, she lived for this. If it made her happy, then he could endure—besides, he had no choice. The Lords of the Council had to be greeted in a fashion commensurate to their status, lest he offend any. He had a few moments, so he looked as his wife again. God, she was truly lovely, glowing even. The baby inside her was barely showing, but even so, she had fretted over the tight formal gown. She had even asked him the age-old trap of a question, ‘does this make me look fat?’ He smiled again, as he remembered his answer—a deep passionate kiss that had sweep away her worry and fretting, for a short moment, at least.

Cassie had not been happy when they told her that she would soon have a baby brother or sister—while the doctors might know the child’s sex, Stephen and Marianne wanted to be surprised. No, she had not been happy, and asked if they could just return it, maybe for a pony instead? That had been four weeks ago, though, and now she was excited. Tonight, she had been put to bed early, for Stephen would not force his little girl to endure this boring soirée. Marianne had frowned; pointing out that it would be good for her to learn how to behave at these functions. To be sure, Stephen agreed with her on that, but not tonight. No, soon enough Cassie would learn just how much her life had changed over the past year, and tonight, he wanted his little girl to be his little girl, not the Heir to the Throne of Man.

Hiroyoshi—standing behind Stephen—whispered into his microphone. “Barbara Liao, Chancellor of the Capellan Confederation.”

Stephen turned his attention back to his guests as he heard Hiroyoshi’s voice over the small, nearly invisible earpiece he wore. She was just beginning to pass through the line, conversing with Paul Gellar and his wife, here in his capacity as Planetary Governor. Paul had nearly fainted when he learned that he would have to attend, but his wife had quickly brought him around. That appointment had been a roaring success. Over the past month, he had worked eighteen hour days and led the Astans to rebuild their cities. And the Astans had responded to his leadership. According to the polls he had an approval rating of over 88%, and he had earned that. The special election was coming up in three days, and none of his three opponents were expected to even break into double digits.

Former Governor Alistair Fairbanks had returned yesterday from Northwind, threatening a legal challenge to Stephen’s appointment of the electrician and militia man to his post. Stephen had shrugged and then stepped aside as a delegation from the Planetary Assembly read the warrant for his arrest—for dereliction of duty and abandonment of his office during a time of crisis. Not even Fairbanks’s renowned political connections could save him now. For none of those men dared to oppose Stephen and Governor Gellar. Not now, not after the Second Battle of Asta. The good former Governor would have enjoyed this party, but instead he now waited for his trial in a cell in Asta’s prison complex over on Dawson Island, six hundred miles to the south, sitting alone in the middle of the vast and stormy Southern Ocean.

The Chancellor continued down the line, stopping to speak with General Kerensky. She was visibly shaken at the sight of him in a wheelchair, and knelt to whisper to him. Her courtiers began muttering and she stopped, her vibrant, warm face turning to cold ice. Standing she motioned to one of her guards and whispered to him. He nodded, took the arms of the two courtiers and ushered them out. Then she knelt once more.

“They are being returned to her ship in orbit, Lord Cameron,” Hiroyoshi whispered a few moments later. “Apparently, they think they are going to be executed. I trust she will not go that far—but her ship is Capellan territory and their laws apply there.”

Stephen nodded slightly as Barbara rose, wiped a tear from her cheek, and advanced on him. Stephen bowed; taking her extended hand and kissed it, then rose. “Chancellor Liao, may I have the honor to present to you my wife, the Lady Marianne?”

The two spoke for a moment in an infuriatingly feminine fashion—for somehow Barbara Liao’s spies had learned of Marianne’s pregnancy. Then she turned back to him.

“Director-General, we finally meet.”

“Chancellor, the honor is mine to encounter not only your beauty, but your wisdom. Both of which are renowned across the width and breadth of settled space.”

She turned her head back to Marianne. “You may keep him, Lady Cameron. He will do.”

Marianne smiled and passed her arm through Stephen’s as she leaned against him. “Yes, I know, Chancellor. He already has, as your agents have discovered.”

Barbara Liao laughed. “Touché, Lady Cameron. Until the Council meets then Director-General, may both you and your lovely wife fare well.”

Stephen gave a gracious nod—not wanting to risk sparking a confrontation between Barbara Liao and his wife with something else he said. God, would not that be a disaster? Aleksandyr to his left was coughing—or was he trying to cover a laugh? Stephen sighed; he just could picture tomorrow’s headlines.

“Please, Lord Cameron, smile and don’t shrug your shoulders when you do that. There are cameras present, my Lord,” came Hiroyoshi’s voice is his ear.

He suppressed yet another sigh—but this time his shoulders did not even twitch.

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

Thirty long and boring minutes later, John Davion had finally reached them. Dashing in his tailored uniform, down to the silver spurs he wore upon his polished black boots, he was a suave and charming man—but one with a keen mind and a firm sense of duty. Stephen had met John once before, at a gathering much like this one on Terra. Twelve years ago, after he had graduated Sandhurst, but before he had been assigned to the 42nd. He doubted though that John Davion would remember that.

“Prince John, welcome to Asta. May I present to you my wife, the Lady Marianne?”

John smiled, a warm, utterly likable smile on his boyish face. “You may indeed, Director-General Cameron. Though we met once before, I believe; she was on your arm for that dinner back on Terra in the late spring of ’55.”

Marianne smiled and extended her hand, and curtseyed as John lightly kissed the back. “I am surprised that you remember that occasion, Prince John.”

“Who could forget such a lovely woman, obviously smitten with a young officer shortly to leave on his first assignment? Indeed, my dear, had I not already have been happily married, then I might have had to engage in a duel of honor over the right to your hand.” He smiled, and clapped Stephen on the upper arm.

Stephen returned his smile with one of his own. “I am glad that I did not have to engage you in that duel, Prince John. By all accounts you are deadly with a blade.”

John waved aside the thought. “Nonsense, Director-General, you were a strapping young Marine officer. I had spent—and still do today— far too much time behind a desk. If I had indeed been so impetuous, then my younger brother might well be here representing my people tonight.”

His grin died away. “It was your speech, Director-General, on your assumption of the office that convinced me. In case you were not certain, then one vote for confirmation you shall have when the Council convenes next week.”

Stephen nodded. “Prince John, I have not yet thanked you for your support—and for declaring war against Amaris. But we must speak before you set your mind to confirm my position. For some of my policies you will dislike—very much so. I will not force you to feel trapped between speaking plainly to me here, and feeling betrayed at the Council. So, I ask that you wait, Prince John. Wait and hear what I have to say, what I have to ask before you decide upon your vote.”

John stopped, and looked at Stephen for several long moments. “Very well, Director-General, you have piqued my interest, but I will wait until we can speak again. In private, perhaps, to discuss those things not appropriate for this venue?”

“That would be helpful, Prince John.”

“Then I bid you and your lady a good night, Director-General. Now I shall feast upon your food and drown myself in your wine,” and he laughed again.

Stephen smiled and nodded as he bowed once more to Marianne and entered the ball-room proper.

“In another life, love, he would be a most charming rake,” Marianne whispered into his ear.

“Hush, hon, the cameras are still rolling.”

In answer, Marianne, his prim and proper Marianne, grabbed his jaw, turned his head and kissed him. “Frak the cameras, Stephen, you need to relax and enjoy this party.”

As she smiled to the cameras—and the men and women gossiping away who operated them—Stephen waited for Hiroyoshi to make a comment in his ear. Perhaps wisely on his behalf, the earpiece remained silent.

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

Stephen and Marianne met Janina Centrella and Allyce Avellar—the leaders of the Magistracy of Canopus and the Outworlds Alliance, respectively. Neither had a vote on the Council, though they sat there, representing their people. That was a tragedy in the case of Centrella, and a blessing in the case of Avellar. Allyce Avellar was perhaps the most naïve person that he had ever met—and a firm believer in the ‘give peace a chance’ school of thought. His campaign against Amaris was just horrible, she said, for the people suffered. Surely if the two of them could just sit down and talk everything would work itself out. Allyce’s aides had winced, but expected nothing else from their leader. Stephen had been flabbergasted—it had been up to Marianne to pat her on the hand and say ‘Yes, dear, it is simply dreadful. Of course they should talk.’ Allyce seemed pleased, and wandered off into the ballroom—perhaps to persuade the men in uniform there to give up their guns and their ‘Mechs and their warships and work instead for the cause of peace.

“Nicoletta Calderon, Protector of the Taurian Concordat,” Hiroyoshi’s voice snapped Stephen back to the present.

“Madame,” he said, bowing deeply to the seventy-four year old woman who had ruled her distant realm with such skill for nearly half a century.

“Director-General Cameron. Not First Lord yet, eh, boy?”

“No, Protector Calderon, not yet.”

“My aides say that you have requested a private meeting with me, at my convenience. With a wife who looks like that, Director-General, you obviously don’t want me for my body, so what do you want?

Stephen paused—Nicoletta was trying to push him, see how far she could go. How far the Concordat could go. Though she didn’t possess a vote, Nicoletta was the most powerful of three Periphery Council Lords—and her opinion was widely respected, even among the five Great Houses.

“Go ahead boy, speak up,” she snapped, sounding for all the world like one of his elementary school teachers many years before.

Stephen laughed, as Nicoletta stared at him. Then slowly, her stubborn frown began to twitch, and she chuckled. “You’ve got a sense of humor, boy. That’s good, ‘cause in our jobs you have to have one or you go crazy. Richard didn’t, but he was not sane to begin with. Trusting an Amaris,” she shook her head. “I thought you Cameron’s are supposed to possess somewhat better sense than that, Director-General.”

“Richard paid for his stupidity with his life, Nicoletta. I think you will find me a different man to deal with. And it is important that we talk—soon, and in private.”

She regarded Stephen for an eternity, until Stephen began to feel like a mouse being examined by a hawk. Finally she nodded. “I will listen, I might not agree, boy, but I will listen.”

She turned to face Marianne and regarded her, then nodded. “You both have iron in your backbones, that’s good,” she reached up and touched Marianne’s check with an open hand. “Just remember, girl, that he can order those jackals shot if they begin to annoy you too much.” She extended her cane to the cameras. “And they will. Oh, they will, girl.”

She nodded her head sharply, and then entered the ball-room, moving slowly with age, but also with a regal dignity.

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

Robert Steiner arrived late—as he was wont to do. It showed his importance, making others wait for him, but tonight, he received a surprise. Director-General Cameron’s invitation to his residence at Branson House had specified the receiving line would last from 1900 to 2100; however, he would not dare insult Robert by failing to be there to greet him. But he had! The nerve of that upstart. It was 2130, and the receiving line was gone—all of the guests were in the ballroom.

His aides were muttering to themselves as Robert fumed, and the staff of Branson House took their coats. Finally, a man clothed in the dress uniform of the Star League Defense Force came to meet him.

“Archon Steiner? I am General Anders, sir. The Director-General sends his apologies, but the invitation did specify the receiving line ended at 2100. He asks if you would join him and General Kerensky in the Blue Room, sir, as a way of making amends.” Sam smiled and glanced at the pack of aides who accompanied Robert. “Alone, sir.”

Robert waited as his staff argued with the man, but Anders did not budge on the issue. After all, none of Stephen’s or Kerensky’s people would be present. “Very well,” he said at last. “Take me there.”

Turning back to his aides, he waved a hand at the ball-room, “Be ready to depart when I am.”

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

The door opened, admitting Robert Steiner into the small private study—with a deep, royal blue tile covering the floor. All of the furniture was covered in cloth dyed the same shade—offset by the rich warm tones of the feroak trimming.

General Kerensky sat in his wheelchair and Director-General Stephen Cameron leaned against a desk. Robert heard the door close behind him.

“I take it that you received my offer, General Kerensky? Director-General Cameron?”

Stephen nodded. “Yes, Archon Steiner. It is most generous on your part—offering to garrison the Rim Worlds with two-thirds of your army to allow the SLDF to take the war to Amaris. And so is your offer to raise two divisions of troops for our campaign.”

Robert smiled. “Well, yes, Director-General. It is the least I can do to support the rightful First Lord. And the great General, so gravely wounded in that cowardly attack. A pity that, General Kerensky. I would imagine that your wounds and, ah, disabilities, will make it rather difficult to carry on as Commanding General. Is General DeChevilier going to be appointed in your place?”

“He will be appointed the new Commanding General, Archon, just as soon as Lord Cameron is confirmed as First Lord. I have recently been persuaded to retire; my injuries and all, you understand. Though, of course, I will remain on hand to advise the new First Lord—and to see to the successful conclusion of this campaign—and Amaris’s trial and execution.”

Robert smiled. This man was the heart and soul of the SLDF. This news, combined with the casualties the SLDF would suffer over the next ten or fifteen years, would forever end the Hegemony’s dominance of the Inner Sphere. And with the worlds of the Rim added to his own Lyran Commonwealth, Robert would be the premier power. In fact, if not quite yet in name.

“Yes, Archon Steiner,” Stephen said, standing up and walking across the room towards him, “it was good you to offer such support for our forces.”

“Excellent, gentlemen; I will send the message tomorrow instructing my people to occupy the Rim—in the name of the Star League, of course.”

“That will not be necessary, Archon Steiner. The Rim is already under Star League control—and protection.”

Robert frowned. “Do not be hasty, Director-General. You need my help—and my vote in Council—to win this war.”

“Actually, Robert, I don’t. Frak your vote. And keep your troops on Tharkad, or the new Guardian of the Rim Worlds Protectorate will hand you your head—with full SLDF support.”

Roberts blood pressure soared. “Guardian? Rim Worlds Protectorate? What the hell kind of nonsense is this?”

Stephen glared with contempt at the man who had sought to use him and the Amaris crisis for personal gain. “The Rim Worlds Protectorate is the government that even now is being formed out of the remnants of the Rim Worlds Republic. The Guardian of the Rim is their leader.”

“You are at war with those people, Director-General, and you are allowing them to form a new government?”

“Actually, Archon, I am forming that government. Should I introduce you to the first Guardian of the Rim? I believe you have already met him.” Stephen waved his hand to General Kerensky, and Roberts’s blood went cold.

Kerensky smiled and leaned forward in his chair. “Two Field Armies remain in the Rim, Archon Steiner, to discourage—adventurism. You do not want to provoke me by occupying worlds that I am now the leader of; of that, Archon Steiner, I can assure you.”

Roberts jaw dropped. This was preposterous! “You are not First Lord, Director-General! You can not appoint anyone as ruler of anything!”

“Like I said, Robert Steiner, I don’t need your vote. Cast your ballot however you wish. Of course the vote is public, and will be broadcast throughout your realm. Imagine how it would look to your citizens if their Archon chose not to support a legitimate Cameron successor—the last Cameron successor of age to take the Throne of Man. Then make your choice, Archon, and live by it.”

“Enjoy your stay here this evening, Archon Steiner. Now, General Kerensky—excuse me, Guardian Kerensky—and I must rejoin the soirée,” Stephen paused as he reached down to wheel Aleksandyr Kerensky from the room, and then turned back to Robert. “And Robert. In the future when I extend to you an invitation to attend an event, either arrive on time, or do not bother attending at all.”

Stephen and Kerensky left the room, leaving Robert Steiner alone, his plans crumbling around him.

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

As Stephen wheeled Kerensky back to party, he leaned down and whispered, “Remind me to congratulate your intelligence corps on that little piece of information, Aleksandyr.”

Aleksandyr smiled, “Thank Minoru, Lord Cameron. One of his agents acquired the information and he passed it to me last week.”

As the two moved along towards the ballroom, Hiroyoshi appeared, stopping four paces away and saluting.

“Yes, Hiroyoshi?”

“My Lord Cameron, we have just received word from the Defense Headquarters. A flotilla of Free Worlds ships has arrived at the zenith point bearing the Captain-General aboard. He has requested to speak with you and General Kerensky upon his arrival.”

[masterarminas]

Chapter Thirty Five

November 3, 2767
Branson House, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony

John Davion stood at the door to the open balcony, watching the snow fall lightly across the gardens that stood to the rear of Branson House. In the fading twilight, he could see soldiers dressed in winter uniform of the SLDF making their rounds. He swirled the wine in his glass absently as he stared out the frost covered panes of bullet-resistant plexi.

“You ask far too much, Director-General. Even for a man who has accomplished what you have done here, it is too much to ask of me, and the Federated Suns.”

Stephen stood, leaving his own glass on the table, walked over to his desk and lift a carved box from the surface. Opening the humidor, he extended it to John.

“These cigars are from San Martino, Prince John. It is said, by people who judge such things, that the tobacco from there is richer and fuller than that of Old Earth herself. Care to try one?”

John turned his head and glared at Stephen, who just smiled as he held the humidor out. The deep, mellow scent of the tobacco wafted out from the open box, and John reached out, took a cigar, and clipped the end. Stephen kept smiling as he set down the humidor and struck a match, holding it to the end of cigar as John pulled in his breath, three short pulls, and then a deep inhalation. As the smoke of the cigar hit his lungs, John felt his head swim for a moment, leaving him feeling heady and relaxed. He exhaled.

“An excellent cigar, indeed, Director-General. Are you not smoking?”

“Actually, Prince John, I don’t smoke myself. I like the smell, but actually smoking one? Never acquired the taste. I keep these, however, for people—such as yourself—who do enjoy an occasional smoke.”

John nodded as he took another long drag, then washed it down with a sip of his wine. “It is out of the question, Director-General. Those worlds are ours now—no one else has claim upon them.”

Stephen set down the humidor and walked behind his desk. Opening a drawer, he extracted a data-chip and slid it across the desk to John. John placed his hand upon and lifted an eyebrow at Stephen.

“It’s yours, Prince John. Complete schematics for the ground-based portion of the Hegemony Space Defense System—including automated fire-control computers, weapons installations, and the latest generation of fusion power plants.”

“And for this, I must agree to your proposal?”

“No,” Stephen said, shaking his head. “That disk belongs to you regardless of your decision on this issue, Prince John. First Lord Jonathon made a promise—I am fulfilling that promise. With the sole exception of the mobile automated units, the M-5 Drones, the Caspers. When we finish liberating the Hegemony those units will be destroyed, along with the data banks containing their plans. As we have learned to our regret, they can be turned against us, and I will correct that error as First Lord.”

John looked at the disk. It was what he and his predecessors—and every other Lord of the Council—had demanded from the Cameron’s for nearly fifty years.

“You don’t understand negotiation; do you, Director-General?”

Stephen shrugged and pointed at the disk. “That is not for negotiation. That is to ensure the word of a Cameron is once again held to the highest of standards.”

Stephen walked back over to the chair set near the fireplace, sat, and lifted his wine glass again. He took a sip and then said, “I need this from you, John.”

John crossed the room to his own chair opposite Stephen and sat himself, frowning. “I can’t, Stephen. Damn it man, the Capellan March will crucify me if I try.”

“Even if I have a way for you to present this as the will of the people of those worlds, John? I’ve seen the economic reports from that region. You are losing money on those worlds every single day. Fifteen times in the past century the Federated Suns has had to request SLDF assistance to put down riots. What if I told you, John, there was a way out of this; a way, that makes you look—to your people and to history—as the greatest proponent of the democratic system you claim to cherish in the history of the Federated Suns?”

“If you can do that—if you can guarantee that—then I will consider it, Stephen.”

Stephen smiled and took a sip of his wine. And he told John Davion his plan.

John sat back before the roaring fire, and took a gulp of his own wine. It could work—he would make it work. They would make it work.

“If, IF, she agrees, then yes.”

“Good, John. And the rest?”

John squirmed in his seat. This man was relentless! “The First Lord has never before appointed a new Lord of any state, even a Territorial State, you know that.”

“There’s never been a set of circumstances like this before, you know THAT. You can’t deny he has served the Star League—not just the Hegemony—well for nearly forty years, John.”

“No, he has paid his dues, and he is neither a weak man, nor a vile one. And you are right—no Amaris should ever rule there again. Fine, Stephen, fine, I will support you in this ‘quest’ to make General Kerensky the new Lord of this Rim Worlds Protectorate.”

“And the elevation of the Territorial States to fully member status, John?”

Damn the man! If there was any other legitimate candidate—but there wasn’t. And he was right, John knew deep down. He had seen the reports on just how sharply the corporations—even his own corporations—and the bureaucracy were gouging the people there. It would only lead to more unrest, more violence, another Reunification War.

John sighed, then nodded his head. “Yes, I will support you on that as well, Stephen.”

“Thank you, John. This is the right thing to do, you know.”

“Perhaps it is, Stephen. Now, do you want to know if I am voting to confirm you?”

“Well, if I have upset you enough with my proposals, then you can seat me as Director-General, but deny me the Throne as First Lord. We might have to select a new First Lord. But, I should warn you, sir that I intend to place these other proposals on the table first, after I am seated as Director-General. So, Kerensky, Centrella, Avellar, and Calderon will have a vote on my confirmation, John. Ten members of the council—six votes required to seat a First Lord. Minoru will vote to confirm me—he has already declared that. I will vote for myself, of course, unless the Council deems it to be conflict of interest—in which case only five votes will be needed for a majority. Kerensky will vote to confirm as well. That leaves you, Steiner, Marik, Liao, and the three from the Periphery. How do you think that vote will go, John?”

John Davion shook his head and chuckled. “You have upset me—my stomach at least. I will vote to confirm you, Stephen. You’ve got a pair of big brass ones, you know.” He lifted the cigar and took another deep pull, the tobacco settling his nervous middle nicely.

“So my wife tells me, John,” as he raised his glass in salute. He stopped and leaned over, opening a drawer on the table next to his chair. He extracted a case and smiling tossed it across to John.

“And what, pray tell, is THIS surprise?”

“A gift to the people of the Federated Suns from a grateful First Lord—for your decision to come to our assistance against Amaris, not for your vote. I believe you have wanted information on our latest BattleMech technology. That is not the latest advances by far, but it covers advanced systems that have not to date been released to the Great Houses by the SLDF. Another promise my family made—and forgot to keep.”

John looked first at the case holding the priceless data, and then at the other disk holding the secrets of the SDS. “You know, Stephen, you could have bought my vote two hours ago by giving me this then.”

“I will not be elected by a bribe, John. Those two data-files were yours the moment you entered this room—regardless of your decision for the Council meeting on Friday.”

John Davion nodded. I could do worse than to follow this man, he thought. And he lifted his glass, taking another sip.

[masterarminas]

Chapter Thirty Six

November 4, 2767
Branson House, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony

“All I’ve heard so far, boy, is just more honey-coated platitudes and empty promises. I suppose that you will send Kerensky and his jack-booted thugs to our worlds to force us back into the line you want us to toe when this mess with Amaris is done.”

Nicoletta Calderon, Protector of the Taurian Concordat glared at Stephen from her chair next to the roaring fireplace. Stephen looked down, trying hard to keep rein on his temper. Four hours in the room with this stubborn, paranoid old lady had seriously given his patience a test.

“No, Nicoletta, I won’t,” he said as looked her in the eyes. “If the Concordat really, truly wants to leave, I won’t spill your blood—and my soldier’s blood—in order to keep you. But before you do that, just for a moment, ma’am, think about the consequences.”

He stood and began to pace near the bay windows overlooking the gardens below, frosted with ice, as the snow fell out of the dark sky. “Right now, you have enough spare parts to keep the fusion generators running for another six months, perhaps a year. And it is the same with the water purification plants. What happens, Nicoletta, to your people after that? What happens on worlds that rely on that technology for clean drinking water, for water for agriculture, for the power to heat and cool their homes? What happens to your people when the machines fail?”

“That is something we will have to work out for ourselves. You don’t control those plants anyway—Amaris does. Taurians have suffered before; we can work through hard times again.”

Stephen stopped and looked at her—the blunt words were belied by the concern for her people in her eyes. She was worried. Good, it was a lever for him to use.

“Minoru and I have spoken about this problem, Nicoletta. Right now, he is constructing a dozen factories in the Combine to produce those parts—I ordered the SLDF to give him the schematics two months ago. We might, MIGHT, be able to produce enough spare parts in time. And I will give you those same schematics, Nicoletta, to take back to the Concordat with you.”

She jerked as he said that. “In exchange for us staying in the League?”

“No. I am not going to let millions of people die or be forced to relocate because we are having a dispute. When you leave here tonight, a data-disk containing those schematics is yours to take with you.”

She squirmed slightly in her seat, picked up her glass of hot tea, and took a sip. She placed the cup back on the table, and stared up at him. “Sit down, longshanks; I’m getting a crick in my neck.”

Stephen smiled and walked back to his chair and sat down. “Better?”

“Much. You will just give me that technology?”

“Yes. And, if you agree to stay, you WILL have a vote on the Council, the same as the six Great Houses of the Inner Sphere.”

“Our grievances with you, they go far beyond not having a vote on the High Council.”

“Yes, Nicoletta, they do. They go back to when Ian Cameron choose to force you into the League—and Centrella and Avellar and Amaris. They continued when we used you like serfs and not free people. They kept building when incompetent fools like Richard laid tax burdens on you that any free people would revolt over.”

“Yes. So why, now, should we listen to you?”

“The first action I will take as First Lord, Nicoletta is to rescind Richard’s taxation edicts. The High Council never approved them, so I don’t need their votes to revoke them. That policy ends immediately. If—IF—you and the others accept full member status, then your taxes will drop even more, to the same level paid by the other six Houses. You won’t have to hide behind a thin veil of ‘separatists’ to maintain your armed forces. You will have the right—under the law—to build and maintain an army—and a fleet—within the overall guidelines set by the League. The same guidelines the other Houses have to abide by.”

Nicoletta grinned, “Not saying I had anything to do with raising the forces the New Vandenberg patriots fielded, but if I did, why can’t I do that again?”

“It took you the better part of fifty years to raise that force, Nicoletta, working clandestinely and hoping you weren’t noticed before you were ready. You lost more than nine-tenths of it in eighteen months of combat, along with the men and women you trained and provided as manpower. And this time, you’ll have to do it when power is failing on two dozen worlds and three score more run out of drinking water.”

“Give me a chance, Nicoletta, to make amends for what we have done in the past. If you are not satisfied with my conduct in five years, in ten years, then go your own way. But don’t make your people suffer because you hate the League.”

She snorted. “In five years, in ten years, you will have crushed Amaris. You could be singing a different tune then. How do I trust your word, the word of a Cameron?”

Stephen nodded and held up a data-disk he pulled from his pocket. “Upon this disk, Nicoletta are the schematics for the facilities that manufacture the spare parts I spoke about earlier. Also included are the complete plans for the ground-based facilities of our Space Defense Systems, along with the advanced weapon systems, computers, electronics, and power generators that make it work.” He sat the disk on the low table between and slid it across to her.

“It’s yours. No strings attached. Now, it will take you ten years or more to construct the factories to build the weapons and computers and sensors on that disk. Probably more like twenty—starting as far behind as you are. But it’s yours.”

The Protector reached and picked up the disk—the priceless disk, filled with salvation for her people, perhaps. Then she cast a venomous look back at Stephen. “Why shouldn’t I just take this and trust our people to use it to survive? Why should I—or any Taurian—care what happens to the rest of you?”

“Because, Nicoletta, in part you are as responsible for this mess as Stefan Amaris and Richard Cameron. I have copies of reports showing the encrypted transmissions between you and Amaris, Nicoletta. He helped you build those divisions on New Vandenberg and the other worlds that revolted—and even demanded that you send the survivors to him on Terra after the Coup.”

She flinched at that bald statement, but Stephen pressed relentless on. “You refused, and even advised him to end this, and for that reason, Nicoletta, I will not release those documents; not until long after you and I both are dead and buried. But you knew his plan to was send as much of the Regular Army and the Fleet out of the Hegemony as possible. You knew his ambitions, and the blood that he has spilled is on your hands as well.”

“I didn’t know how far he would go. Damn it, I thought that he would use the opportunity to put Richard even further in his debt, and just manipulate the boy, not slaughter him and his entire family!”

“You knew how unstable he was, Nicoletta. Did you know that he betrayed your Taurian Freedom Army to General Kerensky?”

She sat bolt upright. “He WHAT?”

Stephen nodded. “He told Kerensky their location and strength, which is how the SLDF was able to find and destroy them. He manipulated us all, Nicoletta. He has slaughtered millions, destroyed an entire world and every living creature upon it. And he could do that because you helped.”

“You can’t blame this on me. I couldn’t have known . . . “

“No, he used everyone, Nicoletta. But are you going to let him still use you? Or will you help make amends for your part in this tragedy?”

“What do you mean?”

“As a full member nation, the Taurian Concordat can set its own governmental policies. The bureaucracy will have no more power over you to set prices and determine what you produce. The Hegemony is going to need significant help in rebuilding following all this—Taurian companies will be selling more than ever and shipping material to the core. Material we will be paying for, at fair market cost. This will be a boom time for the Taurian economy, Nicoletta, and your people will be more successful than any point since the Reunification War.”

“The coming years will be a time of prosperity such as the Concordat has seen only in the years just after its founding. The bureaucracies will be GONE, Nicoletta. No League administrator to approve your governmental decisions, no troops—unless you request them—will be stationed in the Concordat, no more planned economies. I intend to make a fresh start, and give your people—and the Canopians and the Out Worlders—the same opportunities every one else has had; to stand and succeed on your own two feet.”

She began shaking her head, and Stephen pressed onward. “And you might well be the Protector to bring the Pleiades back into the Concordat.”

Nicoletta froze and stared at him, eyes dancing with hope? Rage? Despair? Stephen wasn’t certain, exactly. “Explain,” she said in a cold, flat voice.

“Part of the problem the Concordat has had with the League and the Federated Suns was the worlds absorbed by the Federated Suns after the Reunification War—with the complicity and approval of First Lord Ian. That thorn has festered for almost two centuries, and if we don’t resolve it, eventually it will lead to war between you and them—and me, depending on who starts it.”

“Yesterday I spoke with John Davion, Nicoletta, in this very room. Those worlds are a constant drain on his economy and his military, what with the troops he has to keep stationed there to keep the population under control. I proposed that we hold a plebiscite on all those occupied worlds, to determine which House the citizens of each world want to live under. The Taurian Concordat or the Federated Suns.”

“He agreed?” she asked in a desperate whisper.

“Provisionally, depending on if you do. What I proposed is this. John will withdraw his troops by the end of next year. They will be replaced by Star League forces to ensure the peace. Both you and John will be able to send delegations to every world—save only Malagrotta. In order to save face, he has to keep that world where the war began—where you started it.”

Nicoletta started to reply, but Stephen raised his hand and continued. “It happened over two centuries ago, Nicoletta. And you only get THIS offer tonight, so listen to the rest. Star League envoys will observe the voting on each world to ensure that it is a fair election. So will a five-person board; two members chosen by you, two by John, and one by me.”

“The elections will take place on November 1, 2773, six years from now.”

“SIX YEARS!?!” Nicoletta shouted as she stood. “I knew you couldn’t be trusted . . . “

“DAMN IT TO HELL, Nicoletta, will you just sit down and listen?” He forced himself to calm down and continued in much calmer voice. “For the love of God, woman, you have got to be the most paranoid, stubborn, mule-head person in the entirety of the cosmos! SIX YEARS, Nicoletta. That’s a gift, as you will understand when you think about it. You have six years to send your people to every world, to hold town-hall meetings and have debates. To convince the people of these worlds that the Concordat, not the Suns, is their future. To earn their vote, damn it. And in six years, when that vote is taken, I will enforce the results. If you play this right, Nicoletta, in six short years, the Pleiades will once more be part of the Concordat—as will thirty more worlds you once possessed. Is the chance at doing THAT—without a war—worth staying in the League for a few more years, Nicoletta?”

She sat back in her chair, and lifted her cup of tea, and sat it back down again. “I need a drink; something strong.”

Stephen rose and walked over to the cabinet on one wall, and reached for a bottle, but stopped. Another label caught his eye, and he grinned. He took the second bottle and grabbed a glass as he turned back to Nicoletta, “Ice?”

She shook her head, “Neat.”

Stephen walked back over and poured her a double-shot of Ishtaran brandy. Nicoletta raised the glass and drank half in a single gulp. She smiled. “Good stuff. Don’t tell my staff; they worry too damn much about me.”

“Not a word from these lips, Nicoletta.”

“As I said the other night, you have a sense of humor and a backbone of iron. You also have the balls of the Bull himself, it seems. Fine, you’ve got your six years. Let me see what you can do. And if you make me the Protector who brings the Pleiades back to the fold, then boy, I will give you my word, there will be no further talk of Taurian independence in your lifetime.”

“Fair enough, Nicoletta, fair enough.”

“Why are you doing this, Director-General? No one in your family has given a single good God-damn about my people since Marantha surrendered. So why?”

“My family has not always stood on principle. Their goals were lofty and high-minded, but their methods? They have been politicians, and their standards and their principles flexed according to the situation. In the end, my family even sacrificed the appearance of principles in exchange for the illusion of power. I am not my family. I will stand for what I believe in, even if doing so costs me everything. In the end, Nicoletta, to answer your question, I am doing this, because it is the right thing to do. And it is long past time for my family to make good on the promises of the past, the consequences be damned.”

She shook her head. The man before was a good man—an idealist, at heart; one who actually acted on what he believed was right and true instead of just talking about it. And because of that idealism, she wouldn’t put money on how long he would live, not in the snake pit called the High Council. Then again, she thought, I’m not sure I would put money on any of the others if they really oppose him—or attack someone or something he cares about. She smiled. The odds were long, but HER family included some high-stakes gamblers of their own. The smile broadened into a grin, as she lifted the glass and threw back the remaining slug.

“What the hell, boy; let’s roll the dice. Maybe we won’t crap out after all.”

[masterarminas]

Chapter Thirty Seven

November 5, 2767
Branson House, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony

Hiroyoshi waited patiently on the steps of Branson House for the vehicle bearing the Captain-General to shut down. One hour ago, his DropShip had landed at McMurtree and off-loaded the vehicle, racing to this location under escort. It was more than a bit unusual that they had not yet spoken with the Captain-General himself—all communications had been routed through Master of Arms Raoul Malach; who, if Hiroyoshi understood correctly, was both the personal guardian and nearest companion of the Captain-General. The fact that no one on Asta had spoken with or seen Kenyon Marik had caused Hiroyoshi’s finely-tuned instincts to twitch; so now he waited here, in the falling snow, with his best men standing by—just in case.

The vehicle shut down, and the passenger door on the forward compartment opened. Raoul Malach stepped out and scanned the area before he opened the passenger compartment hatch. Hiroyoshi recognized a kindred spirit and wondered yet again if the two would have a chance to spar. The House of Marik did not award the title of Master of Arms lightly; no, that honor had to be earned. From the way Malach stood, from the way he took in his surroundings—but did not let his eyes fixate on any one thing—Hiroyoshi knew that this was a very dangerous man. It would be interesting, he thought as the compartment hatch finished cycling open and a man stepped clear.

That man was not Kenyon Marik.

Kenyon was in his mid-thirties, a vigorous man, and Hiroyoshi had studied the holographic imagery intensely over the past few days. The man standing there, wearing the insignia of the Captain-General on his Free Worlds uniform was much older, in his seventies at least. Thin, wiry, and tall, he was still fit, but his hair was white with age, and brown spots marked his hands.

“All posts stand by, that is not, repeat NOT, Kenyon Marik.”

Hiroyoshi took four steps forward and bowed, careful to keep Malach in the corner of his eye. “Good afternoon, gentleman. What is the meaning of this?”

The old man beamed at Hiroyoshi. “Good afternoon, Tai-sa. The meaning I will discuss with the First Lord; it is not a matter for casual conversation in the open.”

Hiroyoshi took stock of the man wearing insignia that belonged to another. “No, perhaps it is not, sir. But until I am satisfied, you will not be admitted into the presence of Lord Cameron.”

Malach bristled, and the old man waved him still. “Easy, Raoul, easy. He does not realize our ways, our customs. Tai-sa, I am Philip Marik, brother to Ewan, who was both Kenyon’s father and the previous Captain-General of the Free Worlds League. I am here to represent the Free Worlds for the reason that my nephew is dead. I am now the Marik, for as long as I may yet live.”

“We received no such word in advance, Captain-General,” Hiroyoshi said, his mind racing through the possibilities.

“I thought it best not to advertise the event quite yet, Tai-sa. You are free to check us for weapons. Raoul, of course, is armed—as am I—but we will surrender those weapons to you for our meeting with your Lord Cameron and the General Kerensky.”

Hiroyoshi nodded sharply to two of his men, who stepped forward and quickly searched the old man and the Master of Arms—with respect, but quite thoroughly. Both men wore a holstered semi-automatic pistol, in the traditional 9mm caliber that stretched back to the days when the Marik ruled a small state in the Balkans on Terra, before man had discovered the secrets of crossing the interstellar void. His people took the two handguns—and their spare magazines—and the senior nodded at Hiroyoshi. They were clean.

“Very well, Captain-General, if you will accompany me, I will take you to where you might explain—in detail—exactly what has happened in the Free Worlds to my Lord Cameron. This way, please.” Hiroyoshi said as he extended his arm towards the doors.

Philip Marik—the Marik, Captain-General of the Free Worlds League—merely smiled again and started up the stairs, Raoul and Hiroyoshi trailing behind.

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

“Kenyon Marik is DEAD? In the name of God, how?” asked Kerensky, after having met the two men with Stephen. Philip Marik sat comfortably in his chair, Raoul on station behind him, as Hiroyoshi and Gerald were behind Stephen. Two more of Hiroyoshi’s detail—Thom Pappas and Jarl Halvin—stood just inside the doors, behind Raoul. Hiroyoshi took no more chances with Stephen’s safety and this whole event had him on edge.

“Suicide, General Kerensky. That is how it shall be reported at least.”

Stephen slowly nodded, and gestured for Philip Marik to continue.

“You must understand, gentlemen, that what I tell you is not for public dissemination. It began six weeks ago, when Sienna Stewart called for a vote of No Confidence in Kenyon on the floor of Parliament. . .”

September 17, 2767
Marik Estates
Aquilia Continent, Atreus
Free Worlds League

“. . . I have delayed the vote as long as I can. It will take place in two days.” Thomas Marik said; his flat voice revealing the exhaustion and strain the crisis had placed upon him.

“And the results?” asked Marissa Marik, Thomas and Kenyon’s second cousin, through their now-deceased grand-Uncle Vladimir.

Thomas shook his head. “Kenyon has called in every favor any MP owes him. He has also used the files SAFE provided to blackmail another fifty. But right now, the MPs are so evenly split; no one knows for certain just how the vote will turn out. It will only require a majority plus one to carry the vote for Sienna.”

Philip Marik, eldest of all fourteen living adults of the Bloodline—twelve of whom sat alongside him in this room—eldest surviving scion of the House of Marik and Uncle to Kenyon and Thomas, frowned. “That is not their task, to gather the dirty little secrets of the men and women elected to Parliament. SAFE should be watching our neighbors, especially our newest neighbor. That one is unbalanced, and no one can predict the behavior of such a person.”

Thomas sighed. “No, Uncle, it has not been, in the past that is. Now? Now, it is their primary task—other than monitoring what the SLDF and General Kerensky is planning. Kenyon has ordered General Walthus to prepare to arrest and hold in custody any Minister of Parliament that he suspects will vote against him—on charges of treason in a time of crisis.”

Francis Marik-Carlyle, a rather more distant cousin who married years before, but still retained her Marik name, twitched at that. “He’s planning to arrest Ministers of PARLIAMENT?”

Thomas just nodded, as he took a sip of beer from the ceramic bottle he held in one hand.

“Has he gone mad?” asked Vassily, Philip’s own grandson, just appointed to his first command less than a year before. This was the first time he had been included in a meeting of the Bloodline; the first time he had been considered an adult in the eyes of the Family.

“No. Not mad, Vassily, obsessed, perhaps might be a better word for the Captain-General’s recent action.” Philip looked down at his hands, spotted with age, but still strong enough to grip a pistol—or a sword.

Thomas spoke up once more, his voice bleak, “He has specifically ordered General Walthus to personally ensure the arrest of Sienna Stewart. He has plans for a public trail regarding her acts of treason—the evidence has already been fabricated that she has been in contact with General Kerensky. And,” he paused, taking another sip of beer, “and he will demand the public execution of her once she is found guilty. Sending a message is how he put it.”

Silence filled the room. Sienna was the leader of the opposition—with the Dutchy of Oriente fully backing her. While the Stewart Commonality might be small—despite the five regiments of ‘Mechs it fielded—Oriente was one of the Crown Jewels of the Free Worlds. It was a rich and powerful province, more so than any other, save the Marik Commonwealth itself. Neither Regulus nor Andurien possessed so many regiments of ‘Mechs, armor, and infantry as Oriente. They also built and maintained almost one-third of the Free Worlds Navy. And not even the Marik Commonwealth possessed as many factories and production facilities as did Oriente. Arresting Sienna—charging her with treason—that move could very well bring civil war to the Free Worlds, IF Oriente took offense. Executing her would guarantee that. No one in the room could draw a breath—civil war was at their doorstop once again. No one that is, until Philip broke the silence.

“You all know the rules here: one family, one blood, one responsibility. Is our Captain-General worthy of his post?”

Someone drew in a quick gasp of air. Philip scowled. “What did you think we gathered for? To talk as though we were Liao? To wring our hands as though we were Steiner? We are MARIK. And we take care of our own—always, for good or ill. Vassily, what do you say?”

The young man squared his shoulders. “It is a mistake not to support the Star League, even more so to fail to act out of pique for a vendetta over a decade old. That, however, is the decision of the Captain-General. But this matter with Parliament—he has gone too far. No, he is no longer worthy.”

“Thomas?”

“Uncle, he is my brother,” Thomas pleaded.

“Do your duty to the Blood, Thomas Albert Marik, third of our line that bear that name.”

He dropped his head. “I will follow him as long as he is Captain-General; one family, one blood. But he is endangering the Free Worlds. No.”

One by one, Philip questioned the others. When he added his own no to the count, it was unanimous. He stood, feeling more than his normal strength flow through his body; he felt purpose.

“It will be done, then. So say we all.”

A chorus of voices answered him. “So say we all.”

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

Kenyon Marik looked up from the stack of papers on his desk as Raoul Malach announced Philip’s presence. Raoul admitted the old man into Kenyon’s private study then withdrew, closing the doors behind him. The Captain-General frowned. “Good evening, Uncle. What brings you out on such a stormy night?”

The heavy rain impacted on the windows of the Captain-General’s mountain villa—fortress was the word his guests used. The sudden storm had blown in during the afternoon, and the single road to the summit was treacherous in such conditions.

Philip crossed the office to stand before Kenyon’s desk and laid a single black rose upon the surface, thorns still attached to the broken stem.

Kenyon’s jaw dropped and he drew in a gasp of breath. Then he stood and glared at Philip. “No, I reject this.”

“You endanger the Free Worlds, Kenyon, you endanger the Bloodline. All adults of the lineage have spoken—save you.”

“I AM CAPTAIN-GENERAL,” Kenyon thundered. “I will have you killed slowly, Philip, and all those who voted for this.”

“Even Thomas, Kenyon?”

Kenyon stopped. Thomas? Thomas had voted for this?

Philip nodded. “Yes, he did, Kenyon. Step aside, for reasons of health; I have been assured that the vote in Parliament will not be carried out if you do. But the Family will not allow you to destroy all we have worked to achieve in this place.”

“NEVER,” Kenyon hissed and stabbed the button that would call Raoul.

“I knew you were a fool, Kenyon, but I never thought you a coward until now,” Philip said sadly.

The doors opened and Raoul entered. “Yes, my Lord, you summoned me?”

“Arrest this doddering old fool, Raoul, for treason. At once!”

Raoul looked at the stoic face of Philip, then turned back to look at the flushed face of Kenyon. Then he saw the rose. His gaze locked on the slowly decaying flower; still fragrant, but already dead, despite the beauty it possessed. His head snapped back around to Philip, who merely nodded.

“Master of Arms, do your duty; to the family, to the blood. Farewell, Kenyon, it is a pity that you choose this path for yourself.” Philip turned and exited the room, closing the doors behind him, while Kenyon cursed both him and Raoul. Finally, Raoul turned back to Kenyon.

He pounced, with all the speed and training given the chosen Master of Arms of the House of Marik. One hand stabbed Kenyon in the throat, causing him to sputter and cough, silencing his stream of invectives. The other grabbed the back of Kenyon’s neck and forced him into his chair, behind the desk. Even as Kenyon struggled to recover from the blow to his throat—a blow that would leave no mark—Raoul drew Kenyon’s pistol and placed it upon the desk. Grabbing the former Captain-General’s free hand, he placed it on the weapon, and flicked the safety off.

Kenyon began to struggle, but still couldn’t speak as Raoul raised the Captain-General’s right hand, clutching the pistol, but Raoul’s finger lay upon the trigger. A foul stench hit Raoul’s nose as Kenyon’s bladder released and a stream of urine poured onto the carpet.

“Hush, my Lord, shhhh. I promise it will be quick. Hush now, Kenyon, of the House of Marik.”

Placing the weapon—with Kenyon’s own hand still wrapped around it—against Kenyon’s right temple, Raoul pulled the trigger. As the pistol barked, Kenyon collapsed on the desk, blood pouring from the head wound. Raoul stepped back and turned his radio on.

“Come quick, the Captain-General just shot himself!”

September 18, 2767
House of Government, Atreus City
Aquilia Continent, Atreus
Free Worlds League

Sienna Stewart looked up in shock as Philip Marik told her the news.

“DEAD? He killed himself?”

“Yes, Minister Stewart. Apparently, he possessed some mental imbalance, and the strain of your call for his removal proved too much. My nephew took his own life last night.”

She sat back. No, not Kenyon. He was far too ambitious to take his own life—her own staff had warned of rumors that he was preparing to have MPs arrested before the vote. No, he had not killed himself. Twice before in Free Worlds history a Captain-General had mysteriously died in office, this now made three.

“I suppose the autopsy will confirm it was suicide, Philip?”

“But of course, Minister. What else could it have been? He was alone in his office, when the Master of Arms found him after escorting me out. If I had only stayed, then perhaps this tragedy would not have occurred.”

Sienna nodded. “And I suppose it is just a coincidence that General Walthus died last evening in a vehicular accident?”

“Did he? Strange, I had not heard of that.”

She stared at Philip, but his face could have been carved of stone. Shaking her head, she returned to business. “It seems Parliament must select a new Captain-General, then.”

“Yes, Minister. The Family has selected these four as the most promising of candidates,” he said as he handed here a sheet of paper. All four of the names listed were young—but each a tested and proven officer, capable of leading men and the vast Free Worlds League.

Sienna considered the list, then set it down. “There is one name missing that I intend to submit to Parliament.”

“And who would that be, Minister?”

“Yours, Philip.”

“You jest, Minister. I will turn 79 next month; my sons are dead, my grandson is barely out of the academy.”

“And you are most honorable Marik I know, Philip. Captain-General, I should say. How will you deal with General Kerensky, Stephen Cameron, and the Amaris Crisis?”

He smiled, “If you really intend to force this upon me, Minister, then I suppose I should leave for the meeting of the High Council on Asta. Time presses onward, you know.”

Philip rose and then stopped. “Do not yet spread the news via the HPG stations, Sienna. Give me time to get to Asta.” And time for men loyal to the Family to remove those who would use Kenyon’s death as an excuse for a coup.

“You are not going to tell me are you?”

“Let’s just say, I am not governed by my passions as was Kenyon, Sienna. What I decide will be in the best interest of the Free Worlds. If you don’t like that, then don’t put my name before Parliament.”

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

The vote the next day was a landslide—523 Ministers of Parliament approved awarding the Captain-Generalacy to Philip Marik, only 77 were opposed.

November 5, 2767
Branson House, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony

“. . . and that, gentlemen, is how I came to be Captain-General, and then to arrive here. Of course, for public discourse, Kenyon was overstressed, and took his own life due to the strain of events. I will deny any other tale, as you know.”

Stephen and Aleksandyr just looked at each other, then turned their heads back to Philip. Stephen asked, “And tomorrow? How do you plan to proceed, tomorrow?”

Philip Marik, the Marik, Captain-General of the Free Worlds League just smiled. “Tomorrow will come soon enough, Director-General Cameron. Let’s just wait and see.”

[masterarminas]

Chapter Thirty Eight

November 6, 2767
Chamber of the High Council of the Star League
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony

“This is Brian Hopkins, with a special report for Interstellar News Network, reporting from Asta, in the Terran Hegemony. Behind me is an exact duplicate of the Chamber of the High Council, the meeting place of the Lords of the Star League, in the Court of the Star League, on Terra itself. For the past two months, the people and government of Asta have worked to complete this facility—identical down to the smallest detail to the original on occupied Terra. At this moment, the Chamber lies empty, but in two hours time, the Lords of the League will convene. This will be the first Council meeting since the Amaris Coup took place over ten months ago.”

“In this meeting, our sources tell us, the High Council will consider Stephen Cameron’s claim to the position of First Lord—and determine what action, if any, they are to take against Stefan Amaris. Assembled outside the Chamber are thousands of people—citizens of Asta, soldiers, sailors, and airmen of the Combine, members of the Star League Defense Forces—all of whom are waiting for the first proclamations as to whether or not we have a new First Lord. Stay tuned to your local INN station for the best coverage of this historical event, the first meeting of the High Council since the Coup.”

“Brian Hopkins, reporting for INN, from Asta.”

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

The Chamber was round and topped by a dome. Around the outer wall stood sixteen SLDF soldiers—newly sworn into the Black Watch regiment by General Kerensky himself yesterday. These sixteen—gunslinger’s all—would form the new core of the Regiment as the SLDF rebuilt that body. In front of the sixteen, an elevated bench, shaped like an open horseshoe circled around the room. At that bench were ten desks and ten chairs, one for each of the Council Lords; on each desk rested a computer terminal and screen. Facing the open end of the bench was a pair of double doors, leading into a corridor connecting the entrance to the Chamber to the entrance to the building in which it was housed. Anterooms and private offices—and a security office—branched off that main corridor, the entry hall of the Chamber.

Inside, the lighting was muted, soft and dim. The interior of the dome overhead contained a fresco showing the entire Star League—individual systems denoted with a colored jewel-cut glass, with every house in a different shade. Reflections from the lights below made the glass inserts twinkle like stars in the heavens. In the very center of the room, between the arms of the horseshoe—directly below the gem that represented Terra on the fresco above—the Cameron Star, the symbol of the League, was carved into the floor where supplicants came to petition the Council; where witnesses were summoned to give testimony to the Lords of the League.

Stephen sat in the chair which had—in the original Chamber, on Terra—been traditionally assigned to the First Lord. To his right sat John Davion, then Nicoletta Calderon, Barbara Liao, and Janina Centrella. To his left were Minoru Kurita, Allyce Avellar, Robert Steiner, an empty chair for the Rim Worlds Republic, and Philip Marik. Robert Steiner, the last Lord to arrive, was just now taking his chair. For this session of the High Council, the Rim Worlds would not have a representative—at least, not yet, Stephen thought. He could feel the tension in the room, palatable to everyone, for the rules had changed and no one knew how exactly they would continue on.

He turned his head to look at Liao and nodded; she inclined her head in response, and pressed a key set before her on her desk at the bench. A bell chimed throughout the Chamber; once, twice, and then a third time, echoing throughout the dome.

“My fellow Lords, we are assembled today in session to conduct the business of the Star League,” she intoned in the ritual opening. “This session of the High Council is now convened. Guards of the Black Watch, seal the doors, and let pass no one, save only those whom the Council summons forth.”

Two of the sixteen guards briskly stepped to the doors, closed them, and sealed the Chamber. Turning back towards the Council, they took station, one to each side of the entry.

Liao pressed her key again, and the chimes sounded once, twice, three times more. “The session has begun. Let no one disturb these proceedings. As the first act of business, we must acknowledge our new members. Minoru Kurita is taking for the first time today the seat of the Council Lord for the Draconis Combine, as is Philip Marik for the Free Worlds League, and Stephen Cameron for the Terran Hegemony. I move that we seat them by acclaim and welcome them to our Council. How say you, my Lords?”

Davion spoke. “I second the motion, Lord Liao. Is there debate?” he asked, looking at Steiner, the only other member of the High Council who had previously sat in session prior to the Coup.

Grimacing, but recognizing that his opposition would gain little and cost much at this point, Steiner said, “Without objection.”

The three Lords-in-name of the Periphery remained silent, for they had no vote at this table. While they could participate in debate, both Calderon and Centrella could count votes easily enough (neither were sure that Avellar could count, period); they knew that all three would be seated, so why bother to speak up, when there was none to listen?

“The motion is carried then; welcome to all who take a seat today for the first time at the High Council of the Star League,” said Liao. A light on her screen lit up, indicating that Kurita wished to speak.

“We recognize Lord Kurita. The floor is yours.”

“Thank you, Lord Liao. You all know why we are gathered here today. The First Lord has fallen, and his successor must be chosen. Sitting with us now, upon this Council, is the sole surviving adult heir of the ruling bloodline of the Cameron family. In accordance with the League Accords, I therefore call for this body to confirm Stephen Cameron as First Lord of the Star League.”

“We do not know for a fact, Lord Kurita that he is the sole surviving adult heir of the family,” Steiner said. “There may be other survivors on Terra itself—electing a new First Lord is premature at this time. This Council should wait, until General Kerensky completes his campaign, and we can confirm there are no others to assume the position.”

“A specious argument, Lord Steiner,” replied Davion. “It might well be a decade or more before the campaign concludes—do you mean to suggest that we go for ten years without confirming a man that is of the ruling family, that is of age, and that is qualified for the post?”

“I merely suggest that we, the High Council, use caution at this time. It would be embarrassing to confirm this man as First Lord, only to find a closer successor to the throne alive and well on Terra after its liberation. Do you not agree, Lord Marik?”

“I do not, Lord Steiner. Why delay? The man is qualified, he is here, and he had proven himself as a leader—something Richard never did.”

“Quite right, Lord Marik,” answered Liao. “Lord Cameron, have you any objections to taking the position of First Lord?”

“No, Lord Liao, but first I would like to place on the table . . . “

“Pardon me, Lord Cameron,” Steiner said, smiling. “This body had rules. And one rule we have is that we must consider any motion put forward before moving on a different tack. Regretfully, I find that you inexperience in the conduct of the High Council is already proving my point at your lack of qualifications.”

Calderon stirred. “Lord Steiner, the rule of which you speak does bind this Council. That did not prevent this body from considering a resolution two years ago that you put forward—while debating another issue. The High Council can consider any motion it wishes; after all it determines for itself what rules shall and shall not bind it.”

Steiner sneered. “I thank Lord Calderon for her unwarranted advice. But the Council as a whole set aside the rule upon that occasion. I have not heard the Council do so today.”

“Perhaps it should, Lord Steiner. I would like to hear the proposal Lord Cameron was placing before this body, as would I believe any Council Lord with more than two active brain cells.” Calderon replied sharply.

Steiner opened his mouth to reply, his face flushed, but Liao cut them both off. “Lord Steiner, Lord Calderon, the Council will not tolerate such behavior. Shall we hear the proposals, then, before deciding to proceed?”

A chorus of voices answered. With the exception of Steiner, all wanted to hear. “Proceed then, Lord Cameron.”

“Thank you Lord Liao. You have all heard the speech I gave after the Liberation of Asta, when I assumed the post of Director-General of the Hegemony. You all know my position on the Periphery States. I place before this Council a resolution calling upon this body to immediately and irrevocably award full Member State status to the Magistracy of Canopus, the Outworlds Alliance, and the Taurian Concordat, with all of the rights and responsibilities thereof.”

“Lord Cameron, I appreciate how you are trying to manipulate this body,” Steiner replied. “Quite well done. At the moment, it will take three of the five of us to confirm you as First Lord. You—as the subject of the vote—cannot vote yourself. However, if we seat these three that will change to five of eight—and I must presume that you have made deals with them in advance for their support. Lord Liao, I must regretfully suggest that the Council place this motion on hold until we conclude the business of confirming Lord Cameron as the new First Lord—or not.”

Marik looked up from his seat. “I cannot support such an ambitious proposal, nor can the Free Worlds. I also say we settle this business of selecting a First Lord before moving on to the debate on this issue.”

Liao nodded her head. “It takes a two-thirds majority of the Council to waive the rules. Two are opposed. Another nay will prevent the rule from being waived. That nay is mine, Lord Cameron. The Council will abide by the rules that govern it. Your request to consider this motion before the vote to confirm your position as First Lord is declined. We have a motion before us to confirm Lord Stephen Cameron as the next First Lord. Is there debate?”

For several minutes chatter continued around the room. And then a vote was called. After Davion, Kurita, and Liao voted to confirm Stephen, neither Marik nor Steiner voted nay, though Robert did abstain.

“Lord Cameron, please take your place among us as the First Lord of the Star League. Long may you reign, with wisdom may you rule, with compassion may you comfort your peoples.”

“Thank you, Lord Liao. I would like to return to the resolution I attempted to bring before the table—the question of the three Periphery States sitting on this Council with us today. Is there debate, my Lords?”

Steiner snarled. “There is most certainly debate, First Lord. This entire idea and proposal is preposterous. We had to conquer these barbarians—and now you want to reward them with full member status? Poppycock! Rubbish! All of you know just how much of your revenue comes from the Periphery. Will you just give that up? Will you give up your power on this Council—as one vote of six, to become one vote of NINE? If this is the type of ideas we can expect from the new First Lord, perhaps we should avoid meeting for a good long time.”

“I do not hold quite the venom that my fellow Lord, Lord Steiner, does for your proposal, Lord Cameron,” Marik said. “However, I must consider what is best for the Free Worlds League. How will this affect our economies? Canopus has a history as a mercantile power—if the restrictions placed upon it are lifted, will it adversely affect my people? No, Lord Cameron, in the interests of the Free Worlds, I cannot support this.”

“Lord Marik, we can deal with economic disruptions,” Stephen replied. “All of your states are strong, with vibrant economic systems. We do not have to fear admitting our cousins in the Periphery to the table. And of all those present, I would have thought that you would recognize the inequality of keeping perhaps a third of humanity as second-class citizens, Lord Marik.”

“I do have some appreciation for your arguments, Lord Cameron. But I must first look to my own people, not the Canopians, not the Taurians, not the Outlanders. My own.”

Davion spoke up; in a voice that was nearly a whisper. “What you ask us to do, Lord Cameron is hard; it is difficult. For too many years there has been distrust and hatred on both sides of the border between me and Lord Calderon. But, you are right on this issue. If we do not address it now, then when? When will we correct the errors of those who came before us? I will suffer politically at home for supporting this—but it is the right decision to make. My House stands with the First Lord on the issue.”

“Hai, Lord Davion has spoken the truth on this matter. The Combine also stands with the First Lord,” rumbled Kurita from his desk.

Liao looked up, her eyes twinkling. “My, three for, and two opposed. It requires four votes to pass, my Lords. It appears that I will be the tie-breaker in this matter.”

She smiled at Stephen, and then turned her gaze to Marik and then to Steiner. “I cannot stand with you, Lord Steiner. The First Lord is correct on this issue. So speaks the Liao.” She turned back to Stephen. “Your resolution passes, First Lord Cameron.”

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

The Council had taken a recess to cool heads. After Liao had supported him, Stephen rammed his repeal of Richard’s taxation edicts down their throats—insisting that since the High Council never approved them, it did not take their approval to repeal them. Liao, Marik, and Steiner objected, demanding a vote on the issue. For the first time in history, the Magistracy of Canopus, the Outworlds Alliance, and the Taurian Concordat had cast their ballots on the issue. By a vote of five to four the taxation issue had been settled in the manner Stephen pushed for. Only Davion and the three Periphery leaders had stood with him on the issue. Even Kurita had voted against him on the matter. But the vote passed and the taxation edicts were no more.

But the real kicker of the day—so far—had come when Stephen asked Steiner to read aloud the text of Resolution 288 to the High Council. That resolution had entitled the Great Houses to double the size of their military forces allowed under the Edict of 2650—to be paid for in taxes collected from the Territorial States. The wording of 288 specifically said ‘Territorial States’ and did not name the Periphery nations individually. Steiner had nearly lost it when Stephen informed the High Council that they had just awarded status as Member States to the three former Territorial States remaining on the High Council—so the Great Houses of the Inner Sphere would have to find other funds to spend on their own defense. Even Davion looked shocked at that, for he too had neglected to read the original resolution in advance.

Stephen drank a sip of coffee as he sat in the private office given to him here at the Chamber. When the session reconvened, he had to push the formation of the Rim Worlds Protectorate and the selection of General Kerensky as its leader through. He had to. But how? And could he get the support of the Free Worlds League in the campaign against Amaris? There had to be a way—but what was that path?

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

The three chimes sounded again as the session reconvened. Stephen turned his head to look at each of the Council Lords in turn. “Very well, this session resumes. I have some final matters to present to the Council for consideration, and then the floor becomes open for any additional proposals.”

“If you will turn your attention to the computer screens before you, you will find the text of the resolution I am proposing. You should have all received this last evening in your briefing packets, my Lords.”

‘Whereas, Stefan Amaris, leader of the Rim Worlds Republic, and Council Lord of that Territorial State, has, in defiance of the laws of the Star League, committed murder, treason, and armed insurrection against the League; whereas he has made unlawful war upon the citizens of the Terran Hegemony, a member state of the League; whereas he has taken as hostage citizens of Member States of the Star League possessing diplomatic credentials; therefore, let it be resolved by the High Council of the Star League, sitting in closed session, and presided over by the First Lord of the Star League, that, Stefan Amaris shall be stripped of his position upon the High Council; that, the Rim Worlds Republic shall be expelled as a Territorial State of the Star League; that the High Council shall direct the Defense Forces of the Star League to use whatever methods and forces are required to bring Stefan Amaris and all those who support him and his policies, in the Rim Worlds and elsewhere, wherever they may be found, to justice. Furthermore, let it be resolved that the former Territorial State of the Rim Worlds Republic shall be placed under the jurisdiction and authority of the Star League Defense Force until such time as a new government, agreeable to the Star League and approved by the High Council can be chosen and its petition for membership in the Star League approved.’

“There is no provision here for activating the sections of the Accords that would call upon the member states to provide aid and assistance to the SDLF for the duration of the crisis, First Lord,” Marik stated, not even looking at his screen.

“No Lord Marik, there is not.” Stephen paused and looked over all of the Lords of League. “I will not now, nor shall I ever, demand of any member state of the League that he take action to defend the League. I hope that you would all, as Lord Kurita and Lord Davion have already done, chose to do so on the merits of the issue. However, Lord Marik, I will not attempt to force you to do you.”

“Lord Cameron, you have overstretched your authority here!” Steiner responded hotly. “First Lord or not, you do not have the power to unseat a member of this Council! And ‘expel the Rim Worlds’, the Accords do not allow anyone—not even the High Council to do that! This so-called resolution is a vast expansion of executive authority, and the Lyran Commonwealth will not support it!”

“What, Lord Steiner, are you worried he will unseat you next?” purred Calderon from across the bench.

“Damn you, you old witch! I should . . . .”

“YOU WILL BE SILENT!” Stephen thundered across the Council Chamber. “Lord Calderon, you have been warned once; do that again and I will censure you. Lord Steiner, if you can not act in a civil fashion, then you are free to depart these proceedings.”

The Lords of the League looked slack-jawed at Stephen. No one, NO ONE, spoke to them in such a fashion.

Steiner stood. “I may just well do that, First Lord.”

“Do that, Lord Steiner, and you will miss this vote. Guards of the Black Watch, unseal the doors for Lord Steiner if he feels the need to leave. Do not readmit him, however, if he does.”

“You don’t have the authority for that, First Lord, I am a member of this Council, and come and go as I wish.”

“Try me, Lord Steiner. You will behave in civil manner in this Chamber, or we will do without your company.”

Steiner sat, and Stephen nodded. “Guards, resume your stations. Is there further debate?”

Liao shook her head, “He is correct, First Lord. This action is unprecedented in over two hundred years of history.”

“The times are unprecedented, Lord Liao.”

Centrella spoke up. At twenty-two, she was the youngest member of the Council. “First Lord, what assurances do we have that this resolution cannot be used as precedent against any of us in the future—or our successors?”

“These are unique circumstances, Lord Centrella. For such a resolution to pass, it would require a Council Lord to make severe enemies of all the others at this table. But, let us treat this as an amendment to the Accords—which requires a 70% majority vote on the High Council. That would be seven votes to affirm out of the nine votes present.”

All of the Lords looked at each other—having seven of their fellows so dramatically opposed to them was not outside the realm of possibility. Still, it could also be a useful tool to be threaten their fellow members should they become intransigent.

Kurita spoke. “That is acceptable.”

Davion nodded, and slowly everyone else at the table did so—except Steiner and Avellar. “Lord Avellar, you object?”

“This resolution calls for WAR, Lord Cameron. I can not support it. Talking about your problems is always better than fighting. And this gives us no way to talk to Amaris and convince him to give you your worlds back.”

“That is your right, Lord Avellar. Lord Steiner?”

“Do it, you seem to be doing everything else here today. But do it without my vote.”

“Very well, are there any other objections to the resolution? No. It is recorded as High Council Resolution 347.”

“There is one last matter to bring to the attention of the Council before we open the floor. I have here,” and Stephen lifted several pages of paper, which he handed to a Guard of the Black Watch, who began passing them out of the Council Lords, “a communication from General Andrea Bates, commanding officer of the SLDFs 8th Field Army, and senior officer of the SLDF forces garrisoning the former Rim Worlds Republic. General Bates has been meeting with delegations of common citizens who wish to form a new government, the Rim Worlds Protectorate. None of the provisional members of that government were in the service of Amaris—many in fact were political prisoners held by the Amaris forces. In the opinion of the SLDF legal counsel on Apollo, this provisional body is sincere and the government structure is within the laws of Star League. He and General Bates have forwarded the proposal as well as the petition for this body to gain admittance to the Star League.”

“You planned this in advance, didn’t you, First Lord?” asked Steiner in a hot voice.

“Of course I did, Lord Steiner. You did say that wanted an effective and qualified First Lord earlier today, did you not? Be careful of what you wish for, you just might get it. Furthermore, my Lords, I propose that we seat a man of our choosing as the new leader—the Guardian—of this Rim Worlds Protectorate. A man whom all of us respect, a man who has served the Star League with honor and integrity across his entire life; a man this body has previously awarded with great power and responsibility, though he never held a seat on this Council in his own name. I propose that the High Council of the Star League award this to Commanding General Aleksandyr Kerensky, and make the Rim Worlds Protectorate the domain of him and his chosen successors; that we establish the House of Kerensky to replace utterly and completely the House of Amaris for now and forever.”

“It would be a fitting reward for his service,” Liao mused.

Marik frowned, “But he is also Commanding General. Won’t that interfere with his ability to lead the Rim?”

Stephen smiled across the chamber at Philip. “General Kerensky has given me his intention to retire to from SLDF in light of both this proposal and his injuries. I have accepted that request.”

There was silence in the Chamber, except for a hurriedly stifled gasp from one of the Guards around the perimeter.

“General DeChevilier will assume the role of Commanding General of the SLDF upon his arrival at Asta. However, with the ongoing campaign against Amaris and the need to retake the Hegemony worlds by force, we find ourselves in somewhat of a quandary. The SLDF has an organizational structure and a chain of command. But we are not conducting this war alone—the Federated Suns and the Draconis Combine are both committing their troops for the duration, not to mention the many ‘volunteers’ from among Lord Liao’s army and navy.”

“I intend to form another body to coordinate this war—a Supreme Allied Headquarters that will direct the operations of the SLDF and all those who participate. The man we select to run this body must have the full confidence of this Council and the SLDF—and that man, my fellow Lords will be Aleksandyr Kerensky. Of course, he will need a Deputy Commander, as well as a staff, which I hope that your states can provide, alongside of officers from the SLDF.”

“And this ‘Supreme Allied Headquarters’ will have officers from all participating member states, Lord Cameron?” asked Marik.

“Yes, Lord Marik, it will. In fact, given the schooling the Marik places upon his scions, I thought it appropriate to ask if you would appoint the Deputy Commander of the SAHQ, or to even serve in that position yourself, if you feel that would be best.”

Marik drew in a deep breath, and then—reluctantly—shook his head. “No, as tempting as that is, war is a business for the young. I am honored by your consideration, however. If no one objects, I will appoint the Deputy Commander for you, Lord Cameron—when do you need his name?”

Stephen grinned—he had him! Marik would support this, if he had the chance to name Kerensky’s second. “As soon as possible, and he needs to report to Asta immediately. There is an operation being planned, one that may greatly shorten the campaign needed to end this crisis.”

“Indeed,” Marik whispered as he sat back. “Very well, First Lord, the Rim is far from the Free Worlds, I approve of this.”

“Lord Marik, I intend to bring the Rim Protectorate in as a Member State, you should know that before you vote.”

“Lord Cameron, you have already brought the rest in; really, sir, what difference does one more make?”

By a vote of six to one (Steiner voting nay, and both Calderon and Avellar abstaining), the resolution passed.


November 7, 2767
Branson House, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony

Stephen sat in his office, holding a glass of whiskey, as he looked at Minoru and Aleksandyr. “So Philip will not declare war, nor commit the federal forces of the Free Worlds, but he has released the provincial forces to do as they wish.”

“That is correct, First Lord,” answered Minoru. He took a sip of his own drink and then sat the cup on the table before him. “You should not have expected more, First Lord. The Mariks have always been cautious, but at least he will not hinder our war effort. The others have all departed to return home—except for John Davion, who is traveling with your XIV Corps to meet his own attack force for the assault to lift the siege against Carver V.”

“The session went far better than I could have hoped, I suppose, Aleksandyr, Minoru.”

“Yes it did, First Lord,” said Lord Kerensky of the Rim Worlds Protectorate, as he sat down his—empty—vodka glass. “And very soon Aaron DeChevilier will arrive with the main body of the SLDF following. I have considered your suggestion carefully concerning our next target, and you may well be right in your analysis. As of today, my staff has begun preparations for operations plans for this assault. We have decided to call it Operation Ragnorak.”

“This is the mysterious operation you two have been working upon?” Minoru asked. “What is your target?”

Aleksandyr refilled his glass, “Why, Terra itself. Terra itself.”

Minoru's eyes widened, and he considered the answer, before sharply nodded his head in agreement. A broad grin growing on his face. "Ragnorak indeed," the Coordinator whispered.

Stephen turned his gaze to the dying embers of the fire from the last log in the fireplace. If we can take out Amaris, if we can get his people to surrender, if we have time, he thought, we might stop this avalanche from destroying us all.

“Gentlemen,” he said, turning back to Aleksandyr and Minoru and raising his glass. “A toast; a toast to Victory.”

Both men raised their own glasses in response.


November 7, 2767
LCS Tharkad
En route to Zenith Jump Point, Asta
Terran Hegemony

“It must appear to have been ordered by Amaris, not us, Erik.”

“But of course, my Archon, it will not be traceable to us. I will set a team from Loki to work on that goal immediately.”

Archon Robert Steiner smiled; a cold, cold smile at his old friend Erik Kiplinger. “That is good, Erik. Make sure they understand that he is the target—I don’t want his family touched. We are not, after all, barbarians.”

The head of the Lyran Intelligence Corps merely inclined his head to his Archon. Robert Steiner sat back in his comfortable chair and swirled the brandy in his glass. You have made the wrong man your enemy, Stephen Cameron, he thought.


To Be Continued in Book II—Blood and Steel

[masterarminas]

Well, that was Book I. Two more to go; the thread will continue tomorrow with the first snippets of BLOOD AND STEEL.

MA

[LadyTevar]

And here I thought Marik would be the asshole. I'd forgotten how uppity a Steiner could get when insulted.

[masterarminas]

BLOOD AND STEEL

Book II of The Cameron Legacy: The Fall of the Star League

A fictional novel in three parts set in an alternate history of the Classic BattleTech Universe

by

Stephen T Bynum

All rights reserved, copyright 2008.
This is an original work of fiction.



Part I

Chapter One

December 27, 2766
Fort Lewis Military Hospital, Seattle
North America, Terra
Terran Hegemony

Elizabeth Hazen walked into the hospital room with a paper bag in one hand and a brightly wrapped box in the other. She stopped and gave a hard look at the young man lying in the bed before her. A plaster cast covered each leg from just below the hips, elevated in slings dangling from the overhead. One arm was also in wrapped in a cast in a tight sling across his chest, while bandages covered his head. She shook her head.

“All of you aerojocks are just the same, brother dear, you can’t land worth a damn after punching out, can you?”

“I don’t get paid to punch out, Liz, unlike you Mech-rats. But the whole damn fuel feed just shut down on me.”

Liz sat down on the edge of his bed. “Well, I spoke with Colonel Sharp, and he said you held that Hellcat together longer than they thought you could, steering it away from Olympia. You saved a lot of people some grief, Tim. It could wreck your day pretty good to have a fifty-ton fighter plough into your neighborhood at Mach 1. You did good, kiddo.”

Timothy Hazen blushed.

“No, he was quite serious; said it was excellent handling of a dead bird—but that you waited too long to bail.”

“I had to get over open ground, Liz.”

“So you didn’t punch out until you hit five hundred feet, dufus? And you call us ground-pounders idiots?”

“I am so glad that you came by to cheer me up, sis.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Hey, can’t let my baby brother spend Christmas in the hospital without visiting him, can I? Don’t fret though, Tim, I’ve got a date tonight—so I won’t be here for long.”

“Captain Sheridan? Am I right, Liz? That JAG officer from the 342nd you met last month. I thought you were overdressed for visiting me. Oh, Phil is gonna have his hands full tonight.”

Liz laughed and punched Tim in his good shoulder. “Keep that up little brother and you won’t get the bag I snuck past security.”

Tim’s eyes lit up, “Oh come on, Liz. What’s in the bag?”

“Nothing much; just a Panini from Roselli’s—Sicilian chicken, with extra hot peppers, mushrooms, and a little touch of oil and vinegar.”

“That’s not playing fair, Elizabeth. I surrender; now can I have the sandwich?” He asked plaintively. She laughed again and handed him the bag, breaking the seal, and the aroma of the Italian spices wafted into the room. “Oh God, you don’t know how bad the food is here.”

“Well, it’s a military hospital, Tim. A combination of military cuisine and hospital blandness—but that’s what you get for wrecking an aerospace fighter that cost over two-and-a-half mil, bro.”

Tim sighed as he pulled out the still-hot sandwich and took a bite. “Liz, you are the best. Even if you are a Neanderthal ground-grunt,” he mumbled as he chewed.

“That’s Captain ground-grunt to you, Lieutenant Hazen.”

“Aye-aye, Captain,” he mumbled as he took another bite. “Is that a gift for me—or Phil?”

Elizabeth held up the gift-wrapped package. “Nope, it’s all yours, bro. Merry Christmas,” she said as she passed it over to him.

Tim set down the sandwich with his good hand and pulled at the ribbons. The gift-paper fell open as the ribbons knot came undone. Inside was a jewelry box. Elizabeth reached over and opened it. A heavy and very expensive silver watch lay on the bed of satin within.

Tim lifted it up, and looked at the inscription on the back. ‘To everything there is a season.’ “Liz, this must have set you back . . . “

“Hey, I only have one brother. And we nearly lost you this week. Next time, check the damn fuel pumps before you take off, ok?”

Tim grinned at her. “Your gift is at the apartment, Liz. Of course, I haven’t wrapped it yet, and with this arm . . .” he shrugged.

“You call what you try every Christmas and birthday wrapping? Bro, I’ve seen monkeys in the zoo do a better job of covering a package with colored paper and tying a bow.”

Suddenly, Elizabeth’s comm-link on her belt began beeping in an urgent tone. She frowned and opened the unit.

“I thought you were on leave over the holiday?” Tim asked.

“I am.” Reading the message, she inhaled sharply. “I gotta go, kid.”

“Liz? What’s going on, you’re as pale as a ghost.”

“There’s trouble back at post, Tim,” she said as stood. “Look, I’ve got to get back.”

She reached down a flicked a lock of his hair back into place, and then rubbed his head. “You take care, all . . .,” the sudden crack of a pistol in the hallway outside startled them both.

“Liz?” Tim asked; the blood draining from his face.

Elizabeth opened the door, and the hall was full of soldiers—Rim Worlds soldiers. They were forcing people into the stairwells, towards the exits. One saw her, and waved his weapon towards her. “You, woman, the building is being evacuated, get a move on.”

“What about the patients?” For some reason, her gut was screaming not to tell this man that Tim was her brother.

“Others are coming to get them. Now get a move on, or join him,” he gestured with his smoking pistol at the body of a doctor lying on the floor in the midst of an expanding pool of blood.

Glancing back at Tim, he nodded. Go on, he mouthed.

Outside, the parking lot was full. Hundreds of doctors, nurses, and visitors had been herded unto the asphalt pavement of the parking lot. Four deadly looking armored personnel carriers watched them, twin machine guns trained on the hospital itself, while men wearing the uniforms of the Rim Worlds—a full company at least—pulled men and women from the building. In the corner of her eye, Liz caught a flash of light. She hit the pavement, just as the rumble from the distant nuclear detonation arrived and the ground swelled. Waves passed through the parking lot as the earth itself flowed away from the impact—then the concussion hit. Dozens of windows broke—but they had been far enough away that it was little more than a bad windstorm.

Finally, the flow of people from the building slowed. A Rim officer nodded to one of his staff aboard an APC, and the man turned to his radio. Seconds later the scream of turbines streaked overhead and four jets passed by, tumbling black shapes dropping from beneath their wings.

“TIM!” Liz screamed as the building was engulfed in a firestorm of napalm and high explosive.

[masterarminas]

Chapter Two

December 27, 2766
Sean’s Pub, Seattle
North America, Terra
Terran Hegemony

Liz didn’t know how long she had wandered down the streets of the city. She supposed it was shock; everything was just happening too fast. Military vehicles raced up and down the streets—but the wrong kind of vehicles. Everything bore the grinning shark emblem of the Rim Worlds, not the Cameron Star. Some customers here in this bar had taken pity upon her, and pulled her in off the streets, and handed her a stiff drink. All of the entertainment and news channels were off the air; no one had a clue what was happening. She had spent half an hour—maybe more—in the restroom, cleaning up after she vomited up the bile inside her churning stomach. And crying, oh yes, she had cried over Tim and all the others in the hospital.

There was no answer to any of her calls on the comm-unit—all of the military channels were dead. The civilian channels still worked, but she did not know many civilians. Her career—and her little brother—had been her life, had been ever since their parents death eleven years before. Now she nursed another drink, trying to think.

“Hey, it’s back on!” yelled one of the customers as a half-dozen screens lit with a ‘We Interrupt This Broadcast’ screen.

Liz turned to one of the screens as the bartender—Sean, maybe?—raised the volume. A few moments later, the emergency graphic faded away, leaving a man, wearing the uniform of the Rim Worlds Republic on screen.

“Good afternoon, citizens of Terra. My name is Gunthar von Strang, Colonel in the Rim Worlds Armed Forces. Earlier today, a coup was launched against the First Lord of the Star League in the Court of the Star League. It is with regret that I must inform you that our First Lord was killed in the attack—as were his immediate family, and the majority of the Cameron bloodline. This coup was launched by a distant member of the Cameron family acting in conjunction with Star League Defense Forces under the command of General Aleksandyr Kerensky. The forces of the Rim Worlds—invited to this world by Richard himself—attempted to defend the First Lord, but we failed. However, we have now avenged his death at the hands of the Black Watch, and are conducting operations to ensure your safety.”

“Because of this crisis, Lord Stefan Amaris—the only member of the High Council currently on Terra—is assuming the post of First Lord to ensure public safety and order. A curfew will be announced shortly. We will restore order—and we will capture the traitor that ordered this hideous attack. This man—Stephen Cameron—organized and led the coup from within the Cameron family. If you see him, please report the sighting immediately to your local authorities—they will contact our troops who will apprehend him. This man is considered armed and dangerous, citizens, so do not attempt to capture him yourself. While the curfew is regrettable, we must place public order first. There will be no looting, no other chances for surviving traitors to strike at the legitimate governing bodies. This is being done to protect you, the people of Earth. Even as we speak, the Congress is gathering in Geneva to discuss this matter with Lord Stefan. Do not fear, people of Earth, we are from the Star League, and we are here to help in your moment of crisis. Obey any orders that our Rim Worlds troops issue; this is for your own safety. Further information will be given on this—and other channels—as it becomes available. Once again, citizens of the League, accept my condolences for this treasonous action on the part of your own people. We all mourn for the loss of Richard and his family.”

As von Strang’s face left the screen, a picture of Stephen Cameron appeared, rotating slowly, the caption ‘Wanted’ in flashing red letters above his head; mention of a reward of $1,000,000 below.

Liz felt the urge to be sick once more. The First Lord dead? Her regiment dead? She knew it was a lie, the Black Watch held Richard in contempt, but they had sworn an oath, damn it. And General Kerensky, a traitor? No, it was the Rim Worlders who had done this, just as they bombed Tim in his bed in the hospital. She shuddered and forced back the tears. NO. I will not fall to pieces because he died. No, not died, he was murdered! First things first, though, first I have to find something else to wear, she thought wryly. Sorry, Phil, but tonight is different kind of hunt—and for that, I’ll need different clothes, and a weapon.


December 27, 2766
Apartment Complex, Seattle
North America, Terra
Terran Hegemony

Damn. Liz stood across the street, looking at the Rim Worlds troops streaming into and out of her apartment, carrying loads of her clothes and—frak it all—her issued weapons from the arms locker she kept at home. Yeah, that’s Mrs. Devonich, all right, just chatting away with the officer there. That miserable old biddy believes everything the idiot-box spouts out; of course she would tell the world her neighbor was a member of the Black Watch—and had been on leave during the coup.

No use crying over it, Liz, she thought to herself. But it’s past time to get clear. When she was two blocks away, she considered what she had as she kept walking. Her clothes were more for a night on the town than evading troops, and she needed to get rid of the damn heels for a pair of boots. She had her id and her credit chip—but that was probably already on the net. If she used it to make a purchase, then the dogs would drop down on her like the Hammer of God. Fifty in cash, that won’t last for very long—and her comm-unit. She grimaced, knowing how easy those things were to trace. Seeing the next waste receptacle, she dropped the expensive comm inside, after yanking the battery pack off. That might buy some time.

She needed money and clothes—and a weapon. Passing by a laundry, she saw two people, a man and a woman, sorting clothes inside. For a moment she considered simply taking what she needed. No, Liz, she thought, you are not that desperate. Not yet, at least. But it was tempting. It would be so easy. She forced herself to keep walking down the street as the overcast sky began dropping cold rain down on the city.

Half an hour later, she finally found what she had been looking for. Sheltered beneath an overhang in an alley was a man—or rather scum shaped into the form of a man. Three kids, teenagers, were leaving, shoving their illegal purchases deep into their pockets. Liz’s mouth twitched as she walked up to the pusher. He was fit, rather surprisingly, and his eyes were clear. Not a user, then. Good, she thought. That would have been too easy.

“What can I do you for, hon?” he asked as he reached out and groped her breast.

Liz grinned at the man. “I am so glad that you just did that. Now I have an excuse for this.”

Her right arm snaked out in a blur as she slammed her palm into the pusher’s throat, crushing his larynx. The pusher collapsed, desperately trying to pull air into his lungs, but failing.

“Frakkin bitch!” The voice came from behind her. Liz spun, and buried the four-inch heel of her dress shoe in the eye of the other dealer emerging from his hiding place. The man began to scream, but the scream died still-born as she knuckle punched the man in his crotch. A knife-hand blow to the back of his neck produced a sudden ‘crack’ as his neck snapped, and the second man fell to the ground lifeless, the gun in his hand dropping to the asphalt.

Liz calmly wiped the gore from her heel on the pusher’s shirt, and then searched their pockets. There was five eighty in cash, as well as a couple of dozen bags of drugs and a folding knife. The gun—a poorly maintained revolver—and knife she placed inside her hand bag. She left the alley, dropping the drugs in a nearby waste receptacle and began looking for a second-hand store.

[masterarminas]

Chapter Three

December 28, 2766
Headquarters, Interstellar News Network, New York
North America, Terra
Terran Hegemony

Katlyn Parker quickly read over the copy in front of her. Looking up at the huge digital countdown back behind the cameras, she saw there was still plenty of time—two minutes until the broadcast began. Shaking her head, she just scanned through the news reports. Reports, she thought, this is not a news report—it is pure propaganda. A charming—and frightening—Rim Worlds officer had taken up station in the control booth, and now he ran INN—regardless of what she might say on the air. She had seen the unvarnished reports, of Rim Worlds troops engaged in firefights with the few SLDF forces left on Terra. Sixteen nuclear weapons detonated yesterday—confirmed by the weather sats—and all atop SLDF bases or units. Yet, she was supposed to go on the air and tell humanity it was the SLDF that had detonated nuclear weapons on Terran soil.

Geneva was in panic, too. The Congress was sitting in closed session—except for the Rim Worlds officers giving ‘testimony’, and the Hegemony President was missing. So were all of the top officials of both the Star League and the Hegemony governments. Missing or dead; though in the majority of cases, it was probably both at the same time. And they expected her to just sit here and mouth this crap? Are our people such sheep that they will believe this, she thought? Riots and protests had broken out across the face of Terra, but perhaps there had been too much peace on the world for too long. Placards and banners and marches were no match for machine-guns and tanks and ‘Mechs. She had seen the blood run through Times Square forty-floors below this morning, when the Rimmers dispersed the protest—to protect the public safety they had said, just after cutting hundreds of citizens to ribbons in the streets.

Streets running red with blood—she had always thought that was just a poetic statement. Until this morning—when she saw it happen with her own eyes. Katlyn shuddered. How did this happen? How did we let this happen? Dan Girout, her fellow anchor, nudged her arm, returning her to the present. The clock said 15 seconds, and kept slowly counting down. She steeled her courage, and made up her mind to speak about what was really happening in the world. The consequences frightened her, but the citizens needed the Truth. And that was her job.

The lights came up and her producer nodded, as the prompter began to roll. Red lights appeared on the cameras, as the sign that blazed ‘LIVE’ lit up.

“Good evening, I am Katlyn Parker.”

“And this is Dan Girout.”

“We are reporting live for Interstellar News Network from our New York broadcast headquarters on Terra. Our top story tonight continues our coverage of the . . . “

Katlyn stopped in mid-sentence, as she saw a man in the uniform of the Rim Worlds move a young woman, handcuffed with a bag over her head, to the area just behind the cameras. He yanked off the bag and she recognized her fourteen year old daughter, her mouth gagged and a bruise on her left check. The officer drew his pistol and placed it against the back of her daughter’s head. On the other side of the set, another officer held Dan’s young wife—pregnant with their first child—as hostage as well. Her defiance died, and she slowly began reading from the prompter once again.

“We . . . we continue our coverage of the SLDF’s attempt to overthrow the First Lord and set up a military dictatorship . . . “

Katlyn Parker was not the only journalist to bow to the pressure that day. Across all of Terra—all of the Hegemony—others spoke the fictions written by Amaris, so that their families—or they themselves—would be kept safe.


December 29, 2766
Western slope, Mount Rainier
North America, Terra
Terran Hegemony

Liz pulled herself up the slope by grabbing the young saplings. As the rain continued to fall, she made her way along the ridge. There were dozens of caches surrounding Unity City, caches the Black Watch had placed without the knowledge of anyone else—caches that contained weapons, ammo, explosives, and electronics. She knew the location of only about half-a-dozen—the ones that contained relatively small amounts of hardware. Had she spent more time in the Regiment, she would have been shown the others, but that knowledge was now dead. She paused, and wiped the sweat from her eyes. First things first, Liz, she thought. Find the cache, and get into a secure, safe place. Then, we will organize and hit those bastards back hard. There were over sixty retired members of the Black Watch on Terra, according to the regimental rolls. Some were too old, some were bound to have been picked up by the Rimmers, but some would still be out there. She just needed to make contact—and the equipment for that was in the cache. She took a deep breath and forced her legs to move towards the cache once more. It’s just another two miles—but four thousand feet of elevation—left to go, she thought.

[masterarminas]

Chapter Four

December 29, 2766
Court of the Star League, Unity City
North America, Terra
Terran Hegemony

Gunthar von Strang did not react as the bark of dozens of rifle shots came from inside the throne room. A few moments later, the doors opened, and Stefan Amaris walked out, a beaming grin on his face. “Gunthar, my old comrade, are you well, today?”

The Rim Worlds officer knelt on the rubble-coated marble hall, and bowed deeply. “Yes, master, I am well, and bear news of your conquest of the homeworld.”

“Walk with me, Gunthar. Tell me of our victory.”

As the two men moved away from the doors, Stefan suddenly came to a halt and turned back to the soldiers exiting the abattoir that had once been housed the Throne of Man. “Let them rot where they lie; seal the doors until only their bones are left. I will build a new Throne for myself. Richard’s is not worthy of me.”

With a deep bow, the officer acknowledged the order, and put his men to work. Stefan turned back to Gunthar. “And what is your news, my friend?”

“They put up a hard fight, my master; indeed two of their regiments are still resisting in South America. Casualties among our forces have been extremely light—your plans were a masterful stroke, sire.”

“And what of the Hegemony Congress?”

“Politicians, my lord, are the same no matter what planet. Some stood on principle to deny your rightful conquest—they are now dead. The rest have quickly acknowledged your sovereignty. Before the day is ended, the Congress will ask you to form a new government—and to lead the fight against the traitor Kerensky.”

“Excellent, Gunthar, most excellent work indeed. You have been busy, my friend.”

“I live to serve, my master. The pope in Rome has demanded an audience over our suppression of the rioters in St. Peter’s Square.”

“Demanded?”

“Yes, my Lord. He is protesting the intrusion of our soldiers into the Holy See.”

“Colonel Green is a Catholic, I believe.”

“Yes, my master. He is a former priest who was stripped of his collar after the Altenmark Incident.”

“Contact him and have him take his regiment to the Vatican, Gunthar. And congratulate our new Pontiff.”

“And if the College of Cardinals does not agree, my master?”

“Replace them, Gunthar. Must I handle all the minor details?”

“Your will be done, sire.”

The two men had reached the apartments which Stefan had made his home, the 18th Amaris Dragoons—the Death’s Head Regiment—standing watch over him. Stefan stopped at the door. “There is one thing more, Gunthar. Where is Stephen Cameron, and why is not in my grasp?”

“We have confirmed that he left Terra two weeks ago—along with his wife and child. He took passage to Asta.”

“Asta? Send Brakel after him with a battle group. I want him dead, Gunthar. There must be no survivors of the Cameron line.”

“I will brief General Brakel myself, sire.”

“Good. Now, I should get ready to accept the position the Hegemony Congress will shortly offer to me.” And Stefan Amaris smiled.

[masterarminas]

Chapter Five

December 29, 2766
Western slope, Mount Rainier
North America, Terra
Terran Hegemony

Liz shivered in the cold damp of the evening. The sun was falling fast, and the evening twilight would soon fade into black. Damn it, she thought, the cache should be right here! But, it had been a year since Major Norton had brought her out here to show her the location. The glacial stream—that was in the right place, feeding off the cold still lake a thousand feet above, and five miles away. The ravine through which it flowed was right where she remembered, the rock face carved by water over a span of a thousand years. But she couldn’t find the cavern that led to the cache! The thick underbrush—even in the thirty foot deep ravine—cloaked everything from her view. The cache had been expertly hidden; a little too expertly, apparently. It should be right HERE.

She slammed down her hand on the rocky debris the vegetation covered. And she heard the clatter of rocks on the far side. Tearing apart the vines and branches, she began moving rocks—and saw the entrance finally. The glacier, you idiot, she thought. The spring floods wash down more rocks, dirt, and debris every spring. Fifteen minutes later, she had cleared enough of a space to crawl into the yawning black hole in the face of the ravine. She sat on a nearby boulder to catch her breath. She was pushing herself too hard; her sweat was already turning to ice on her face and neck. Her feet felt like frozen bricks from standing in the ankle deep water and mud.

As the last of the light faded to the west, Liz drew out the flashlight she had bought before leaving the city. The beam of light shone deep inside the cavern, revealing bare rock, standing water, and mud, lots of mud. But no bears, wolves, or panthers at least; she was grateful for that small blessing. The only weapon she had been able to buy was a survival knife—Amaris had forbidden all gun sales yesterday. To defy that order meant death if the sale were discovered, so she had not even tried to buy a firearm. The knife would have to serve for now. The revolver she had taken had been in such poor condition that she had reluctantly discarded it—to fire it would risk losing her own hand. How could anyone whose life might depend on using a weapon keep in it such bad shape? Frakkin druggies.

She crawled into the cave, cold thick mud sliding down her jacket and onto her skin. The stagnant water inside was knee deep, but at least the cold kept it from being a breeding ground for mosquitoes and other stinging insects. Once inside, she began to search the walls, looking for the small carved symbol that would mean this was the right cave. It took almost ten minutes, but she finally found the rough outline of a star on one of the walls. O.k., Liz, this is the right spot. She began plodding deeper into the cave through the water; water that slowly leeched precious heat from her body.

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

The cavern led to higher—and dryer—ground after about twenty minutes of sloshing through the water. It curved and turned, rose and fell, and in one spot, she had to crawl through the rock passage. Other openings and tunnels appeared every now and then, but she knew the signs to look for that indicated the right path. Eventually, she arrived at an armored door set into the stone. Liz couldn’t stop shivering as she pulled off the muddy, wet glove, revealing blue fingers wrinkled from the wet. She laid her trembling hand upon the security pad. As it scanned her hand—confirming her finger and palm prints, DNA, and life signs (the last was nearly out of parameters with her low body heat)—it finally decided that she was indeed Elizabeth Hazen, Captain, SLDF Royal Black Watch, and had a right to access. The door slid open with a loud pop as the vacuum seal was broken.

Elizabeth entered the chamber, the door sliding closed behind her. She lifted her head, looking for the storage containers that held warm dry clothing, only to face a man holding a deadly CSW Mark XX half-rifle pointed in her direction. She faintly heard him say something as the world began to spin around her, and Liz collapsed on the granite floor.

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

Liz woke with a scream as the nightmare at hospital played itself over again in her mind, but this time she could see Tim; see the flesh melting from his face as the napalm inferno consumed him.

“Easy, girl, why don’t you lie back down and take it easy.”

The man from earlier was sitting on the edge of her cot; he had grey hair, and his weathered face showed all of his age. In his hand he held her tags. Liz squirmed out from beneath the three layers of blankets, and then squealed and pulled them back up.

“Where are my clothes?”

“I had to get those wet things off of you, Captain Hazen. It would have been your death to have that cold keep soaking in bone-deep.” He gestured with a nod, “Over there, by the door. There’s also some much better clothes for this weather in those containers to the right.” He stood and looked down at her. “I’ll just wait for you in the main chamber, Captain. Breakfast will be ready in five—you ain’t there, you ain’t eating.”

“WAIT!” She nearly yelled as he turned to leave. “Who are you?”

The old man came to attention and saluted. “Regimental Sergeant Major Daniel Kobrowski, ma’am, reporting for duty. Retired out of the Watch twenty years back, but I figured we needed everyone on deck this time around. Breakfast in five, ma’am, and I don’t wait, not for less than a Colonel.”

[masterarminas]

Chapter Six

December 31, 2766
Black Watch Cache 11-Bravo, Mount Rainier
North America, Terra
Terran Hegemony

The warm dry clothes felt like heaven. Sergeant Major Kobrowski had left her a field hygiene kit as well—and the ability to get her skin clean for the first time in forever had been a boost to her morale. She took a single whiff of the clothes she had worn and quickly placed them in a poly lined bag, sealing the top. The old man had been right about the quality of the clothes stored here. None of it was military, it was all top-quality civilian field wear—the best the Black Watch could buy. For decades her regiment had practiced its paranoia on all manner of contingencies—and the ability to blend into the civilian population had clearly been one of them.

All sizes of clothing, for men and women both, as well as boots, jackets, and gloves were in the storage containers. Enough for almost two hundred soldiers—if they were diverse enough, at least. Dozens of other containers lined the rest of the room, holding folded cots, rucksacks, basic survival gear—but no weapons. Liz shrugged, the man hadn’t shot her or raped her, and he had gained entrance to a security-locked cache that only answered to the bio-signature of members of the Regiment. She opened the door to the main chamber, the smell of the bacon sizzling in a pan hitting her nose and making her mouth water.

“Good morning, Captain. Are you feeling better?” Kobrowski asked as he turned the bacon over, and poured blended eggs into a second pan heating on a field stove.

“Yes, Sergeant Major, I am. How long was I out?”

“You slept nearly thirty hours, ma’am.”

“I what?”

He chuckled. “You are a ‘Mech jock, right?”

“Yes, but I took the full course before being assigned to the Regiment.”

“Well, Captain, you damn near had hypothermia from that water. And you were exhausted as well—not a good combination, ma’am. The six week course integrating everyone with other people’s duties is a good course, but surviving—and fighting—in these mountains, in this weather, on your own two feet without a ten-meter tall seventy-ton war machine, that’s a bit more advanced. Ma’am.”

Stirring the scrambled eggs, he continued, “Now, me? I was infantry. Went through the ‘Mech school just like you went through ‘grunt’ school. And we both went through the armor and VTOL courses. I learned—bone-deep, girl—that the weather will kill you dead, sure as a bullet if you let it. We are at over fifty-four hundred feet here, Captain; it’s not the same as Puget Sound.” He poured half the eggs into a metal tray, and then slid the rest onto another. Turning back to the bacon, he lifted the two dozen strips—thick slices, rather—out with a fork and divided them up as well, and then killed the power unit on the field stove. He picked up a tray and extended it across to Liz.

Her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t eaten since before she went to see . . . since before the world changed. She took the tray and sat down on a field stool, and began to devour the food.

Kobrowski chuckled, and poured steaming coffee from a thermos into a cup and handed it to her as well. “Eat, drink, and be merry Captain Hazen. For tomorrow we may well die.” He lifted his own cup in salute and took a deep pull.

Liz took a sip as well, but cautiously—the steam meant the drink was hot, and the color was a deep black. She detested plain coffee, but you made do. The taste was a surprise.

The old man laughed aloud on seeing her reaction. “It’s an old soldiers trick, ma’am. Military procurement thinks in terms of years of storage, bulk, and weight—not taste. Even their coffee for the ration-packs is pretty anemic and it’s damn hard to mess up coffee. So we grunts—who are out in the field and actually eat the damn ration-packs—have to find ways to make it palatable.”

Liz just nodded, and then took another sip. It was fantastic.

“Cocoa,” he said, pulling out a sealed package from his jacket. “Adds to the calorie count—which is a good thing in these conditions. Always put a packet in the bottom of the cup before you pour the coffee in, it sweetens and gets rid of the blandness and bitter taste.”

“I can’t believe that this bacon came in a field-pack, Sergeant Major.”

“That’s because it did not, Captain. I packed a bag with some food stuffs before I set out for here from my home.”

“Why here? Why this cache?”

“11-Bravo is the first cache they show new folks, ma’am. From what I gathered over the ‘net, not too many of our folks survived. I figured if any did they would make their way to a cache, to make contact—standard operating procedure. And if any survivor was not long-service, then this is the cache where they would head. Plus, it’s close to home. I don’t like walking more than I have to anymore, Captain.”

“Have you heard from anyone else?”

He shook his head sadly. “No. But I sent out the call over the ‘net—we have a connection here that is guaranteed untraceable. Best the Regiment could buy. We’ll know if anyone else—former service, at least—survived by tomorrow.”

“And for now?”

“For now, Captain, we wait. If you don’t mind taking my advice, that is.”

“No.” She stood and began pacing. “How well stocked are we for weapons, Sergeant Major?”

“Enough to outfit a very short platoon, but we can’t use most of them.”

“What?”

He sighed. “Ma’am, most of the weapons—like the Mark XX half-rifle and the Mauser 960—rely on integrated electronics. They all got built-in power signatures. Wonderful weapons, but sensors can pick them up a kilometer away, unless they are in a shielded compartment—like this. If we get a platoon together, then giving them those guns will just get them all killed.”

“I can’t believe there wasn’t a contingency for this situation!”

“Oh, there was, ma’am. We do have twenty-four Barrett-Enfield R-11 rifles and plenty of ammo for them.”

“R-11? We used that rifle in the Reunification War—two hundred years ago!”

“Yep. We did, and it was the best projectile weapon the Hegemony ever made. Thirty round magazine, two-round burst fire mode, bull-pup configuration, accurate out to 800 meters. Fires a 6.8mm round that will penetrate a half-centimeter of ceramic body armor at 300 meters. The design is old, but they are based on a Taurian infantry weapon we stole—one that worked regardless of temperature, mud, grime, or grit. Bury the damn things in sand, dig them up five years later, slap in a new magazine and they will fire. Best of all—no electronics, no power source. Short of a metal detector or being seen visually, they can’t be detected by man-portable or vehicular sensors.”

Liz sat down. This new world would take some getting used to. For the love of God, she was a ‘Mech pilot, not a guerilla.

Kobrowski nodded, acknowledging the realization that had just come to her. “Ma’am, we can’t win a stand-up fight. So, we become guerillas. We hit them where they don’t expect, and we don’t play fair. This is not how the Regiment normally works, but . . .” he chuckled, “this ain’t exactly normal, now is it?”

She slowly nodded. “In that case, Sergeant-Major, I remember seeing a range here during the tour. Care to check me out on the R-11?”

“Love to Captain. I’ve already checked out the rest of you, after all.”

[masterarminas]

Chapter Seven

January 4, 2767
Black Watch Cache 11-Bravo, Mount Rainier
North America, Terra
Terran Hegemony

Liz sat waiting for announced broadcast. The 11-Bravo facility had enough space to house a full strength infantry platoon, and included four bunk-rooms as well as a rec area—complete with pirated satellite coverage from all of the news and entertainment stations. Yesterday, they had picked up a radio broadcast indicating that Stefan Amaris would be addressing the planet. So now, she and Kobrowski waited for it to commence, her mind drifting over the past four days.

The news had been anything but good. Only six people had responded over the ‘net—six survivors of the nearly two thousand active and retired members of the Regiment on Terra. All six had been retired, only one other than Kobrowski lived in North America—and he was in Boston. With the restrictions on movement that Amaris had placed on the citizens, she had finally decided not to try and gather them here. Instead, she instructed them—as the senior surviving officer of the Watch—to recruit local guerilla teams and take the fight to the enemy in their own back yards.

The Pope was dead, replaced two days ago by an Amaris officer—Pavel Green, who had taken the title of Clement XXVII. All of the news broadcasts repeated Amaris propaganda; propaganda that painted the SLDF as having attempting a military coup. Pirate radio stations had emerged, broadcasting the truth. But those station’s operators had to remain on the move, lest Amaris forces track their transmissions. Because of those stations, she and Kobrowski knew of the riots across the globe—and the brutal suppression that troops loyal to Amaris had delivered. Tens of thousands lay dead.

At least she had Kobrowski, she thought. The old man was a treasure trove of knowledge about unconventional warfare. It would be weeks—months, perhaps—before she would be ready to leave 11-Bravo and begin recruiting, but he had promised her that by then she would know as much as he could teach. And he had taken a map and pointed out the locations of another twenty-nine caches near Unity City, from the border of California province to Vancouver Island; from the Pacific to the Continental Divide. Two of them she had been shown—besides this one, of course. The rest, though she had not been aware of.

Like 11-Bravo, all of these hidden caches drew their power from deep-core thermal taps underneath the facilities; all were shielded from detection against even the most advanced Star League sensor arrays; all were camouflaged to a fare-thee-well. Even their access to the ‘net was shunted through multiple decoy stations that would not allow an electronic trace. And each contained supplies, weapons, and equipment for anywhere from a platoon to a company—in some instances including ‘Mech and vehicle support. She was ready to begin her campaign against the Usurper, but Kobrowski had cautioned her to take it slow.

“Captain,” he had said yesterday, “it won’t do anyone any good if you get yourself killed. There are things you need to learn—things that will keep you alive and let YOU kill them, not the other way around. This is gonna be a long, hard fight, girl, so how about we learn to walk before we try to run?” And the old NCO had been right. Damn it. It just struck here as wrong to be sitting here—even if she was learning skills she had never before needed—while the fight was out there.

The screen cleared, showing the New York headquarters of INN. Kobrowski increased the volume. “This is Katlyn Parker of Interstellar News Networks bringing you a special report live from our broadcast headquarters in New York City. We are awaiting Council Lord Stefan Amaris to address the people of Terra live from the Court of the Star League. And we take you there now.”

The screen changed, showing Stefan Amaris, a sorrowful look upon his face, seated at a desk. Behind him on the wall was a flag—similar to that of the Rim Worlds Republic, but different. Black silk hung from above, with a scarlet shark, curving about itself, as though it were chasing its own tail, taking up much of the field. In the exact center—with the shark encircling it—lay the Cameron Star in silver and gold, looking tiny and lost next to the pelagic predator.

“Citizens of Terra. People of the Hegemony. Ladies and Gentlemen of the Star League. We all know the tragic events that took place here on Terra nine days ago, at the Court of the Star League from where I now address you. The Coup—launched by renegade members of the Star League Defense Forces, aided and abetted by a traitor within the Cameron family—that took the life of First Lord Richard and his family.”

“These events have affected all of us. How do we go on with our lives? What will replace the Cameron lineage that has ruled Mother Earth itself since James McKenna resigned from office? I have been informed by the President of the Hegemony Congress that the Congress had met in closed session and considered just those questions.”

“By the unanimous consent of the Congress of the Hegemony, I have been asked to assume leadership here, over the citizens of Terra and the other worlds of the Hegemony. The House of Amaris has always sided with the Star League—even during the dark days of the Reunification Wars, our House chose to stand against our own people and support Ian Cameron and his dream. And today, my people, we are all one people. A people united in our desire to stand against those who would throw down this dream and replace it with a military dictatorship under the leadership of Aleksandyr Kerensky.”

“I have accepted the post that our Congress has offered to me. And I declare myself, as the leader of the Hegemony, as the rightful First Lord of the Star League. But, we cannot have agents of the Star League fighting each other in a civil war. We cannot allow our proud heritage and courage to be diminished by the actions of the renegade and misguided Star League Defense Force. Accordingly, citizens, I have asked Congress for—and they have granted me—the right to dissolve the Terran Hegemony. As of this day, I form the former worlds of the Rim Worlds Republic and the Terran Hegemony into the Empire of Amaris. All other states of the Star League will remain as autonomous provinces within the Empire, answering to me as First Lord and Emperor.”

“Our best days still lie ahead, citizens. Oh, my people, mourn the loss of Richard and the Cameron line. Grieve for him and his wife and his daughter, slain by the Black Watch under the orders of Kerensky. But remember, we can endure. We can recover. We can remake ourselves in the image of that dream that Ian had so long ago. We are one people—all of us, all of humanity. And one people must have one leader, a just and strong leader. I am that leader. Richard was my friend, and I too grieve for his loss.”

“As we move ahead with our lives, ask yourselves this—what has really changed? Nothing has changed—save only the name of your ruler. Richard trusted me, asking me to assist him in defending the core worlds of humanity. Now, I ask you to trust me, citizens of Terra. Trust in me and have faith, and support the rightful government that I have formed in accordance with the will and legislation of your own Congress.”

“I pray that Aleksandyr Kerensky will see the error of his ways, and lay down his arms. But if he does not, then I call upon you to rise up, my people. To rise up and support me in the task to grant each of you the security and the rights you have earned. If Kerensky will make unlawful war upon us, then we will destroy the remnants of the Defense Force. We will harry his broken and shattered command to the very Gates of Hell itself. We will capture both him and the traitor Cameron and bring them before you—THE PEOPLE—to place on trail for their part in the murder of our First Lord Richard!”

“And on that day, citizens, on THAT DAY shall we stand united, as one people, one ruler, one nation! Follow me, and trust in me, my people.”

Liz just sat for a moment as the screen switched back to Parker and the others on INN commenting on the speech. Her hands were shaking. She forced her breathing to slow, and her nerves to calm before she spoke. “He can’t believe that anyone will buy that, can he, Sergeant Major?”

Kobrowski shook his head. “It’s called the big lie, Captain. And more people in history have believed that kind of nonsense than any that ever believed in the truth. He won’t convince them all, but some; yeah, some will believe and follow him.”

“Collaborators.” She whispered, the cold venom in her voice causing Kobrowski to wince.

“Not all of them, ma’am. Some of them will only be following his instructions to keep their own families safe. We need to remember that—and that we are members of the Star League Defense Force. We swore an oath, Captain, to keep those people safe from harm. Not to make war on them.” He turned his head and looked hard at Liz, his eyes as cold as stone.

She looked away. “Fine. When we are ready, we will hit the Rimmers, and leave most of these people out of it. But anyone, Daniel, ANYONE that commits atrocities against our folks—be he Rimmer or Terran—will pay the price.”

“I can live with that skipper.”

“Good, Sergeant Major. Shall we get back to work then? I believe you were going to start your course on improvised explosive devices this afternoon.”

[masterarminas]

Chapter Eight

January 20, 2767
St. Peters Basilica, Vatican City
Europe, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)

Pavel Green snapped upright from his sleep as the nightmare suddenly became too much to bear. The dark room was quiet; the air cool from the circulators, but still sweat covered his body. The door opened, letting in the light from the hallway outside.

“Your Holiness, are you well?”

“Just a bad dream, Monsignor. Please, return to your sleep, I am fine.”

The priest bowed as he closed the door behind him, leaving Pavel—Clement XXVII—alone in the darkness once more. No, not alone. Satan was with him, after all. It was funny how he had lost his faith in God after Altenmark, but not that in the Devil. Benedict XXIV had been Pope until he brought himself to the attention of the Emperor. On January 3rd, Benedict had died in the square below the balcony of his office. Gunthar von Strang had handled the execution, and his installation as the new Pontiff of the Church.

“You are the Vicar of Christ on this Earth,” von Strang had said to the old Pope. “Die as he did. Crucify him.” And the Rim soldiers obeyed. Benedict had taken a full day to die as he hung on the cross set in this holy square before the very gates of the Vatican. A day during which the College of Cardinals had been forced to watch their Pope suffer; and when he did finally give up the ghost, the College had followed von Strang’s suggestion and elected him as the newest Vicar of Christ.

Pavel stood from his bed, the archaic nightshirt he wore—traditions, he thought—soaked with his sweat. Pulling the soiled clothing from his body, he fastened a silk robe about himself. He walked over to the doors of the balcony and opened them, stepping out onto the high platform. The cool night breeze and twinkling stars above helped to calm his nerves. Even so, the sight of Rim Worlds soldiers patrolling where once the Swiss Guard of the Vatican had stood struck him as wrong, despite the men and women down below belonging to his former regiment.

Rome was quiet tonight. With the curfew in place, there were no vehicles on the roads. The riots had ended when the troops waded in, in full protective armor and with lethal weapons to boot. Pavel pounded his fist on the balustrade; he had not asked for this, nor did he want this. The very idea of him—a man who had lost his faith—being Pope was ridiculous. The Emperor had not requested his opinion, however. He looked back up at the sky, but the stars were cold and distant, and the answers were not there.

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

The morning mass had passed without exception. Despite his lack of faith or belief, Pavel still loved the liturgy, the ritual, even if the meaning had fled his grasp. Now he sat at his morning breakfast table, a copy of the daily news before him. It was thin, and what information there was he clearly recognized as his Emperor’s propaganda. Journalism had departed this world, as surely as religion had departed him.

“Your Holiness, may I join you?”

The Rim Worlder looked up at Father-General Joachim Spaatz, of the Society of Jesus—the Jesuits. Spaatz was the leader of the Society, and answered only to the Pope himself. Not to any of the Cardinals, nor to the Archbishops.

“Good morning, Joachim. Of course you may.”

The elderly black skinned man sat, and bowed his head over the morning porridge, and then crossed himself before lifting a spoon.

“I understand you had a bad night, Your Holiness.”

“It was just a dream, Joachim, nothing to worry about.”

“What was the dream about?”

Pavel paused, looking down at the table. “It was nothing.”

The Jesuit lifted an eyebrow. “It was something. Enough, at least, to wake you from a sound sleep in the dead of night, soaked in sweat, and crying out ‘take this cup from me’. Or so I heard.”

“I don’t recall that.”

“What do you recall, Your Holiness?”

He sighed. “You are not going to drop this, are you?”

“No.”

“I am the Vicar of Christ, the head of the Church, and you don’t obey me?”

“As you yourself have said, you really aren’t a proper Pope, now you are you, Your Holiness? Besides, I am a priest; you should not worry about me blathering about your dreams across the Eternal City.”

“What is on the schedule for today?” He asked, changing the subject.

Joachim took another spoon of the steaming porridge and swallowed. “Today, Your Holiness, is the day Benedict set aside to receive petitions from the people of Rome. They will be here shortly.”

“Asking me to pray for them; to intercede with God on their behalf?” Pavel barked out a bitter laugh. “Should I pray for a miracle for them, Joachim, when I don’t believe in miracles?”

“Do you really think that you are the first Pope to experience a crisis of faith? Or even lacked faith at all? Remember your history, and the Italian popes of the Middle Ages and the Reformation, Your Holiness. You are now the head of the One True Church, the Catholic Church of Rome, and you are the embodiment of God on Earth. It doesn’t matter if you believe in God, or even if you have faith, because God believes in you. Just do your part, Your Holiness. God will do his, as long as you do yours.”

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

Sitting on his throne, waiting for the petitioners in full regalia, Pavel tried to avoid looking at his watch. Where were they? It seemed as though he had been here for hours, and still no one had come through the door of the Basilica. What, no one wanted to have his blessings? He snorted, suppressing a chuckle at the thought. At least they know he is a fraud.

A black robed priest, the purple sash across his stomach denoting him as one of the Papal aides made his way down to him. The monsignor knelt, and kissed Pavel’s ring as the not-quite-a-Pope extended his hand. “Your Holiness, there is a problem at the Gates.”

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

Making his way to the Vatican Gates, Pavel could see the crowds of people outside, yet the Gates were closed, and the Rim Worlder troops—his former troops—had their weapons drawn, naked bayonets gleaming in the early morning light. The pontiff frowned, and pushed forward, leaving his aides and Joachim behind. The heavy regalia he had left in St. Peter’s, along with the miter, but his robes of cloth-of-gold showed his identity. A captain at the gate turned to face him, and extended one hand, the other holding a service pistol pointed down towards the ground.

“You will halt!”

Pavel kept walking, until he stood two feet away from the captain. The man was new, recently assigned to the regiment. “What is the meaning of this?”

“We are preparing to disperse this gathering before it becomes a riot. Return to your apartments in the Vatican.”

Faith or not, belief or not, Pavel’s face grew hot. “Riot? These people are here to meet with me, Captain. Do you know who I am?”

“You are the Pope. And this gathering is illegal. Now leave or I will have you removed.”

“I am the Pope, Captain, the head of the Roman Catholic Church. I am also, however, Pavel Green, Colonel of the 10th Amaris Dragoons in the service of the Rim Worlds.”

“Yes, sir, you are, sir. But I have orders that any gathering not approved in advance is to be dispersed—by force if required.”

“Orders from whom, Captain?”

“Internal Security, sir.”

“IntSec,” Pavel whispered. So it has begun. “Captain, am I or am I not still the commanding officer of this Regiment?”

“You are, sir.”

“Very well, then; as your commanding officer I cancel those orders within the Vatican itself. Open those gates, and allow these people to enter Vatican City.”

The officer paused. “Sir, but I have my orders and . . . “

“Damn your orders. I am here, and I countermand those orders, Captain. Now you will obey me, or I will have you broken—literally. Open. The. Gates. I will not repeat myself, Captain.”

The Rim officer looked at the flinty eyes of the man Stefan Amaris had made into the Pontiff. He had his orders, but . . . the men who had given those orders were not here. And this man was. If he truly was favored by the Emperor—and who was to say he was not—then failing to obey him could mean worse than death—for his family as well.

He snapped to attention. “Sir!” Spinning around, he barked, “Safe those weapons! Stand down, everyone stand down, sheath your bayonets. Sergeant, open the gates and let these people in.”

Pavel stepped right up against the young Rimmer. “Very good, Captain. Now remember this, and make certain that the other shifts understand as well—if people come to these gates they are to be admitted to Vatican City. You are to harass no one, and if you do, soldier, then you had best pray to some other God for forgiveness and mercy. None will be forthcoming from me or the God that I serve. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Sir,” the officer gulped. The pontiff kept staring into his eyes, and then nodded and turned away. This is above my pay-grade, the captain thought. Well above my pay-grade.

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

After the excitement at the Gates, Pavel met with each and every one of the petitioners. He did not go back inside St. Peter’s and put on the heavy regalia. Instead, he decided just to walk through the crowd and talk to the people. Some asked him to bless them, some asked to pray with him, some just wanted to touch him, to see if he was real.

Finally, after several hours, he reached an elderly woman, long gone to gray and flab, her once lovely face creviced by age. She dropped down to her knees and bowed her head.

“Holy Father, please listen to my plea,” she said after kissing his ring.

“Speak, Grandmother.”

“My great-grandsons, Holy Father, they have been taken by the soldiers. They are only boys, Your Holiness, just little boys. Please, you were one of them; please give me back my babies!” She began to weep. Pavel felt something tug on his heart; the old woman moved him, a part of him he had though was long dead. Dead since Altenmark, at least. “Grandmother, this is Monsignor Philippe Leon, tell him all that you know, and I will make inquires into the matter for you.”

“Bless you, Holy Father, bless you! I just want my babies back—they haven’t done anything.”

As Pavel moved on to the next, he could not get the woman out of his mind. Tomorrow, he resolved, tomorrow, he would—himself—look into the matter.

[masterarminas]

Chapter Nine

January 21, 2767
Detention Camp 117, Outskirts of Rome
Europe, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)

Pavel suppressed the urge to gag as he moved through the compound. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of unwashed bodies surrounded him behind the strands of razor-wire lining both sides of the graveled walk running from the Camp Headquarters to the main gates ahead. He could hear one of his aides retching behind him as he walked; the sound made his own stomach lurch yet again.

The Rim soldiers at the gate snapped to attention as he approached, but did not salute. No, they kept their right hands fastened to the grip of the sub-machines they carried, ready to fire if the mass of humanity beyond rushed the wire. He stopped and nodded at the men—soldiers doing a job they detested, but doing it well—as they began to open the gates wrapped in the lethal coils of wire. When the gates had parted enough for him to pass, he forced himself forward once more, into the middle of the swarm of filthy and battered prisoners.

Major Fredrick Donato—the commander of the Camp—had been taken aback by his request to come here and see it for himself. The two had served together for many years in service to the Rim; they had drunk together and sweated together, had used their weapons and been fired at together. They were no longer young, but they were still soldiers, and had once been friends.

“Pavel,” Donato had said, “you don’t want to see this. I don’t want to see this. Stay in Rome, Pavel, and just forget what you have heard. Besides, we can’t change what is happening; all that we can do is to do our duty, and drown our memory in wine afterwards.”

Pavel Green might well have stayed and kept his nose out of what was not his concern. He would have needed a bottle that night, and the next, and the next, though, to try and push aside the screaming that would come from some dark abyss deep inside his soul.

Clement XXVII, however, could not just step aside and forget what he had heard. His nightmares were past the point where drink could lessen the burden. He had learned to live with them—and himself. If he now turned around and walked away, ignoring these people, he would betray himself yet again. Not again, he though, not again.

He walked into the compound, into the mass of people before him as the Gates of Hell closed behind him—and the first time in a long time, his soul was at peace.

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

”Here, take this,” the short and powerfully built Rim officer said, handing Pavel a glass. The amber liquid filled the bottom third. “It won’t make it go away, but it will help you forget.”

The whiskey was tempting, God was it tempting. But Pavel shook his head. “Thank you, but no, Fredrick.”

Outside the window from the Commandant’s Office on the second floor of the HQ building, the sun was slowing sinking towards the west. The flags hanging from the poles outside barely lifting; there had been no wind today. The stink of the camp hung all around like an invisible fog. Six hours he had spent inside the wire. Six hours speaking with the people detained there. Over three thousand people in total crammed onto an asphalt square four hundred meters across; no shelter, no showers, no toilets. Each day three thousand rations were dumped over the wire, and three thousand one-liter bottles of water. No attempt was made to distribute them or prevent thugs inside from getting more than their share; it was just another petty cruelty of the affair.

Confessions he had heard aplenty inside—but not of the crimes of which they had been accused. Many had asked him to give the last rites, for they feared dying without a priest to lay their sins redeemed before God. And the children, God Almighty have mercy upon those children.

“When will their trials be held, Fredrick?”

Donato sat behind his desk and rubbed his scalp. “What trials, Pavel? I received this message this morning from Imperial Headquarters—Internal Security Department.” He slid the message form across the desk.

The reluctant Pope took the message. It was short and to the point; IntSec—i.e. Gunthar von Strang—had determined that all those present were in fact agents of the Star League or the Terran Hegemony. No trial, no determination of the facts. The sentence was also there to read—death, death for all three thousand in this one camp. One camp out of God alone knows how many.

“When do you have to carry out this instruction, Fredrick?”

“The day after tomorrow; we have to wait until the engineers can dig the burial pits, otherwise this place will be a breeding ground for pestilence.”

Pavel nodded as he stood. “Thank you, for letting me in today.”

“Thank me? Pavel, have you lost your mind? My God, man, I am going to have nightmares over this the rest of my life, and you THANK ME for sharing it with you?”

“You have been a good friend, and you have shown me what I must see. Now, I too, must do my duty, to my new rank.”

Donato stood suddenly, a worried look on his face. “Don’t even try it, Pavel. He had the last Pope crucified. Just go back to Rome and don’t . . .”

Pavel sadly smiled at his friend. “I don’t intend to make the mistake of demanding that Emperor Stefan do something. But I have a duty in this matter, Fredrick. A duty I shall carry out.”

As Fredrick Donato, Major in the Imperial Amaris Army and Commandant of Detention Camp 117 shook his head in disbelief, Pavel turned and left his office. At the door, he paused, and said “Go with God, Fredrick, and if you have the need to talk, I will be at St. Peters when I return from His Imperial Majesty.”


January 22, 2767
Imperial Palace, Unity City
North America, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)

”His Majesty will see you now, Colonel Green,” the attractive young secretary said. Pavel stood and—thanking the young woman—walked to the door of the office. Two dangerous looking soldiers stood watch at the doors, but today he wore his other uniform; the uniform he had earned in Amaris’s service, the rank insignia of a full Colonel gleaming on his shoulders, his decorations adorning his chest. Stefan Amaris would not be impressed with robes and a miter, after all.

Passing through the door of what had once been one of the many Cameron family estates surrounding Unity City—one that Richard had given to his friend Stefan Amaris as a gift Christmas before last—he spotted the Emperor seated at his desk, speaking with Gunthar von Strang. Looking up, His Majesty saw him enter, and his face broke into a grin.

“Pavel! Please, come in. How are things in Rome?”

Pavel walked towards the desk and knelt on the carpet. “Your Majesty, the Church is well, as am I. Thank you for granting me this meeting, Sire.”

“Oh, stand up, Pavel. We can’t have the Pope bending his knee to me, after all.” Stefan chuckled at that. A confirmed atheist, Amaris believed in nothing that he could not touch and feel. Power, he often said, flows from guns, not from God. “What was so important that you flew across the Atlantic at two in morning and waited sixteen hours for an appointment, Pavel?”

Pavel drew in a breath to steady his nerves as he stood, placing his hands behind his back, his feet spread at shoulder width. “I have come to beg of his Imperial Majesty a boon.”

“I do like when my people beg of me,” Amaris said, chuckling again. He lifted one hand and pulled one side of his long mustache straight, “what is your request?”

“Sire, there is a Detention Camp outside of Rome, Camp 117. It had come to my attention that all those committed to this camp—and others in other camps—have been found guilty of crimes against the State, and have been sentenced to death. I have come to ask you to release some of them, your Majesty.”

Amaris sat back, his smile slowly dissolving. “If these people have been detained by Internal Security and sentenced to death, Colonel Green, then why should I grant them clemency?”

“I am certain, Sire, that many of those inside the camps are guilty of the crimes of which they are accused, and deserve to die for opposing your will,” Pavel said, wincing inside as he deliberately slandered the men and women of the death camp. “But many of those incarcerated there are children, Sire; young children. These children are there not through any crime of their own, but rather because their parents or relatives were sought after by IntSec. Boys and girls who are—if you spare them—still young enough to be taught to love and serve your Imperial Person.”

“Go on, Colonel.”

“Sire, your plans were brilliant and masterful. Terra is yours, the Hegemony is yours. All has transpired according to your will and your desire. But, this is not Apollo, my Lord. The people of this world are not accustomed to your righteous judgment, which they may deem as harsh and random. The instinct to protect children, Sire, that instinct is a great one. People who may cower because of your justice and unyielding strength of character, these people may act out of a desire to protect innocent children caught in the security sweeps. That poses a threat to you, Sire, one that I would humbly suggest we circumvent now, at the cost of none of your soldiers lives.”

von Strang shook his head, “If they rise up, then we will beat them down. It is the way of the world, your Majesty. Letting these children go will make you look weak.”

“Letting the children go, Sire, will make you look magnanimous and benevolent. These children have commit no acts of treason, they have not taken up arms against you; these children can be taught to love and cherish their Emperor and will grow to take up arms in your service.”

Gunthar began to reply, but the Emperor held up his hand. “Colonel Green, you think this action on my part can help weld the people of this planet to my cause?”

“It can not hurt, Sire.”

“Gunthar?”

“I would rather wipe out these children now, before they come of age and feel the need to pursue a vendetta. After all, your Majesty, in twenty years I might be an old, frail man—and having some youthful pup come up and say ‘I am Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, now you will die’ can rather ruin your day.”

At that, all three men laughed. None could imagine a weak and frail von Strang. The very idea was ludicrous.

Pavel stopped and shook his head. “This world doesn’t even remember vendetta, Sire. They are weak and soft; pacifists that must recruit soldiers from the outer worlds because Terrans won’t serve. You can change that, my Lord, and remake this world in your own image—but to do that, we need to get to the next generation NOW, and killing them off because of the sins of the father serves no purpose to your plans.”

“Gunthar, what Pavel says does make sense. After all, I am now their Father, am I not?”

“You are, my Master.”

“And I need to show this world that I can be gentle and loving, as well as stern. Yes, well done, Colonel Green for bringing this before me. Order those children in the camp released tonight, Gunthar.”

“It will be done, Sire.”

“Excuse me, your Majesty. Do you mean just the one camp, or all of them?” Pavel asked, his heart racing as he pushed the envelope.

“Pardon me, Colonel?”

“I mean no disrespect, Sire. The release of children from one camp alone will not have the impact upon the people of this world that the release of them from all of the camps will. I live to serve you, your Majesty, and only want to clarify the situation into what furthers your goals best.”

Stefan Amaris stared at Clement for several long seconds. “Very well, Pavel. Gunthar, release the children—anyone aged fourteen and under—from all of the camps.”

“By your command, my Lord.”

“Now, Pavel, are you staying long in Unity?”

“No, Sire. I must address the tasks to which you set me. If you would allow me to depart, then I intend to fly back to Rome immediately.”

“Such a hard-working young officer. Go, Colonel Green, and do MY work.”

Pavel bowed and backed out of the office, holding the bow in the direction of Amaris until he exited the office.

As the doors closed, Stefan Amaris turned to Gunthar von Strang. “He may become a problem, Gunthar. Have him watched, closely. Watched only, mind you. If he is still loyal, then he is an asset—one I don’t intend to lose to some unthinking agent of yours.”

“But of course, my Lord.”

[masterarminas]

Chapter Ten

April 1, 2767
Cascades Wilderness
North America, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)

Spring had come to the Pacific Northwest. The winds were no longer as bitter, the snow melt ran in flows of crystal clear glacial water, new green leaves and shoots and sprouts adorned the vegetation. Animals emerged from their winter burrows, seeking food and enjoying the warmth of the waxing sun. Overhead, the skies had shed their grey cloak, and now the brilliant blue adorned with puffs of white fluffy clouds crowned the sky. A beautiful day, Liz thought to herself as she lay on her belly in the deep grass overlooking the highway below.

Her Ghillie suit—camo fatigues covered with vegetation and mesh weaves, designed to make her nearly invisible—was hot, but that was a small price. The insects buzzing about her eyes were an annoyance; but that too was acceptable in return for her purpose today. From the south, she could here the whine of a vehicle moving along the road. As it rounded the last bend and came into view, she smiled—their recon had paid off, for the Rim Worlders had grown complacent. For eight days, this patrol had passed by this spot at this time, the squad of soldiers in the back of the truck looking bored and not very observant.

The earpiece she wore clicked twice, and she pressed her own thumb on her transmit button twice in reply. Daniel was in position. The truck below approached closer and closer, and one finger absently lifted the safety catch over the remote detonator. The truck rumbled on, and neither the driver nor the soldier riding shotgun noticed the white blaze her knife had scrapped on a lanky pine as they rolled past. Her finger stabbed down, and twenty kilos of high explosive detonated beneath the bed of the truck.

The explosion flipped the vehicle over and black smoke roared into the sky. Liz adjusted her rifle slightly as the first man stumbled from the wreck. The weapon barked as she fired two rounds into the man’s neck, nearly severing his head from his body. Kobrowski opened fire as well; his staccato pattern of shots dropping one soldier with every burst. In moments, it was over; the only movement below was in the flames and smoke. Liz let her breath out slowly, and began backing away upslope, heading for the rendezvous point with Kobrowski.

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

Forty minutes later, she and Daniel Kobrowski were hunkered down on the same road, but closer to civilization. The response team should be along any minute now, she thought as she stroked the cool metal of the missile launcher.

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

Idiots, the officer thought as he bounced in the seat of the big six-wheeled all-terrain vehicle. How many times had he told the men to watch the roads and keep their speed down? How many? Now, his patrol squad’s emergency transponder had gone off—the vehicle was wrecked. None of the patrol squad was answering his calls on the radio, so the accident must have been bad. If the cretins were lucky, then they would be dead—for he was a man who tolerated no drunkenness in his unit, not on duty, at least. If the driver had been drunk—or stoned—then he would pay the price, if he had not already done so.

Ahead of him he could see the plume of smoke, about another mile down the road. He shook his head, and then turned to glare at his driver. “Watch that turn, Corporal. You send US off this road and I will have you sent to South-Am to fight those damn guerillas in the jungle.”

Because he was looking at the driver, he saw the man’s eyes grow wide and his face turn white. Jerking his head back around, the Rim Worlder just managed to catch the woman rising from behind that stack of boulders; the woman with a missile launcher on her shoulder. He drew in his breath to scream, but the missile was faster than his fright.

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

Liz stood from her hide and sighted the launcher on the lead vehicle. At this range, she couldn’t miss. She squeezed the trigger. The heavy fifteen kilo rocket leapt forward in a blaze of fire and smoke, hitting the vehicle square on the front radiator, just below the plexi panes of the cab. The warhead detonated on impact, sending streams of the inferno gel burning white hot into the air and covering the vehicle. The gel burned hot enough to melt the light armor and poured into the troop compartment in the rear. Screams erupted into the bright day as the jellied liquid clung to the skin, weapons, and armor of the men in the compartment, melting bone and flesh, until the heat detonated the fuel tanks in a massive explosion.

The other three vehicles behind skidded to a halt, and then a SECOND missile slammed into the open bed of the canvas sided truck at the rear, setting that vehicle and the men inside ablaze. Burning men jumped from the vehicle, unable to see, unable to breath; their deaths were quick, but not painless. Setting down the empty launcher, Liz lifted her rifle to her shoulder and began firing into the second vehicle, the heavy slugs ripping canvas and flesh. Men poured from the two remaining trucks, returning fire at her as the flames and smoke filled the air.

Then Daniel pressed the clacker from his position behind the convoy. The electrical current flowed from his hand-unit along three hundred meters of wire to the thirty Claymore mines emplaced in the brush to the sides of the road. Thirty explosions erupted simultaneously and thousands of polymer-ceramic flechettes crisscrossed through the trucks and men like a vast swarm of angry wasps. When the rolling thunder of the explosions faded, there were no more gunshots, no more screams; just a few dying whimpers among the mangled steel, rubber, and canvas of the trucks.

Liz walked out among her work. The carnage and gore twisted her stomach. From the two burning vehicles the smell of flesh cooking wafted out on the breeze. Ruptured intestines had spilled their contents across the roadway, adding to the release of bladders and sphincters in the throes of death. The razor-sharp flechettes had ripped and chewed their way through flesh and metal and poly composite, filling the air itself with a fine pink mist. A high-pitched moan came from one carcass on the ground. A man—young or old, she couldn’t tell. His right arm and leg had been literally torn away by the claymores, a stream of the inferno gel had melted the left side of his face; his uniform still smoldered and smoked. His one good eye tracked her, but he couldn’t speak for his jaw was shattered and his tongue shredded. Liz lifted her rifle and fired once into the man’s head, ending his misery. She moved among the dead and the dying, and a dozen more sharp cracks gave mercy to the suffering.

[masterarminas]

Chapter Eleven

April 1, 2767
Cascades Wilderness
North America, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)

Daniel Kobrowski, Regimental Sergeant Major of the Royal Black Watch, Star League Defense Forces (retired), tried hard to catch his breath as he followed Liz up the steep wooded slope. In thirty minutes, they had managed to put three miles between themselves and the dual ambushes, three miles as the crow—or VTOL—flies, at least. The broken terrain had nearly doubled that distance for their legs and lungs. Already, Rim Worlds choppers were buzzing around like a swarm of angry hornets whose nest had been disturbed. That was precisely the reason he had suggested this location for the ambush—the tree-tops kept the airmobile gun-bunnies from spotting them easily. Even thermo-imaging sensors had a difficult time penetrating the thick canopy, and couldn’t tell the difference between a man and a large animal when they did.

The Captain had done good, he thought. Better than he thought a ‘Mech-jock could do in this type of warfare, though she had lost her lunch right after the ambush. It was the burnt flesh and bone—amazing how human flesh smells like pork. Daniel had smelled it before—many times before—but to this very day, his stomach twisted each time. She never had, and it showed. Still, she had mostly kept her composure, and hadn’t forgotten that they had to move fast—at least if they wanted to stay out of the hands of the occupiers. He paused for moment to rub his aching chest and fill his lungs with air. No, she was no ordinary ‘Mech-jock, she was . . .

The pain hit him like a sledge-hammer from deep inside his chest, and the world spun as he hit the ground.

Liz reached the top of the ridge and stopped, leaning against the tall pine to renew her wind. The vision of the Hell they had just left still played across her thoughts as she paused, and her stomach lurched again. Not next time, she swore. Next time, I won’t be weak; next time, I will show no mercy to those scum. She turned just in time to see Daniel clutch his chest and fall.

She flew down the slope like a gazelle, dodging the rugged pines, the thick vines threatening to trip her with every step and send her plunging down the hill. Thorns tore at her skin as she ignored their pricks and she slid to a stop next to the old man on her knees, sending fallen leaves and underbrush flowing away from her.

“Sergeant-Major, Daniel, talk to me, dammit, Kobrowski, TALK TO ME!”

Daniel groaned and his eyes fluttered open. The skin of his face was bone-white, clammy and cold to the touch. “Capt’n,” he whispered, his words slurred and half-mumbled.

“God damn it, Daniel, don’t scare me like that—where are you hit?”

“Not shot, Capt’n. My . . . my heart.”

Liz looked down at him, her eyes growing wide in dawning horror. She tore the ruck she wore from her back and began rummaging for the med-kit. Opening a pack of aspirin, she placed two under his tongue, and a slight bit of color came back as they dissolved into his blood, and eased the crushing pain. He looked up at her, his face calm, but sad.

“Don’t worry none, Capt’n, Lizabeth. It don’t have my meds.”

Liz cradled the old non-com’s head in her lap, her eyes filling with water. “I’ll get you back to the cache, Dan, just you hold on, please hold on.”

“It’s my time, Capt’n. Ran out of my heart meds a month ago. We don’t have any . . . any more. You need to go along, now lass. Go along now, before they come.”

“I won’t leave you, Dan, I won’t. Don’t you die on me, you damned old fool. Why didn’t you tell me you needed medicine?”

“Cause you would have gotten yourself killed, Capt’n. It’s my time, girl. I’ve seen ninety springs in my time, and it’s time to pass on.”

Liz began crying—not Daniel, not after everything else. Not after Tim, and the First Lord, and the Regiment.

“My time, Capt’n, not yours. Just do one last thing for me, girl.”

“What’s that, Dan?”

The old non-com looked her square in the eyes, and though his voice was weak, the will behind it was not. “Remember your oath, girl. You are the last. The last of the Regiment. Our honor . . . is . . . now your honor. Swear it to me, girl. NOW.”

Liz stroked his sweat-lined face, tears washing down her cheeks. “I swear it, Sergeant-Major Kobrowski. I will keep the honor of the Regiment, until the day I die.”

“May it be a long time yet, girl, may it be . . .” his voice trailed off and his body went limp in her arms.

For a long time—how long she would never know—she held the body of her teacher in her arms and cried, the tears washing away the last of her weakness. She held his cold lifeless body until she heard the thump of the chopper blades in the distance, then the last of the First Lord’s Own stood and left him behind—forever.

[masterarminas]

Chapter Twelve

April 1, 2767
Planetary Surveillance Command HQ, Fort Lewis
North America, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)

Some days it just did not pay to get out of bed, Zack thought as he shook his head. It’s already been one hell of an April Fool’s Day, here in the central headquarters of Surveillance Command. Located in the middle of Fort Lewis—a former SLDF base south of Seattle and east of Unity City—Surveillance Command operated the scores of surveillance satellites that continually orbited Terra and analyzed their feeds. It had served the same purpose when the SLDF ran the facility, though with much less urgency. The SLDF however, had not used the powerful imaging systems to monitor the civilian population. Amaris, never one to pass up any opportunity, had quickly adapted the system to systematically keep watch over the conquered planet.

When the news arrived of the attack on one of His Imperial Majesty’s patrols, Major Saul Weiling had retasked the satellites—now the downloads of their imaging systems were showing the burning vehicles on a dozen wall-mounted screens in crystal clear, living color, from a dozen different angles. But none of them were showing any of the attackers. The satellites had been moved too late to catch the actual attack, or even to offer a clue as to which direction they had fled. Or had they?

Zack entered a string of commands into his control terminal, which considered the query, and then spat out a dozen rows of emerald green code on his screen. One section of the code flashed on and off, telling Zack that particular sat had been the only one covering the area in its footprint during the attack. The rim world technical officer rolled his chair across an aisle to another bank of computer terminals, and punched in his access pass-codes. As the terminal came to life, he began organizing a data search for all video images captured by that sat from the moment the ambush site came over the horizon. The sat had not been focused on the area—naturally, why should they monitor empty woods—but instead on the cities of Tacoma, Olympia, Seattle, Vancouver, and Unity City.

But the surveillance sats had more than one camera each. And from an altitude of four hundred miles, the footprint was enormous. His fingers clicked on the keys and just an instant later, the terminal gave him his answer.

“Sir, I believe that we do have some footage from Sigma Two-Seven during the initial and secondary ambush.”

Major Weiling walked across the room. “Talk to me, Chief Hancock.”

“Sir, none of our systems were tasked with that exact area during the assault, but Sigma Two-Seven had a tertiary camera being recalibrated. That camera, sir, was focused on the dam above Crystal Lake. However, the incident occurred in its field of coverage.”

“Bring it up on the main screen, Chief.”

“The clarity is bad, sir, and the focus is off, but here it is in real-time.”

On the main twelve foot screen, the view shifted to the recording of Sigma Two-Seven’s tertiary system, the weakest of the three the satellite mounted. The dam formed in the center of the screen.

“The angle is not the best, sir, but I believe with a little computer help, we can zoom in on this section, here.”

The image on the screen zoomed in, and terrain flew as the computers processed and re-processed the images, finally settling down on the road where a lone truck drove. The angle was bad, and trees and ridges blocked the view in many spots; the footage was grainy and even with the massive computer support just could not be cleaned any further. Unlike the razor-sharp images produced by the primary and secondary cameras, the tertiary just did not have enough imaging power to resolve the individuals in the truck to point where they could be recognized. But it did have enough power to let the team in the control center see what occurred.

The bomb explosion in the roadway was clear enough, flipping the truck on its side. As was the rifle fire from two separate locations. When it became clear there was no more activity, Zack shifted forward in time and space to the second ambush site. Once again, the officers and crew watched the relief column as it died. At the end, they could see the two figures walking amongst the wounded, killing them where they lay.

“Bastards,” whispered someone in the darkened room.

Major Weiling leaned over Zack’s shoulder. “Where did they go afterwards, Chief? Did the camera catch that?”

“Yes, sir. The left the second site at 1327, on a head of 253 true—nothing out that way but forest, hills, and mountains, sir.”

“Excellent job, Senior Chief; that is some outstanding work.”

“That’s just Chief, sir.”

“Not anymore, Senior Chief,” the Rim officer answered as he picked up one of the twenty telephones scattered across the room. “TacOps, Weiling in Surveillance. Hostiles exited target area on a bearing of 253 true 27 minutes ago. We count two, repeat two.” He paused. “Yes, sir, confidence is high. Yes, sir.”

Hanging up the phone, Weiling patted Zack on the shoulder once more. “Bring up the real time on all sats in the footprint, people. Senior Chief Hancock, find me those terrorists.”

[masterarminas]

Chapter Thirteen

April 1, 2767
Cascades Wilderness
North America, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)

The salvo of rockets from the chopper tore trees from their roots, sending flaming shrapnel hurtling across the ridgeline, as the warheads blasted open a clearing in the old growth forest. From either side of the helo, the door gunners behind their massive multi-barreled machine-cannons fired long bursts into the surrounding woods. The tracer rounds giving each burst the appearance of solid beams of light and fire ripping into the dense vegetation. As the gunners ceased fire, the chopper slowed to a hover, the rotors scattering the smoke. Four lines were thrown over the side, and a dozen soldiers—Rim soldiers—rappelled downwards.

The first chopper moved off and a second took its place, dropping still more men. And then a third, and a fourth. Twelve helos in all dropped their men into the deep woods. And as the choppers moved off, returning to their base to refuel and rearm, the Rim company formed a long skirmish line, advancing into the wilderness in pursuit of their foe.


April 1, 2767
Planetary Surveillance Command HQ, Fort Lewis
North America, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)

“Major, I’ve got something you should see, sir,” Zack spoke up from his terminal.

Saul Weiling walked across the control room and peered at the small screen. It showed a picture of the wilderness, captured from one of the sats. “What am I looking at, Senior Chief?”

On the screen, a small red box captured a section of the image. It blinked twice and rapidly grew to file the entire screen. Once again the red box reached out and another section blinked and enlarged. “Right here, sir, five minutes ago by the time-stamp.”

On the screen, Weiling could just make out a moving shadow, along the banks of a small stream, heading up the steep ravine. “I can’t make it out; you think that’s our guy?”

Zack shook his head, “You are looking at it wrong, sir. Excuse me. But you are focusing on the shadow—whoever that is there, he’s good. But not good enough, sir. Look at the pool of water right here, sir.”

Zack moved his mouse, and the red box captured a small, still pool formed by the stream. It jumped up in magnification, and there it was. Captured in the reflection of the water, was the image of a person, a person carrying what appeared to be a rifle. The image was too grainy to resolve the man’s—the terrorist’s—face, but this entire area had been off-limits to civilians since the Occupation began.

“Senior Chief, I will be damned if I know how the hell you do this, but you keep right on doing it.” Saul Weiling shook his head. “Zoom out and show me where the target went.”

“Already checked, sir. He entered the ravine and doesn’t exit. None of our sats are at the right angle to give us a look down, but I pulled up the Geological Survey charts of that area, and there are a number of caverns located in the ravine. Sir, I may have exceeded my authority, but I already pulled three sats to keep their eyes on the ravine, so we will know if the target exits the area.”

Major Weiling’s face broke into a smile. “You go right ahead, and keep doing your magic with this imaging take. I may well owe you a case of what ever you drink before this day is over, Senior Chief.”

“I don’t drink, sir.”

“In that case, I’ll buy you what ever the hell you like. Well done, Senior Chief. Well done.”

Saul picked up the phone on Zack’s terminal. “This is Weiling, get me TacOps.”


April 1, 2767
Black Watch Cache 11-Bravo, Mount Rainier
North America, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)

What do I do now, Liz thought, as she cleaned the mud and blood from her boots. Her rifle had already been cleaned and stored in its rack, and now she attacked the dirt and grime she wore with the same ferocity she had the Rimmers. The cache seemed so empty, like a cage. Letting out her breath in a deep sigh, she walked over to the map on the wall, her finger tracing a line. Unity City. If she could get there, then one shot would be all that she would need to repay Amaris for all his crimes. One shot. She wouldn’t survive, of course, but did that matter anymore?

But, Unity was sealed off. No traffic in or out—civilian traffic at least. No, at the moment, she would have to settle for a less ambitious plan. Olympia, perhaps. That had possibilities. Before the Coup, she had known a few soldiers from Olympia. Including Phil Sheridan. She grimaced. Phil was long dead, she was sure. But, he had introduced her to some of his friends once. Good guys. Guys that might help her form a guerilla team.

Liz’s jaw dropped as a buzzing alarm sounded from the computer terminal. She rushed over to the monitor and hit the feed. Infantry, RIM INFANTRY, had entered the cavern, and her hidden sensors had detected them. How the HELL had they tracked her here?

Dropping the brush caked with mud, she activated all of the sensors. Over a hundred troops in the ravine as well. Frak me, she thought. At least Dan showed me the alternate exit from this cache. She thrust her arms into a heavy jacket and lifted a fully-loaded rifle from the rack. Grabbing a ruck—prepacked and good to go—from another hook on the wall, she opened the rear access and entered the tunnel. As the door closed behind her, she punched a long code into the security console. CONFIRM Y/N, the screen flashed. Liz pressed yes, and a countdown timer appeared in scarlet letters 10:00, flashed once, and began to count down, 9:59, 9:58, 9:57.

Ok, you stupid bitch, she thought, time to move. You don’t want to be here when it hits zero.


April 1, 2767
Planetary Surveillance Command HQ, Fort Lewis
North America, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)

“You did an excellent job, Major Weiling.”

“Thank you, General Kraal, but it was my people that did the work. Especially Senior Chief Hancock here.”

Zack tried to stand even straighter as the General looked him over. “You are the man who moved the sats on your own authority?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Not often we line troops see tech-geeks take some initiative, son. Good work.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now, Major, when should we . . .”

The screen erupted in a massive explosion, though—of course—there was no sound.

Zack leaned down and rapidly typed at his terminal. The screen blinked its answer to his query. “Massive detonation in the target area, spectrographic analysis reads traces of Composition-27 thermo-baric explosives,” he barked out. “Pattern and scale of detonation indicate at least one metric ton just touched off—inside the caverns.”

Billowing clouds of smoke and pulverized rock still spewed from the ravine.

The General shook his head. “My god, how many of our men were inside?”

“A full company, sir. They had just found a security door set back in the caverns and were preparing to enter an underground complex.”

Saul Weiling closed his mouth and swallowed. “The terrorists must have had a booby trap, sir. Our people weren’t carrying anywhere near that amount of explosives.”

“Can anyone have gotten out?”

“No, sir,” said Zack. “Not unless they had a sealed blast door between them and the explosion. Just the concussion alone would have generated an overpressure wave of nearly 10,000 PSI in the confined spaces of the caverns. Not to mention the heat and oxygen depletion.”

“Have TacOps send in med evac flights, Major. Maybe some of our people survived.”

“Yes, sir, General sir.”