The Cameron Legacy: The Fall of the Star League

[masterarminas]

Chapter Fourteen

April 3, 2767
Planetary Surveillance Command HQ, Fort Lewis
North America, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)

“Come!” snarled Saul Weiling from his desk at the knock on his door. He looked up from the reams of paperwork he was still working through since the events of two days before. The door opened, and Zach Hancock came in, closed the door behind him, and stood to attention. Saul’s expression softened slightly. Zach was a good kid—an outstanding technical warrant, with an eye for detail that was damn near scary. He had made Chief Technical Officer at the age of 23, and—as of two days ago—was the youngest Senior Chief in the entire Rim Worlds military.

“What’s on your mind, Senior Chief?”

“Sir, I,” he began, stammering, “I think that I fracked up, Sir.”

Saul sat back and frowned. “How so?”

“I have been reviewing the tapes, Sir. There should have been remains inside that base, but we haven’t found any. So I went back—on my own time, Sir—over the tapes last night. I think I found something I missed the first time, and our terrorist, well, Sir, I think he got away.”

Saul nodded slowly and waved his hand for Zach to continue. Zach placed a map on the Major’s desk, marked with the hidden base and all of the passages they had so far discovered. “It was the venting, Sir. We all saw the venting from the explosion from these air shafts, here, here, and here.” His hand pointed at three spots and Saul nodded again; he had seen the smoke and dust explode from those locations himself on the tapes.

“But, Sir, there should have been venting from this cavern entrance over here,” and his hand moved to the edge of the map, where a single tunnel ruler straight—except for a single dog-leg—for almost a kilometer and a half, exiting behind a waterfall. “The gases venting should have sprayed that water like a fire-hose, sir, and they didn’t.”

“And that means?”

“I contacted the troops searching the complex, last night, Sir, and spoke with the Corporal who led the team down that tunnel. When they entered the complex, they found an intact blast door—badly damaged, but intact. They never thought to report it, since we already knew this was a man-made facility. I think our terrorist escaped through this tunnel, Sir.”

Saul set his elbows on the desk and stared at the map, resting his chin on his hands. He looked up at Zach. “Have you told this to anyone else?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Senior Chief, two days ago we told General Kraal that we got the terrorist that attacked his patrol. Yesterday he told that to the Emperor. Understand me on this, Senior Chief, we GOT the terrorists in this base.”

“I don’t think we did, Sir.”

“Damn it hell, Hancock, do you want to be sent up to Int-Sec on charges of treason?”

“Treason, sir?”

“That’s what they will charge you with, Senior Chief, because they will think you lied to them. So listen to me, and listen good. We got those terrorists. We killed them. Because YOU led us straight to them. Now, there might be OTHERS out there, but they are not part of THIS group, right, Senior Chief?”

Zach, his face drawn and pale, nodded, his mouth slightly agape. “Good. Is any of this on the main computer system?”

“No sir, I did the study on my personal machine, and downloaded it to a disk for you.”

“Let me have the disk, Senior Chief—and make certain nothing remains on your machine. Understand?”

Zach nodded. “Dismissed, Senior Chief.”

Saul vaguely returned Hancock’s salute as the young man hurriedly left his office; then he sat back down and looked at the map and the data disk on his desk. He calmly folded up the map and picked up the disk, considering how best to do this. Then he placed both of the items in a heavy leather bag and sealed the top. He pressed a button on his intercom.

“Yes, sir?” a rather pretty feminine voice came from the speaker.

“Helen, I’ve got some paperwork to dispose of. Can you take the burn-bag to the incinerator and see that it gets taken care of, while I finish up these reports for His Majesty?”

“Of course, Sir. Now?”

“Whenever you are heading in that direction, Helen.”

Saul cut the intercom and bent his head back to the papers filling his desk.

[masterarminas]

Chapter Fifteen

April 7, 2767
St. Peters Basilica, Vatican City
Europe, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)

“Colonel Myers, I understand your concerns over the recent terrorist actions against His Majesty’s troops. Please extend my condolences to the families of those you have lost. What I do not understand, sir, is what—exactly—you wish the Holy See to do in this matter.”

“Colonel Green, your priests take confessions, do they not?”

“They do.”

“Then it should be obvious, sir, I want you to tell me of any terrorists who have offered confession to your priests.”

Pavel leaned back in his chair—a modern reclining office chair, not the hard, uncomfortable, wood-and-stone monstrosity he was normally required to seat himself in. He played with a writing pen in one hand, while the other stroked the fine leather of the chair arm.

“I would like to help you, Colonel, I really would. Terrorism is an abomination before God. Any man or woman that would kill innocent people to make a political statement is outside the Will of God, as well as the law. But what you ask is beyond my power.”

“You are the Pope, sir. Order them to comply.”

“Are you that stupid, Colonel? If I issue such an order, it will be ignored. Or they will tell me that no one confessed to such an action. Confession is a sacred duty in the church, Myers. All priests take oaths to keep such a sacrament confidential.”

“I can have the confessionals bugged if you can’t control your own people.”

“All of them? In every church across Europe? Colonel, you don’t have enough signals intelligence personnel to monitor even a single percent of the confessions given to my priests on a daily basis. And if you did decide to waste resources on this, you don’t think the terrorists and criminals would simply avoid the confessional booths?”

“If you refuse my orders, Colonel Green, then you refuse the Emperor himself.”

Pavel snapped his chair upright, placed his hands upon the desk and stood, leaning forward over his guest. “I will explain my actions to the Emperor, Colonel, if he so desires it. Not to a lap-dog of Gunthar von Strang. And you will watch your tone with me or I will have you brought up on charges of insubordination. Do you understand me, sir?”

Liam Myers stood as well, and shouted across the desk at Pavel. “I have all the authority I need, Colonel Green—from Internal Security—to remove you here and now.”

“Then do it! If you think you can walk in here and remove the man hand-picked by His Imperial Majesty to run the single largest church on this planet, the man he selected to bring the people who believe in the crap this place spews over to his side, then you fracking well do it, Myers!”

Pavel reached out with lightning speed and pulled the other officers sidearm out, worked the slide, chambering a round, and slipped the safety of the weapon off. He grabbed Myers arm and slammed the lethal weapon into his hand and jerked the arm up to his own chest.

“Go ahead, lap-dog. Take the shot. I die serving my Emperor if you do. You, on the other hand, will have to explain to his Imperial Majesty why you took it upon yourself to contradict his will in this matter. He will make you beg for death long before your time comes to an end. So do it, Colonel, and be damned in the doing!”

For a moment, Pavel thought Liam Myers was going to squeeze the trigger, then his face fell, and he lowered the hammer. The pontiff released the arm of the Int-Sec officer and sat back behind his desk.

“Tell your boss, Colonel, that I will do everything I can to insure that we stop this terrorism, but I will do it in my own way, a way that will not create more terrorists by trampling upon three millennia of traditions of the Church. And tell him, Liam, tell Gunthar that if he has something to say to me, he had best come here himself instead of sending a lackey. Now, is there anything else the Holy Church can do for you today, my son?”

Liam Myers holstered his weapon and shook his head. “You play a dangerous game, Colonel Green. This will be noted at the highest levels of the Empire.”

“I live to serve, Colonel Myers. If you have nothing further, then I must return to the tasks the Emperor himself has assigned me.”

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

After Myers left his office, an elegantly carved panel on the wood-lined wall opened silently, and an elderly black man stepped into the office. In one hand he held a security scanner, which he traversed across the office. The four rows of lights on the upper surface all stayed green. He nodded to Pavel and shut down the device.

“He was right, Your Holiness, you are playing with fire here.”

“Shut up, Joachim,” Pavel said, but smiled as he did so.

The Jesuit scowled at Pavel. “‘Terrorism is an abomination before God. Any man or woman that would kill innocent people to make a political statement is outside the Will of God, as well as the law.’ Did you think he realized you were referring to him, von Strang, and Amaris?”

“I hope not, Joachim, else we are all dead men. And speaking of dead men . . .”

“We have gotten the bombers and their families out of Italy, Your Holiness. The Patriarch of Constantinople received them today, and they have been supplied with new documents, showing them as residents of Istanbul for past decade.”

“Good.” Pavel stood and looked out his window at the square below. “Make certain they repent for their actions, Joachim. Justified or not, they killed Terrans in that bombing as well as Amaris’s men.”

“War, Your Holiness, is not always unjust—or unjustifiable. It is, however, always dirty, cold, and cruel. Their actions were not the best thought out course, but . . . “

“But how far can they be pushed before this begins in force? I agree. Do you have the text of the quarterly sermon to the Bishops and Cardinals on the outer worlds?”

“Yes. And the messages you composed have been placed by cipher within the text. The Cardinals should recognize by the title that a coded message lies within, and they will pass your information along to General Kerensky. If I may ask, Your Holiness, what made you decide to do this?”

“I . . . I don’t know, Joachim,” Pavel lied as his mind pictured again the old woman in the square, reuniting with her grandchildren even as she learned of the murder of their parents at the hands of his lord and majesty. “I don’t know.”

[masterarminas]

WARNING: THE FOLLOWING SECTION CONTAINS DEPICTION OF VIOLENCE THAT SOME MAY FIND DISTURBING. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

[masterarminas]

Chapter Sixteen

November 1, 2742
Altenberg
The Narrows, Altenmark
Lyran Commonwealth

It began as it always did, with the peaceful, misty night. He stood outside in the cool, fresh air, enjoying one of the last of the autumn nights, before winter laid its blanket across the rich, dark land. From the cliffs two miles distant he could hear the crash of the waves, as the wind and tides combined to slam the sea against the land, the dim thundering boom echoing through the still of the night. For a farming community such as this, only a handful stayed awake to enjoy the night—but tomorrow was Sunday, and mass would replace the fields for all but a few. It was the last moment of peace he would ever know.

From the mist came a new thundering, and lights, and shouts. The raiders—some in their dilapidated ‘Mechs, some afoot, some riding vehicles, all armed. They entered the small town of Altenberg, shooting into the air, yelling, dragging men and women and children out into the night from their simple homes. He watched the scene again, as he had so many nights before. He felt the rough hands on his arms as he was hauled in the square with the rest of the townsfolk. He could smell the liquor on the breath of the men and women who wore no uniform, flew no flag, respected no law but that of the gun and the ‘Mech.

And the screams began anew, this night. The screams of the women and the girls, as the raiders—the thugs, the pirates—culled them from the townsfolk and began to slake their pleasure. The screams of more than one boy as his youthful looks caught the eye of those yet more jaded. He had never believed—really believed—in evil. Not deep inside. Not until that night.

It went on for hours, for minutes, for seconds as he dreamed of what he had seen. Until—like every night before—it came time to play his role once more. The leader of the brigands, angered at the little plunder took notice of him, of the collar he wore, and the cross. The beating was fierce, but it never lasted long in his thoughts anymore. Neither did the knife which carved the scars across his chest, nor the burn of the chain as they ripped the cross from his neck. No, what lingered was what had happened next.

“You believe in a God, priest,” the pirate leader had said, after beating him for wearing the collar. “There is no God, and I will prove it to you.”

The brigands laughed, and brought two women—girls, really, Bridgette who had just turned 14, and Gail, who had been married three days ago—before him. Bruises covered their flesh, blood trailed from their noses, their ears, from between their legs. Their clothes had been cut from their bodies, and the bruises were painfully evident to all.

“Priest, you will take these bitches just like we did,” he said with an angry grin. “You will rape them, and you will beat them, and you will do it before all who watch.”

The bandits—the villains laughed. “You don’t believe me, do you? Your God is kind and just and won’t let this happen, will he? WILL HE?”

Their leader turned to the beaten and shamed townsfolk and tore a suckling babe from breast of his mother. Two more of the criminals held the screaming woman down as the cruel leader dangled the child by his foot, and then slammed his soft head into the cornerstone of the Church, crushing it like an eggshell.

“You see, priest, I have all night. And you have two hundred people that will die before you and the girls do. Come on, you are a man after all, aren’t you?” the chief said as he grabbed the priest’s crotch, and rubbed him, causing him to stir. Shamed and shaking with fear and rage, the priest shook his head. No. NO.

The priest did not give in until seven children had died. As the leader reached for the eighth, the priest shouted for him to stop and moved to stand over the girls. The bandits laughed, and one pressed a drug injector against his arm. With a hiss the chemicals entered his body and he felt heat run through him, his heart raced wildly, and a spike of lust shuddered throughout his body. Out of mind with the horror, filled with the drug cocktail, he knelt and began to rape and beat Bridgette until she could move no longer. It was easier with Gail, after that.

And then the bandits left. They left after they killed everyone but him and Bridgette and Gail, and the leader looked at Pavel Green and asked, “Where is your God, now, Priest? Where is your God?” And he laughed.

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

April 8, 2767
St. Peters Basilica, Vatican City
Europe, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)

Pavel snapped from his sleep as the nightmare came to its conclusion. His sweat covered his body and he shook. He sat on the bed, his arms wrapped around his knees and he rocked back and forth as he—the Pope of Rome—waited on the dawn to arrive.

[masterarminas]

Chapter Seventeen

April 9, 2767
Olympia
North America, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)

The once thriving city had died on the vine. A major city in its own right for much of the history of this world, it had become small and quaint since Unity City had been built solely for the purpose of being the capital city of the Star League. But since the Occupation began, Olympia had shrunk even further; the very air seemed to be depressed as the few citizens left shuffled about their business amid the crowds of the invaders.

Olympia had become the headquarters of the Rim Worlds I Corps—twenty-seven regiments of ‘Mechs and infantry and armor that garrisoned the Pacific North-west; a number which did not include the three regiments guarding the person of Stefan Amaris in Unity. Liz kept her head down, and her bulky coat close, looking as anonymous as possible as she made her way across the city. Luckily, she had not been forced to walk the entire way here—a truck driver had picked her up on the highway between Mount Rainier and Olympia. She had been soaked to the bone, and the warmth of the cab had been a blessing. The driver—he had not given his name, nor had she—had not asked any questions; he drove her to the fueling station and diner just outside the city, outside the checkpoints.

She had been forced to abandon her rifle during the escape. There simply had not been a way to carry that obvious a weapon into the city. Money she had in abundance, however. Though the Star League Treasury had been unaware of the fact, every Black Watch cache contained a printing press identical to those in the Mints. Having ‘acquired’ a few samples of the bills Amaris had used to replace the Star League dollar in circulation, she and Daniel had run off their own supply—right off the very same types of machines he used to print the money for everyone else. The bills were technically counterfeit, but were—in fact—identical to the currency in circulation.

That money had bought her a new identity from a man the prostitutes at the fueling station had pointed her towards. A new identity she had already tested twice before she passed through the checkpoints earlier today. So far, so good, Liz, she thought as she approached the line of rowhouses. She paused just before the steps; please let him still live here. Then taking a deep breath, she climbed the stone risers and pressed the buzzer, once, then twice, then three times.

From inside, she could hear steps on the wooden floors approaching the door. It opened, and the man looked at her, his eyes growing wide.

“Hello, Reuben. It’s been a long time.”

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

It took an hour, but she told him her story, and why she was here. As he sat on the sofa, across from her on the recliner, he took another swig of beer and nodded his head.

“Liz . . . “

“Sarah, Reuben. Remember, my name is Sarah Copland now.”

“All right, Sarah. Yeah, Phil was one of my best friends, and yeah, I’m mad as hell at what has happened. But I’m not a soldier, none of my friends are—none that are still alive. We don’t even have any guns.”

“Leave that to me, Reuben. What I need are people willing and able to take the fight to the Rimmers. About, thirty I would say. People who wanted to learn and want to hit back against the Occupation forces.”

“That won’t be a problem, ‘Sarah’. There are a lot of angry people here, just give me a day or two and I’ll set you up with them.”

“Make it clear that we will be fighting the Rimmers, not our own. Not unless they have completely gone over to Amaris. I am going to build a guerilla unit, not a terror cell.”

He nodded. “Wise of you. Bombing the Rimmers is one thing, but if you take out a school bus by accident and kill a bunch of our kids, the whole population could swing against you. Some of the people I can get won’t be thinking about that though—they have their own axes to grind.”

“They can get over that—I did. The mission is what counts, Reuben. Nothing else.”

“And what is this oh-so-mysterious ‘mission’?”

“Keep the Rimmers off-center and distracted until the General comes back with the whole damned SLDF.”

He sat back against the sofa and took a long pull of his beer. “Can he? Can even Kerensky take an occupied and defended Earth?”

“If it can be done, he will do it. He is coming back, Reuben, I know it. I believe it.”

Phil’s friend nodded. “All right then, let’s put together some people to raise a little hell. But first, we have a more important matter ‘Sarah’. Do you prefer Italian or Chinese for dinner?”

[masterarminas]

Chapter Eighteen

April 11, 2767
Olympia
North America, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)

Fourteen men and nine women had gathered in the basement beneath the rowhouse. Liz had met some of them—in what now seemed another life—others were complete strangers. Now, they all sat on old furniture and boxes and crates, or on the floor, and considered her words.

“I’m in,” whispered Janice, the red, raw scar tissue covering half of her face wrinkling as she swallowed her emotions, her bile. Janice had been assaulted by the Rimmers a month before—her beauty taken away as punishment for refusing the advances of an officer.

Bernard and Vincent looked at each other—a mirror image except for their clothes. Finally, Bernie (or was it Vince?) shrugged, and the other nodded. “Yeah, about time we started a little ruckus.” The two men were huge, 6’4” and over 300 lbs of solid muscle. The twins had played as defensive linemen for the Seahawks for four years. As upset over the Occupation as anyone else, they had a special hatred for the Rimmers—Amaris had cancelled this year’s Super Bowl game. A game the Seahawks had earned a berth in for the first time in forty-two years. That fact—more than anything else—seemed to motivate the brothers to action.

One by one, the others chimed in, all agreeing to what Liz had proposed. As it came full circle to Reuben, he just smiled. “When do we start, Sarah?”

“Tomorrow we take a little walk in the woods, and introduce you to a girl’s best friend—in 6.8mm. And after that,” she smiled back, “after that, ladies and gentlemen, we give some gifts to the Rimmers.”


April 11, 2767
Imperial Palace, Unity City
North America, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)

Gunthar paused before the doors of the office and swallowed hard. Despite his own friendship with the Emperor and their shared appetites, he did not like being the bearer of bad news. Not to the Emperor. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the doors open and walked in past the two guards of the Death’s Head regiment. Stefan Amaris, Emperor of Humanity, looked up from the desk at the sound of his approach.

“My friend, what brings you here so urgently?”

“Sire, we have received a reply from Minoru Kurita.”

Stefan’s face slowly froze and his eyes began to harden. “You bring me ill tidings, Gunthar?”

Von Strang knelt before the Emperor and bowed his head. “Kurita has rejected your generous offer, my Master. He has pledged the Combine to war against you after this matter of his cousin Drago and his family.”

For a long moment in time there was only silence. Gunthar felt a few cold beads of sweat run down his neck.

“The Dragon seeks his own destruction, Gunthar. I give him a chance to serve Me, and he rejects it out of hand. I give him an opportunity to become a statesman and ensure the prosperity of his people, and he still rejects ME. HE,” Amaris shouted, hurling a lamp across the office, “not I, but HE has forced My Hand in this matter. Bring Drago Kurita before Me.”

Gunthar stood, “Yes, my Master.”

“And bring his family as well, Gunthar. By all means, let us make this a festive, family occasion.”

“You will be done, Sire,” Gunthar von Strang said as he bowed low and quickly left the office.

[masterarminas]

Chapter Nineteen

April 11, 2767
Courtyard of the Imperial Palace, Unity City
North America, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)

With a shove from behind, Drago Kurita was forced through the archway and onto the stone-lined ground of the courtyard. Off-balance, his hands manacled behind him, he stumbled, then tripped, and slammed face and shoulder into the ornate fountain. He shook his head, feeling the dripping blood on his cheek, and saw three drops strike the water, the red quickly becoming dilute and lost as it circulated through the system. Biting his lip, he leaned on the edge and regained his footing; then, with as much dignity as he could muster, stood tall and erect and turned to face his captor—Stefan Amaris.

The so-proclaimed Emperor of Man smiled broadly. “Drago Kurita, how nice of you to join us,” he said, extending his hand towards a second archway. An archway through which Omi—his wife—and their children Megumi and Hanzo were being ushered through as he watched. Drago felt his heart leap at the sight—for nearly four months he had neither seen, nor heard from his family. Four months he had spent in a barren cell with no windows, no furniture, no relief from his constant worry over them.

Hanzo saw him, and keeping his face still, he bowed with respect to his father. Drago swallowed hard; how much his son had grown in so short a time. His daughter had gained stature as well, with her mother’s willowy figure combined with his height, her long black hair artfully arranged behind her head in a style that he recognized very well. Her mother’s handiwork, he thought as he locked his eyes upon the woman—no longer young—he had married many years ago. She merely bowed her head, but before she did, he could see in her eyes the fear and the worry so mirrored in his own.

“A lovely day for a reunion among loved ones, is it not, Ambassador Kurita, representative to the High Council on behalf of Takiro Kurita, Coordinator of the Combine? Takiro is dead, Ambassador, dead of a stroke after receiving a message from me of the change in circumstances here on the birthplace of us all.”

Stefan began to pace across the courtyard, the muscles on his jaw bunched as his face grew florid. “And his son—your cousin—Minoru now rules on Luthien. I sent to him a message of peace and friendship—showing how I saved you and your family from death at the hands the conspirators that took the life of Richard and the Cameron line. And how does he, how does Minoru answer me, Ambassador?”

“HE DARES TO ACCUSE ME, ME! Of crimes against your people, of the murder of First Lord Cameron and his family. He takes my hand, offered in peace and spits upon it while it is outstretched in friendship. Even now, he marshals for war, joining that traitor Kerensky.” Stefan paused, and stroked his beard lightly as he glared at Drago. “What am I to do, Kurita? Can I let this affront pass by without response? Appear weak and place you upon the next DropShip bound to Black Luthien?””

“CAN I, YOU DAMNED KURITA DOG? ANSWER ME!” Amaris thundered, spittle ejecting with every shouted word.

Drago stood tall, and closed his eyes. He had feared that his uncle would forsake their traditions over him; no more was need for that fear to be faced. A great weight lifted from his soul as he opened the lids covering his eyes of pale blue and stared the Usurper square in the face.

The squat man before him—ridiculed by many, including himself before the Coup, as a buffoon—snarled and punched Drago in the belly, forcing the wind from his lungs as he slammed to his knees on the flag-stones of the courtyard. Stefan nodded at the guards, and four of them stepped up and began to beat him with the butts of their rifles and kick him with their steel-toed boots. One blow landed upon his temple, and the world spun, lost color, and then there was nothing.

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

Gunthar von Strang watched from the shadows as the guards beat and kicked Drago Kurita to the ground. He smiled as he caught the familiar stench of coppery blood in the air, and turned his gaze, his leer upon the soon-to-be deceased man’s wife and children. They were crying, he saw, but none of them struggled, none of them shouted out. Say what you want about the Kurita line, he thought, they do have spirit. But that spirit would shortly be broken. And his grin grew wider.

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

A splash of cold water brought Drago back to consciousness. He gasped for breath; the pain in his ribs and kidneys was dull and jagged, like a knife being drawn across bone. His blood covered the stones beneath him as it freely ran from the cuts on his face and head. Two pairs of hands grasped his arms and yanked him up, setting him down on his knees as he faced the Emperor, now seated upon a chair brought out to him, as though he were on a throne.

“Your family has displeased me, Drago. And for that, you must suffer. Them as well,” he said as he waved a hand over his family. “The girl, she is young I take it? Not yet fourteen if my sources are correct. I had thought to give her to my guards, to show them my appreciation for their service. After all, it is not often one can deflower a princess of the blood is it? But, then I thought, there are only three regiments of them. Why deprive her of ALL the soldiers at my command. She shall become a camp whore for the entire I Corps—we will hold a drawing to see who shall take her first. I do not expect her to survive them all, but the House of Kurita is made of such stern material, perhaps she will surprise me. If she does, then I have another twenty-three upon this world that she shall visit.”

“Your wife, Omi, she will be forced to watch. Of course, if she volunteers to take her daughters place, then she may—for as long as she lasts. And your boy, Drago, your only boy-child—well, I cannot have him choose to come for me in years ahead.”

Stefan Amaris turned to Gunthar. “Kill him.”

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

As Gunthar unsnapped the holster on his hip, Drago finished reciting his final prayer and closed his eyes, as he remembered.

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

’A samurai uses the swords, and the ‘Mech, and the gun, but these are just tools, nephew. Tools that are not required, for a samurai is what he is not because of the weapons or the training. He is samurai because of his honor and his pledge to duty. A samurai not only uses weapons—he IS a weapon. Wars are won in the will, Drago, not just the arm. And the will of samurai—the will of a Kurita—cannot be withstood as long as he stands in harmony with himself.’

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

Drago exploded into motion from where he knelt on the stones of the court-yard, his legs propelling him forward before the two guards behind him could react. Slamming into Stefan Amaris, he toppled the tyrant and his chair over, spilling both of them upon the ground. Using the only weapon he could, Drago sank his teeth into the Usurper’s neck, and clamped his jaws tight.

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

Gunthar languidly pulled his pistol out, and began to take aim at the boy, when Drago lunged. Like the viper he was, he spun and began to squeeze the trigger, but Stefan was in the way! As he waited for his shot, the boy—Hanzo—kicked his guard in the knee, snapping the joint like a twig. He grabbed the rifle as it fell and fired a shot across the courtyard into the chest of another guard. Omi and Megumi tackled yet another of the Rim Worlders, and she lifted her own stolen weapon, swinging it towards him. The girl stabbed out the eyes of the downed solider with her fingers, his screams ripping across the palace.

Yet, the other guards were responding. The boy died first, his chest ripped apart by bursts from three riflemen on the walls. Behind Megumi, his own aide simply pulled his sidearm and fired one shot into the back of her head. Only Drago and his wife were still alive, and now Gunthar finally had a clear line of fire. In the corner of his eye, he saw Omni settle her gun-barrel on him as he squeezed the trigger. Oh hell, he thought, but Gunthar, for all his flaws and faults and vices, for all that he was evil—though he did not see it that way—, Stefan’s life was more important than his own. His pistol barked as the same instant as her rifle.

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

A third shot rang out immediately after, and Omi collapsed as blood spurted from her throat. A white-hot shaft of iron tore into Gunthar’s arm, but Omi had missed his vitals. His shot, however, had not missed. Drago’s head exploded, showering the Emperor in a fountain of blood and brains and fragments of bone. The dead man’s jaws slackened, and more blood poured from the torn throat of Stefan Amaris as guards and medics began rushing to his side.

Gunthar holstered his weapon and began bellowing for the surgical staff to be readied as he too ran to the only friend he had ever known.

[masterarminas]

Chapter Twenty

April 23, 2767
Riesel Munitions Plant, Stuttgart
Europe, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)

Hannah Zeigler tried to block out the noise that leaked through the ear protectors she wore in the noisy plant as she operated her console. She had worked for Herr Riesel since before the Coup, here in this very same factory; worked for him for twelve years now. Two weeks ago, an official of the new government came here and lectured Herr Riesel and the staff. Lectured them on the importance of providing munitions for the new Empire—munitions needed in light of the failed attack on his Imperial Majesty. Pity that had not succeeded, she thought. Normally, she did not like the Dracs, but for this case she would make an exception. She wondered what the story really was—all the news broadcasts had said was the Ambassador of House Kurita to the League had attacked and wounded Stefan Amaris in an attempt to assassinate him as the first blow in a war against the rightful First Lord and Emperor. All she—and everyone else on Terra—knew for sure was that Amaris was now at war not just with General Kerensky and the Star League Defense Force, but with Minoru Kurita and the Draconis Combine as well.

So, when production fell last week below their assigned quotas, Herr Riesel had been warned. Production this week had been low as well—by 0.5%. Yesterday, the swine took Herr Riesel away. For missing the production quota by such a little amount, he had been taken away and replaced by that pompous ass of a quisling sitting now in Herr Riesel’s office. Fifty years of hard work taken away in one afternoon because a production line had malfunctioned and equipment needed to be replaced. Hannah shook her head, for she knew she would never see Herr Riesel again. At least this time, she thought, we are not doing it to ourselves. Except for the traitors who worked for Amaris, like her new plant manager, this time it was not the Germans turning upon themselves over questions of religion and culture, and making their own citizens disappear. She had spent two years in her youth in Israel, studying her faith and learning of the Holocaust—we’ve progressed enough that this time the Jew is not the enemy, she thought. All of us, all Terrans, are the enemy to Amaris. She took a deep breath, and changed the programming on her console, altering—slightly—the machines on the line assembling the shells. And this time, none of us—German or Jew or any of Terra’s many peoples—are going down without a fight.

April 29, 2767
Graefenwoehr Field Training Base
Europe, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)

Never fails, Lieutenant Malachi Olds thought to himself. We get rotated out of South-Am for R&R and some bastard of a desk-jockey decides we need to update our qualification jackets. Three months ago, Olds had been a sergeant with the 23rd Amaris Dragoons—since then, after fighting the SLDF troops that still infested the jungles and mountains; he had been promoted twice, to commander of Hotel Company, 3rd Battalion. What had survived of Hotel Company, that was. Of the twelve ‘Mechs he had entered the jungle with, only five of the original personnel were still here. Since early February, they had been assigned eighteen new troopers, eighteen new ‘Mechs, and today, on the firing range, he could only field nine, including himself. The rest were casualties—dead or wounded. Three more were supposedly ‘in transit’, if some other regiment didn’t short-stop them and grab them for himself.

Mal clicked his transmit key, “Listen up, you apes. We are going to qualify on all of weapons today. We get this done right, THE FIRST TIME, and you all get 72-hour liberty. You frak this up, and I will have you painting rocks in the Kaserne. YOU GET ME?”

Eight voices came back over the radio in ragged chorus, “HURRAH!”

“The range is hot, people. Lead us off Jester.”

MechWarrior Denise ‘Jester’ Gallagher walked her Enfield up to the firing line and raised the ‘Mechs right arm as she armed the weapons systems. Deep inside the ‘Mech, an ammunition cassette—one of fifteen thousand supplied to the base this week by Riesel Munitions—locked into place. Within the cassette were thirty-five 7.5cm shells, ready to be fed into the automatic cannon. These particular shells were ‘slugs’, containing a five kilogram depleted uranium and tungsten alloy penetrator with a high explosive core surrounded by a plastic sabot and five kilograms of extremely powerful propellant, all enclosed within a ceramic, polymer, and metallic casing. The LB-10X autocannon could also fire ‘cluster’, where the penetrator was replaced with five kilos of tungsten balls, each of which had an explosive charge buried in their core.

As the targeting sight in her neuro-helmet settled on the silhouette almost five hundred meters down-range, she squeezed the trigger. The autocannon barked fire and flame as it opened fire, the slugs streaking down range and sparking as they hit the metal target. The gun was designed to fire all thirty-five rounds in less than five seconds and it worked perfectly. The ammunition, however, did not. The seventeenth shell loaded 2.4 seconds after the weapon began firing. This shell was one of those the machine programmed by Hannah had altered back in the plant. THIS shell contained only 250 grams of propellant, with 4.75 kilos of inert filler. As it entered the chamber and was electrically detonated, the expansion of gasses hurled the slug down the barrel. But the reduced charge, combined with the friction from the tight seal of the sabot slowed the round, and brought it to a halt less than a third of the way down the barrel. The NEXT shell, however, contained a FULL charge.

Mal involuntarily winced as Jester’s right arm mounted autocannon exploded, the hot gasses also touching the rounds remaining the locked and loaded cassette. Those explosions caused a chain reaction of the NINETEEN other live cassettes stored aboard her ‘Mech. Her CASE (Compartmentalized Ammunition Storage Equipment) worked as advertised, blowing the armored panels off her ‘Mechs back and channeling the explosion outwards, saving Jesters life in the process. Her Enfield, on the other hand, wracked by the explosions from within, would require a complete rebuild before it returned to active duty.

He just closed his eyes and shook his head as the sirens of emergency vehicles began to spin up in the distance. Why did we ever come here, he thought to himself. Why?

April 30, 2767
Imperial Palace, Unity City
North America, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)

“I do not care what you must do, Gunthar, WHO you must kill, but THIS STOPS NOW! Damn these saboteurs to HELL!”

Stefan Amaris was livid, the jagged red scar of the wound on his neck standing out boldly even against his hot, flushed skin.

“I have carte blanche, my Master?”

“Yes,” Stefan Amaris spat. “Kill those who resist me. ALL OF THEM.”

Gunthar von Strang smiled as he bowed. “As you command, your Majesty.”

[masterarminas]

Chapter Twenty-One

June 18, 1944
West of St. Lo
France, Europe
Terra

Liz tried to crawl deeper into the rich black soil as a shower of dirt, rocks, and vegetation rained down on her from the mortar explosion. Swearing under her breath, she pushed back the steel helmet—damn stupid thing kept sliding!—and peered above the rim of earth around her position. Reuben was to her right, firing away with his Garand at the approaching German infantry as yet another mortar shell impacted forty feet away with an immense concussion.

Janice was down and out—she had gotten the first half-track with the bazooka, but the second had tracked right across her with the MG-42; the heavy bullets had nearly cut her in half. Vince had the rocket launcher up now, on his shoulder, and behind him Bernie slapped his helmet as he slammed the rocket home. With a roar of flame, the rocket streaked out and turned the sole remaining German half-track into a fireball.

“Bernie—damn it, get on the BAR! BERNIE!” she yelled, her ears still ringing. The former Seahawks lineman nodded and lifted the heavy automatic weapon, aiming at the German infantry. With a rapid series of barks, the .30-06 bullets began cutting down the enemy like a scythe. Omar slid down into the dirt next to her as yet another mortar shell exploded.

“Captain, this ain’t no ordinary Kraut patrol, those boys are wearing SS tabs.”

Liz began to reply, and stopped dead cold as she saw the 57-tonne Tiger tank smash through the hedgerow behind her—then the world went black as its 88mm gun fired.


May 1, 2767
Emerson’s Virtual Games Emporium, Olympia
North America, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)

Wiping the last of the sweat from her body, Liz glared at her resistance group. “Vince, where did we go wrong?”

He hung his head down. “It was my fault, I should have pulled us out the moment I realized it was an SS column, not the Volksgrenadiers we expected. And after that, I kept us in there too long, and they brought up the tanks, and . . . “

“AND WE ALL FRAKKIN’ DIED. AGAIN. Again,” she said a little bit softer. “People, this game is the closest thing to what you are going to be facing out there—but it is going to be worse. Much worse—Janice how bad was that gut-shot?”

“It hurt, ma’am, but then the computer dumped me back into reality.”

“If you get shot in the gut for real, girl, you will scream for hours because of the pain. Ok, we frakked up that mission. If it had really been the VG convoy we were supposed to hit, then we might have done alright. But, people, ‘might have been’ ain’t gonna cut. Not with me, sure as HELL not with the Rimmers. They might be merciless, evil bastards, but they are soldiers, and sure as hell know what to do with a radio.”

She paused and looked over each and every one of her prospective guerillas. “Janice, why did you fire at the half-track?”

The scarred woman lifted her head with a blank look on her face. “It had infantry in the back.”

“Yes, but you let the command car—the vehicle with a RADIO—go right past. Communications GOES FIRST, DAMN IT. Take out their ability to call in help, and we might have won this, after all. Comm first, then their heavy weapons, then the poor, bloody, bedamned infantry.”

Omar spoke up, “It wouldn’t have made any difference, not with that Tiger there. We couldn’t take it out one our best day.”

“And you think our opponents won’t have ‘Mechs and choppers and fast-movers with napalm? People, if you can’t do this in a virtual game, then what makes you think you can do this for real?”

Bernie opened his mouth, but Liz cut him off. “I don’t want to hear it. That’s it for today; we will meet back here tomorrow and try another scenario—we will do this until I feel comfortable taking you out into the field with real, live weapons. Now beat it.”

She sat down, her elbows on her knees as she rested her face in her hands. Finally the door closed.

“A little rough on them, weren’t you ‘Sarah’?” Reuben asked.

“Not as rough as the Rimmers will be, not nearly as rough.”

“We aren’t soldiers, cut them a little slack, they are getting better.”

“Not quickly enough!” she snapped as she glared up at him, standing there with a towel across his shoulder, each of his hands holding one end.

“But they are getting better,” he said gently.

She nodded. “Yeah, if I hadn’t changed the scenario with that SS detachment, they probably would have won.”

“Then why did you change the program?”

“Because they don’t need to know they are getting better, Reuben. They need to be aware that if they bite off too much, the Rimmers are going to come down on them like the Hammer of God Almighty.”

“They know that, ‘Sarah’, they know that. And I know that the executions have been pushing you, so you are pushing them. They don’t have to be here—they choose to be here. To fight the Rimmers. I suggest you remember that, and don’t push them too far. ‘Cause those frak-ups, Liz,” she glared at him as he whispered her real name, “they are all you got.”

Reuben set the towel down and left the changing room.

[masterarminas]

Chapter Twenty-Two

May 4, 2767
Olympia
North America, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)

Reuben shook his head. “Vince, I don’t know why she wanted us all here, she won’t tell me.”

This morning, he had gotten a call from Sarah—from Liz. The message had been one of their pre-arranged codes, asking him to set up this meeting for all members of the group for tonight. He had placed the calls, and now they were all here, in his basement having dodged the Rimmers looking for curfew violators on the streets. But she wasn’t. His palms were coated with his own sweat as he thought of several reasons she wasn’t—top among them that she had been picked up and was even now being interrogated. But, if his heart was pumping faster, and his palms sweaty, he tried not to show it to the others.

The architect had become the leader of the volunteers. One of them in way that Sarah just couldn’t be, they listened to him and they followed him. Even Vince and Bernie, though each of them were at least twice his own weight and six inches taller to boot. He had asked them about that, and Bernie laughed. ‘Quarterbacks are usually a bit smaller than linemen, Rube, and we follow their directions too, you know,’ he had said yesterday after another disaster of a training mission, this time in the verdant Hell of Vietnam.

Omar chatted with Janice as she sipped on a beer; Chris and Adam were shooting pool at the table in the rear; Carson sat in one of Reuben’s comfortable recliners with his feet propped up and his eyes closed. All thirteen of them were here, waiting for Sarah—and if his own nerves were representative, then each of them was on edge as well.

“I really hope she is not going to rip us a new one about the ‘Nam scenario—I don’t know how else we could have done it, Rube,” Vince whispered.

“Doubt it, my friend. We played that one exactly by her play-book, and we still got creamed.”

“Yes, you did, you all did, but that was a scenario you were supposed to lose, people,” Sarah said from the top of the stairs. Reuben, Vince, and everyone else looked up at her—no one had heard her enter the room. “Life is not fair, neither is war. They had an ambush set up for YOU, and even though you did everything right and by the book, you died. Most of you—Bernie you did damn well to get the survivors to break contact.”

She looked down for a moment, and then lifted her head. “I haven’t told you guys how well you have been doing, because I don’t want you to get over confident and forget just how badly we can get hurt if we mess things up. But,” and she smiled at Reuben, “someone said that I should remember too that you are here on your own accord, risking your necks because of your principles. For which I am grateful, because I can’t do it alone. I need you as much as you need me. And if you will still have me, then I think we have a target.”

The room was so quiet that Reuben could almost hear everyone else’s heart pumping; he could certainly hear his own. And then Carson—an orthodontist—stood up, “And that target might be what exactly, oh Captain, my Captain?”

The room broke up into chuckles, guffaws, and couple of barks of real laughter, as Sarah—Liz—smiled even broader. “I was thinking about a prison break. Are you ladies up for it?”


May 5, 2767
Brokaw Holding Facility, Olympia
North America, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)

Corporal Edmond Wagenbach frowned as the two vehicles turned into towards the gate. He hated the night-shift to begin with, and hated the prison duty even more. But he pissed off his sergeant in the 157th Rim Light Dragoons, so here he was. Glancing down at his clipboard, he saw nothing that indicated a scheduled delivery. The two privates on gate duty with him had already turned their spotlights to the trucks—Rim Worlds trucks with the markings of the 33rd Amaris Dragoons.

The vehicles rolled to a stop right before the barrier, and Wagenbach walked over to the first window. “Got a delivery for you,” a soprano voice sang out from within.

“I haven’t been informed of any delivery, Sergeant.”

The black haired woman in field camo with the 33rd shoulder flash and the stripes of a sergeant shook her head and cursed—rather vividly, the Corporal thought.

“Regiment was supposed to let you people know we were on the way. Caught a dozen people out past curfew, and they were armed. Colonel Devon wanted them to cool their heels here until IntSec can get some people out to sweat them.”

Wagenbach smiled at the lovely sergeant. “No problem, Sarge, it happens all the time. I’ve got to check the prisioners and trucks though before you can go in.”

“Make it fast, Corp, my rack is just singing my name after this nineteen hour day.”

He nodded and walked to the back of the truck. Hazen, the stitching on her uniform had said, wonder what world she’s from—and if she would like to get together for a beer one afternoon. Oh, well, Ed, me boy, at least you have a new vision for your fantasy. He grinned and pulled the canvas from the back of the first deuce-and-a-half. Two of the biggest men he had ever seen up close were sitting there, their sub-machine guns looking tiny in their massive hands. Twins. But they were wearing his uniform, and his grin died away. She would have to be in a unit with two men THAT cut and good-looking, wouldn’t she. Behind the hulks were six dirty, disheveled, and manacled civilians, their faces bruised and bloody.

Looks like they had a bit of fun with these civvies. He quickly searched the truck and the prisoners, but found nothing out of the ordinary. Jumping down, he saw Private Buchanan wave ok from the rear vehicle. All right, then. He noted the plate numbers of the trucks on his report sheet, as well their regimental ID numbers as he walked back up to the cab.

“Well, Sarge, looks like you folks are good to go. I’ll radio it in to the security center and we will process these maggots into the cells.”

Wagenbach nearly winced as she beamed a smile down on him from behind the wheel. Stunning, absolutely stunning. What I wouldn’t give for a little private time with her.

“Thanks, Corp,” she said and winked at him. WINKED AT HIM. “Look me up off-duty, handsome,” as she put the truck in gear and began rolling in through the opening gate.

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

The two trucks backed up to the prisoner dock where six Rim Worlders waited, nightsticks out and sadistic grins on their faces. The leader yanked the canvas free and began to snarl, but he never finished making a sound as two silenced sub-machines open fire and tore him and his fellow guards apart.

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

”Jack, has Neilson and his team reported in on the new prisoners?”

Jackson Hoyle shook his head at his supervisor, Leslie Winters. Neither of them liked the Rim Worlders, but they were careful not to ever let that show. They had served at this facility before the Coup, and did not want—especially under this management—to be incarcerated themselves. Most of the staff had been kept, those who weren’t considered ‘security risks’, at least. The ‘risky’ ones had all disappeared and the survivors had learned quickly not to inquire as to where the missing had gone.

They hated this job now, both of them did. The Rim Worlders—twenty of them per shift—had made a complete mockery of all the rules the corrections staff had lived with for years. Last week, Nielson had not reported on the transfer of prisoners, and the cameras caught him and his men raping three new female inmates. Winters had reported it, and been told if she wanted to stay out of the cells not to bother the new warden with ‘inconsequential details’ in the future.

She grimaced as she looked at the blank screens. Nielson and his men didn’t exactly mind an audience, but they knew killing the cameras pissed her off. “Get him on the radio, Jack, and find out what the holdup is THIS time.”

“Central to Patrol One, come in Patrol One.”

Nothing.

“Neilson, this is Central. Report.”

After a burst of static, a voice came back on the radio. “Go, Central.”

Winters grabbed the mike. “What is your report on the prisoners?”

“Nice and juicy. Looks like some good fresh meat; we’ll be along shortly. Patrol One out.”

Her knuckles were white on the mike as she clenched it, and Jack felt sick just from looking at her expression. This was NOT what he had signed on for. Not even close.

The door to the central security booth opened with a buzz, and a Rim Worlder walked in, his sub-machine gun lowered. But this was none of the people assigned to the night shift—it was Omar al-Hassani.

“The peace of God upon you both, but keep your hands up and away from those controls, please,” he said as he looked at two of his former co-workers.

“OMAR?”

Both of them shouted his name at the same time and he smiled.

“It is time for a change in management, don’t you think, my friends?”

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

Wagenbach heard the trucks before he saw them. One last chance to speak with her before she goes, he thought. He opened the gates and stepped outside, just as a heavy rifle slug slammed into his belly. As the world went black, he saw both of his men fall, and a stream of prisoners following the trucks out into the dark streets. Then he saw nothing.

[masterarminas]

Chapter Twenty-Three

May 17, 2767
Olympia
North America, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)

“Get down!” Liz screamed as she dove towards a pile of rubble. Overhead, the freight-train rumble of the heavy artillery passed by, the air displaced by them pushing down on top of her. Barely an instant later, the shells impacted two blocks away, their thunderous explosion abusing her eardrums. The shockwave arrived just afterwards, along with the smoke and ash, the dust from pulverized concrete and charred cinders of flesh and bone. She shook her head, trying to clear the ringing in both ears from the aftermath of the Long Toms. Across the street, she could see Reuben yelling at her, but she couldn’t hear him; him or anything but the ringing.

She nodded at him and held one thumb up, which seemed to placate him as she struggled to gather her bearings. As hard as she had pushed the group to learn just how bad it could get, she hadn’t quite managed to comprehend it herself. She certainly had not expected Amaris’s reaction to the jailbreak to include this, at least. He had moved troops into Olympia and just began lining folks—men, women, and children—along the sidewalks and pouring machine-gun fire into them. All the while broadcasting that the killings would end when the people responsible for the attack on the jail were handed over to his troops.

It was too much for most of the city, and Olympia had risen up, slaughtering the battalion of infantry Amaris had sent into their homes. And the Emperor completely lost it, after that. Two brigades of his troops ringed the city, preventing any from leaving. His henchman and fellow criminal Gunthar von Strang had brought up heavy artillery, and helicopter gunships, and fast-moving jet bombers and begun to reduce the entire city block by block.

Amaris and von Strang no longer cared WHO in Olympia had attacked the prison; what they now wanted was nothing more than the complete and total destruction of the city and all that remained within. At least they had not—yet—decided to use another nuclear weapon on them. And all of this was her fault, for attacking the prison in the first place and deciding to hide among the residents of the city afterwards.

She slowly stood up and ran across the street, through the billowing clouds of smoke from the pair of newly made burning craters down the hill, to the building the group had taken to using as a base of operations. As she reached the door, she stopped and looked out over the city, the jewel of the North-west in years gone by. Smoke rose from every direction and flames leaped into the sky from buildings burning out of control. Some folks wandered the streets, shocked beyond reason by the bombardment, searching for lost loved ones, perhaps. Many were hunkered down in their homes with their families and friends, waiting for the assault to come. A few were preparing to fight, such as her group. She shook her head again, at the futility of it all. Then she turned and entered the house.

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

The basement was full—quite a few of the prisoners they had freed had joined them in their struggle. Some, like Jackson Hoyle and Leslie Winters, may have technically been free, but they had been prisoners just like the poor souls incarcerated within the cells. Most of the prisoners had gone home, or tried to escape the city, once the reprisals began.

The elation that had filled her people after the prison op was gone, replaced with a grim recognition they didn’t have a chance of survival. Most seemed to accept that fact, and intended to at least take one of the bastards with them into the grave. A few were as badly shell-shocked as the civilians outside; some of them had to be sedated. Dirty, scarred, scared faces looked up at her as she passed, hoping beyond all hope that she had something planned that would salvage something—anything—from this disaster.

Climbing down the steps behind her, Reuben handed his rifle to another guerilla, who opened the bolt to ensure it was not loaded and then racked it on the wall with the others. No one spoke, they waited for her, the ‘expert’.

“All right people, listen up,” she said. “Tonight, we are leaving Olympia.”

Mutters and whispers broke the silence across the crowded basement as the resistance fighters shifted and squirmed, shocked faces looking up at her in disbelief.

“Excuse, me,” Carson said, “we’re ABANDONING these people?”

“This fight is lost, troops. Accept that now. Nothing we do here can make a difference in the end, except put us in the grave alongside the people of Olympia.”

Carson stood, his body shaking—with fatigue or rage, Liz couldn’t tell. “We can’t just run, Sarah. We are the cause of this shit because of that bloody prison break. This is our home, those are our friends and family dying out there; we can’t just walk away and pretend it didn’t happen.” Tears were streaming down his cheeks.

Liz closed her eyes and held up her hands. When there was silence once again she looked up, unshed tears in her own eyes. “If we stay, Carson, James, all of you, we die too. And Amaris wins. We owe the dead more than that. I can’t make any of you come with me, but tonight I leave. We pick up and we move on, and we keep fighting in another place. We fight until we can’t fight any more, because this is OUR world. Not his. Because Richard was OUR leader. Not him. Because the General will come back for us, and we have to do our part to liberate our home.”

She swallowed hard. “You think I don’t know how responsible I am for this shit, Carson? I came up the frakking great idea of that prison bust. I brought this atrocity on the city. I promise you this, though. That Amaris will pay for ALL of his crimes. But to do that, we have to live to fight another day. And that means we have to get out tonight, before they push into the city with ‘Mechs and tanks and infantry and kill us all.”

Many of the people in the room were looking at the floor, too ashamed to admit that they were grateful for a chance to live. A few of them though, a few, looked right at her and shook their heads in resignation.

“I can’t, Captain. I just . . .,” Carson’s voice trailed off as his face turned bone white.

Liz walked over to him and threw her arms around him, holding him tight. “It’s ok, Doc, really it is. This is something you all have to decide for yourselves. Give ‘em hell, Carson, give . . .,” and Liz began to cry, as she held the man.

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

Gunshots cracked, snapped, and popped through the night as Liz and Reuben, Vince and Bernie, and a half-dozen others opened the long-sealed tunnels of old sewage system. Over two-thirds of her people were staying, to fight to the last. Omar, trailed by his two friends from the prison, nodded at her.

“I’ve spelunked in there before, Sarah. Most of those old tunnels are pretty clear, but there may be a few that have collapsed, what with the shelling and bombing. Just keep going north and it eventually comes out just south of Arcadia, right on the banks of the river.”

Liz nodded, and then looked down. She didn’t know what to say to the man who had fought with her, and was now staying behind.

“Like you told Carson, Sarah, it’s going to be ok. Go with God, my friends, and may He grant you peace and long-life—and justice.”

Giving Omar a last hug, she took the hand-held floodlight from him and turned back to Reuben and the others. “All right, shall we be about it, then?”

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

Two days later, the Rim troops moved into the city in force. Sixty-three thousand, four hundred and eight-seven civilians were later confirmed as killed in the fighting—over half of the city’s pre-coup population. The few survivors were placed in prisoners camps across the North-west, where two-thirds would join the dead over the next few months. Olympia was razed to the ground, its buildings plowed under, and the very land sown with salt. INN reported that a terrorist group had destroyed the city after stealing an old weapon of mass destruction from salvaged from a pre-Hegemony bunker.

[masterarminas]

Chapter Twenty-Four

June 1, 2767
St. Peters Basilica, Vatican City
Europe, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)

Pavel Green crossed himself one final time as he knelt before the altar and then rose to his feet. As he turned, his attendants were waiting, holding the golden cloak, the shepherd’s staff, the tall miter. His gaze turned to Joachim, who bowed his head. Drawing in a deep breath, he nodded at the priests, bishops, and cardinals gathered around him.

“It will be tomorrow. Are the preparations complete, Father-General?”

Joachim lifted his head. “Yes, Your Holiness. We await only your order to commence.”

“The word is given, then, gentlemen. Go forth and tend to your flocks, and may the Grace of God be with you.”

The men, many of whom—most of whom—had doubted his calling and ability bowed low and quietly departed from the sanctuary. Only Joachim stayed.

“There has to be another way, Your Holiness,” he pleaded, continuing the objections he had raised when the plan was first brought up months ago—just in case the events of tomorrow would ever come to pass.

“If there is, I don’t see it. Do you?”

He shook his head slowly, and Pavel nodded in grim acknowledgement. “Then my mind is clear; the decision is made.” Pavel paused, and then reached his hand out, and grasped the old man’s bicep.

“You have made me feel welcome here, Joachim. And guided me back to the path, even if I don’t believe my crimes can ever be washed away clean. Watch over my flock, my friend.”

“I shall.”

Pavel nodded and turned back to the altar, kneeling once more as Joachim watched. Several minutes later, the Jesuit turned and walked away, the sound of his feet on the tiles echoing across the vast chamber, but Pavel heard none of that, so intent was he upon his prayer.


June 2, 2767
St. Peters Basilica, Vatican City
Europe, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)

The day was bright and clear, with only tiny wisps of clouds in the blue sky above. The square below was filled to capacity by the people of Rome, by pilgrims from across the globe—all waited for him to deliver this address. Across the planet they waited, for Emperor Amaris had commanded that his speech be given live across the world. So, in bars and homes, shops and offices, millions, perhaps even billions waited for him to begin.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, I bid to you welcome. Today, I speak as our Emperor has commanded; speak of our duty and of our hopes and dreams and fears. Two weeks ago, an uprising against the rule of our Emperor began in the Pacific Northwest of North America. At a city called Olympia. That city no longer exists. The men and women and children who called it home are dead. And yet, a Resistance to our Emperor has grown.”

“He has commanded me this day to speak to you, and to remind you of your duty—regardless of what religious belief you may hold—to respect life, including your own. He has commanded me to remind you that the Emperor is loving and kind, and wishes only to treat you with that love and kindness. Yet, there are those who would obstruct him in his quest—his crusade—to prevent a great Tyrant—Kerensky—from subjugating all of us beneath his heel; from using the SLDF—perverted in purpose from our Defenders to our Jailors—to crush dissent to his rule through the puppet Cameron.”

“He has called upon us—the People of Terra, the mother World that gave to us all birth—to support him and his cause to ensure our peace and prosperity. He has sworn that he will put to the sword the Evil that Kerensky represents. He has called upon us to take up arms in his service, and stand squarely behind him in the quest for freedom, and for peace, and for justice. And our Emperor is right.”

Pavel paused and nodded to the people in the square and to the cameras.

“HE IS RIGHT. We must do our duty, to our conviction and our conscience, and confront Evil wherever we find it. Catholic, protestant, or orthodox; Muslim or Jew; Hindu or Buddhist; men and women of all faiths, of all creeds, of all philosophies must stand to oppose Evil in our midst—otherwise we aid that Evil in its purpose. Our Emperor is right.”

“For long, we of the Church have taken as our Creed that we would be ‘fishers of men’, after the passage where Christ spoke to those Apostles on the shores of Galilee. But there is an older tradition to which we must look, you and I; from the time of David forward, we have been Shepherds. And as Shepherds, we must not fear taking upon ourselves the weapons to defend against the Wolves. Not for ourselves, but for our Flock. The Shepherd bears arms, not to seek out confrontation, but to defend his Lambs from the ravening and rabid predators which stalk them in the night. He takes no joy from his duty, but bears those arms—and the chance of grave injury to himself—out of love for those whom he watches over.”

“And so it is with us, now, in this time. We must become once more the Shepherd, the keeper of our Brother. For he is out there; alone, in the midst of the wolves. Screaming for help. Crying for rescue. Pleading for salvation.”

“And we stand here. We can hear his cries; we can sense the pack circling—just outside of the light of the fire. And we do nothing. Nothing to aid our Brother—our Lamb—against those who would prey upon him.”

“OUR EMPEROR IS RIGHT. That the time has come for us to stand with the courage of our convictions, with our principles and our faith aligned, and take upon ourselves the arms of the Shepherd—the staff and the sling. And bear those arms in our righteous cause against the Wolves who would prey upon our Brother, our Lamb.”

“YET THE EMPEROR IS WRONG. He is wrong, for Kerensky is not the Wolf. He is wrong for the last of the Cameron’s has not murdered our family and friends. HE IS WRONG, for this war would not have begun without his own hand pulling the strings. I served him; for many years I served him. And I know that this coup was achieved through the Emperor’s own manipulations. I regret that now.”

“Yet, what are we to do? What can we do against the Emperor—Amaris—who holds Earth in his iron grip? What can we do against the Emperor—Amaris—who murders men and women and children guilty of no crime? What can we do against the Emperor—Amaris—who razes cities to the ground that oppose him? What can we do against the Evil that Amaris has unleashed upon us all?”

“WE CAN BE THE SHEPHERDS DEFENDING EACH OTHER FROM THE WOLF!”

“We can fight with just cause against the Evil that he and those who follow him seek to achieve. We may die in that fight, but we can never be conquered. I fear I shall not speak to you again, for today they will come for me. They will come to Rome and they will take me before the cause of our misery. Our despair. BUT I AM NOT AFRAID. No, for I AM a Shepherd. And YOU are my Flock.”

“May God’s grace be with you all in the days to come, may he give you the Strength and Courage to bear the Shepherd’s arms against Amaris and his Wolves. For the pack is circling—and the Flock is in danger. Will you answer the call of your Brother, your Lamb? Will you take up the Staff and the Sling against our Foe? Will you be our Brother’s Keeper—or will you do nothing and let Evil—the Emperor—Amaris triumph?”

“Consider your answer to those questions wisely, and with the guidance of God, and family, and friends. And stand with the COURAGE of the convictions that you hold dear. I ask now that our Blessed Savior grant upon all of you a blessing, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

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

He could hear their boots on the tiles as they filed into the sanctuary of the chapel that Michelangelo placed his art upon many centuries ago. Rising from where he knelt, Pavel gripped the rosary in one hand, and the switch in the other. He was surprised actually that it had taken them so long to arrive—four hours. Four precious hours to give his—immediate—Flock a chance at freedom. So be it, he thought. And peace entered his heart.

The troopers—a full company, judging by the numbers—halted several meters from him and raised their weapons. An Internal Security officer at their head, wearing the black leather coat favored by their ilk since time immemorial, stopped a few feet before him and raised his own pistol.

“Pavel Green, by the order of his Imperial Majesty, you are under arrest for treason. Where are the Cardinals of the College?”

“Have you misplaced them, Captain?”

“Insolence will do you no good, traitor. Talk now or talk later, it is the same to me. Your pain will not differ in the least.”

The officer looked over the chapel—the Sistine Chapel—with eyes full of greed and lust. “I have been appointed as the officer that will run the Vatican in your place. We shall not appoint a new Pope—the position itself seems to corrupt those who hold it. This room is quite magnificent—tell me, traitor, are the stories about golden treasure in the chambers beneath true?”

Pavel nodded, smiling pleasantly. “Yes, or rather they were. You shall never so much as lay a finger upon them, however. Or harm any of my flock, ever again.”

“What do you mean,” the officer snarled, raising his pistol.

“Why do you think there is no one here? Why am I—the one man Amaris must want in his grasp as much as he does Kerensky and Cameron—waiting alone for you to arrive? You are as much a fool as the others who work for von Strang.”

He lifted his left hand, the hand holding the switch, and flicked up a cover with his thumb.

“The catacombs below have been filled with liquefied natural gas, Captain. I only have to press this button and we all die.”

The Captain laughed. “But suicide is against your religion—it is the one unredeemable sin, the one thing that can ensure you never enter your heaven. You will not do it. And you will not destroy the Vatican and its history.”

“It is but buildings, Captain; stones and mortar and bricks and marble, with a little paint. While it would be a tragedy, it can be rebuilt. As for myself, I am damned already past redemption. I have nothing to lose you see.”

And Pavel smiled as he moved his finger to the button. Six shots hit him simultaneously in the chest and abdomen. His body froze as he tried to swallow and fell to his knees. The pain was too much to bear, but somehow Pavel kept conscious, even as he felt his blood pouring out. He was lying now on the tiles—the wonderful marble tiles, stained with his blood. He swallowed hard again, and tasted the copper of his own blood in his throat. No matter what, Amaris would be deprived of his fun. He could barely make out the shadow of the officer standing over him.

“Damn. Looks like you got the easy way out, traitor. I’ll just take that control . . . “

Pavel smiled as the Captain pulled the switch from his hand. The dead-man’s switch. The spring-loaded lever he had focused his strength—his being—on holding down snapped up and into place. And then Pavel saw nothing.

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

The Monsignor serving as his aide winced as the explosion consumed the whole of Vatican City. The massive fireball tore through the ancient stone works as though it were origami, flinging thousand kilo stones hundreds of meters into the air.

“My God,” whispered the aide, “what have we done?”

It is finished, Joachim Spaatz thought. “A pity, Monsignor, a pity. Yet, now he is a Martyr as no one in our Church has been in centuries.”

“HE COMMITTED SUICIDE!”

“Were you there, Monsignor? No, neither was I. And even if he did, God is capable of forgiving all, whether or not you believe that you can be forgiven. And with this act, he shall inspire our Flock across the world—for Amaris must have done this. After Olympia, he must have destroyed one of the most holy sites on this planet—one of the most historical sites—out of pure spite.”

“But he didn’t, your Holiness, WE DID.”

“It doesn’t matter, Monsignor. The people will not believe Amaris’s protestations of innocence. In their minds HE committed this sin. Even if we tell them, they will believe the other instead. Did everyone get out?”

“Yes, your Holiness, everyone except . . . “

“Yes. Everyone except HIM.”

Joachim sighed; Pavel—whom he was certain would become Saint Pavel one day—just had to ram his confirmation through the College last night, leaving him—a Jesuit, of all things—in charge of this fiasco. But at least HE wouldn’t have to suffer through the endless array of traditions in that mausoleum of a museum. And the new Pope smiled; Pavel had called THAT part of the business his final gift to man who had become his friend.

“Time to get to work, Monsignor; we have many miles to travel before we sleep.”

And the two men turned from the high hilltop outside of Rome and began their long walk in the footsteps of the fathers of the Church long ago.

[masterarminas]

Chapter Twenty-Five

July 17, 2767
Black Watch Cache 19-Kilo, Wickup Mountain
North America, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)

She could hear Janice screaming from inside the complex as she passed through the heavy blast doors. Most of the group were here, in the entry hall of what had been one of the largest of the caches. The ones left alive at least. They had plenty of new recruits to take the place of those lost, however. Even more since the rather abrupt end of the Pope’s broadcast last month. Liz smiled. Sloppy of them to carry it live, without making certain he was going to say what they wanted him to say. The transmission had cut off half-way through, but the uncensored version had hit the Net—and been viewed over four billion times.

IntSec had loaded viruses to purge the file from the Net, but hackers—Terrans had been the most prolific computer hackers since the dawn of the computer networks—kept them from killing it. The files moved, and more people viewed it each and every day. And Amaris had made a serious mistake, she thought as she shook her head. No one cared about Olympia—few had even heard of it. But ROME? And Vatican City? THAT had certainly lit the fuse.

Twenty-four Corps—seventy-two Divisions—of Rim troops on this planet, and he was on the verge of losing it from the backlash of the common citizen. Cities across the planet were burning, with clashes between his troops and those rising up. She shuddered at the thought of the casualties among the civilians. Oh, they couldn’t win—especially not when the other troops that had been garrisoning the Hegemony worlds arrived. ‘Vampire’ von Strang had cut orders reducing those garrisons by half—and pulling all of the rest back here. By the end of the month, the number of Amaris troops on Terra would have doubled.

Regardless, at least they were fighting back. The group had finished ambushing a patrol of the 332nd Dragoons down by the Columbia a few hours before. They had gotten in, set up, hit the Rimmers hard, and skedaddled out of there before the Rim-jobs could bring heavy tanks and ‘Mechs into the fight. Only Janice had been hit—but she had been hit hard with a gut-shot from a Rimmer machine-gun.

The screams died away in a whimper as a doorway deeper into the complex opened. Alec ‘Bear’ Quincy stepped through, his green scrubs covered with fresh blood. The former medical intern—the Coup had ended his pursuit of his accreditation—nodded at Liz. “She’s resting now; I gave her enough morphine to put out a grizzly. I think I got all of the damage inside sewn up—but she lost a lot of blood.”

Reuben, his own clothes covered with blood from where he had carried her seven miles across the broken countryside, laid his hand on the young mans shoulder. “You did well, Bear. It’s in the Almighty’s hands now.”

He turned to look at Liz. “Sarah, we’ve got to talk.”

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

Reuben, Bear, and twins stood until Liz took her own seat around the table of the conference room. 19-Kilo was designated as a battalion headquarters, and an alternate regimental headquarters, and its furnishings far exceeded those of the 11-Bravo cache she had been used to. They had taken time to shower and get some hot food in them, but Reuben had made it clear this was important. She lifted her mug—the hot steam of the cocoa-laced coffee smoothing out her frayed nerves. She closed her eyes and took a long pull from the drink, and then sighed, set it down, and leaned back.

“What’s on your mind, Reuben?”

“We are out of antibiotics.”

“WHAT?” she snapped as she sat bolt upright.

Bear shook his head. “I just used the last of them on Janice, Sarah. The ones we brought with us from the last cache.”

“We haven’t even touched the med supplies here, Bear, that can’t be.”

“I double checked the inventory, Sarah. The antibiotics, the narcotics, all of the drugs are GONE. I was restocking the field kits this morning when I got around to opening the med-lockers. The inventory logs show the lockers were full, but they have been cleaned out completely. I had Phillip and Monica double-check me, and we spot-checked the weapons storage. The guns are here; the ammo and explosives are here; but the meds are gone. The drugs are the only thing missing.”

Vince cleared his throat. “Captain, you know me and Vince stayed back to get some of the newer guys through some more training on this one, while you and Rube hit the convoy. Bear came to get us after he finished checking the med lockers. We ran the security tapes, just like you showed us.” Bernie pushed a button, and on a wall mounted screen a black-and-white feed from the hidden scanner appeared.

“This is eight days ago—two days after we moved in, Captain. The recording shows that someone opened the med-lockers and placed the drugs in a ruck-sack, cleaned out the locker completely.” On the screen, Liz could see someone doing just that, but his back was to the scanner. She couldn’t see the face. Then he closed the door to the locker and turned to leave. Bernie froze the screen and zoomed in on the face.

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

”I raise fifty,” Adrian said, as he smiled at the four other guerillas sitting around the table. A series of groans went up.

Leslie threw down her cards. “Are you just made of money?”

The others at the table also laid down their hands, and Adrian pulled the chips in towards him. “Another hand?”

One by one, the others shook their heads. “Come on, a friendly little game?”

“You’ve got everything we have, we’re busted out, ‘Rian,” said Gail.

“Not EVERYTHING you have, Gail-my-girl,” he leered at her.

“That’s not gonna happen, hustler.”

Adrian chuckled as Liz, Reuben, and the twins entered the room. “Hi, Captain, what’s u—URK!”

His words choked off as Liz threw the table over, grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against a wall, her pistol pressing hard into the skin beneath his right eye.

“You son-of-a-bitch! Where are the drugs? WHERE ARE THEY?”

The other poker players backed off quickly, getting out the way.

“Drugs? I don’t know what . . . “

The pistol shot slammed into Adrian’s right knee as Liz moved the barrel down and then back up. His blood spattered across her face.

“DON’T LIE TO ME, you frakkin’ bastard. WHERE ARE THE DRUGS YOU STOLE?”

“I sold them, you crazy bitch—sold them down in Astoria! People are willing to pay anything to keep their children alive, and those drugs set me up for life after this is all said and done! You think I’m here because of your crusade? I’m here for ME.”

Liz snarled and began to tighten her finger on the trigger, but Reuben and the twins pulled her off of him.

“Not like this, Liz,” he whispered.

Liz lowered the hammer of the pistol, and slid the safety on and backed away, still breathing heavy.

“The frakkin’ bitch SHOT me,” Adrian cried.

Vince cocked back his arm, and grabbed Adrian’s shirt. “You’re lucky she didn’t kill you, you little shit. Good night, Gracie.”

The fist descended like a bolt of lightning—and the double crack of the impact on the Adrian’s skull, and then the skull on the wall rang throughout the room. Adrian crumpled to the ground, out cold.

[masterarminas]

Chapter Twenty-Six

July 17, 2767
Black Watch Cache 19-Kilo, Wickup Mountain
North America, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)

Reuben found her a short while later in the conference room, her face buried in her hands as she leaned forward on her elbows. Her sidearm lay on the table. He drew in a deep breath.

“Sarah?”

Liz didn’t look up. “I know, Reuben, I know.”

The former architect turned guerilla fighter sat down across from her. For several moments neither said a word as they just sat there in silence. Finally, Liz leaned back in her seat, drew up her legs and wrapped her arms around her knees.

“How’s Janice?” she asked, her quiet calm voice fooling neither of them.

“Sleeping. Bear says that she needs those meds soon—within the next day, at the least—or the wound will get septic and we lose her.”

Liz nodded as Reuben paused, then he pressed onwards. “What do we do with Adrian?”

“I don’t know,” she lied. She did know, but right now she couldn’t—wouldn’t—accept it at the moment. “Lock him up in an EMPTY supply room, and don’t let him out until I get back.” She looked up at her friend and smiled with a crooked grin. “If I don’t get back, then he’s YOUR problem.”

“Going somewhere?”

“Astoria, Rube. Gotta get our girl Janice some drugs, don’t I.”

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

July 18th, 2767
Astoria
North America, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)

Liz walked along the mostly empty streets as the cold rain fell in thin sheets. This trip was dangerous; she knew that and knew that she should not be the one taking it. The others had protested as well, but she had overruled them all. She was the only one of the group who could open the cache—and the fewer on this jaunt the better, especially since Astoria was the headquarters for the 217th Shock Division. The corner of her lips twitched—the group. Come on, Liz, you've got to come up with something catchier than that. She shook her head, a shower of water erupting from her long, wet hair. Enough of that, time to concentrate on the job.

The rain tonight was keeping most of the enemy off of the streets, along with the population of the small city. Unlike many places where the anger had burst over after Rome, the people of Astoria recognized the folly of starting a fight in the middle of nine regiments of ‘Mechs, tanks, and mechanized infantry. Most of them stayed out of their way, hoping beyond hope that the soldiers would just leave them alone. Much as Liz did herself this evening. Passing the coffee shop—still open and full of customers, even at this late hour, she hurried past the light and into the sheltering darkness again. As she crossed the street, she glanced around her. Good, no one around. Kneeling down, she lifted the manhole cover and dropped below the street into the sewers.

She splashed down into the filth that man left beneath every city he built and placed a pair of night vision goggles over her eyes. The green amplified light showed the sewage tunnel as clear as daylight. Moving quickly she counted the access points and then stopped in front of an old, rusted switch box. The connections had been severed beneath the box, but Elizabeth still pried it open. Reaching into the refuse that filled it, she felt along the back side, as insects crawled over her hand, agitated that their nest had been disturbed. They couldn’t sting her through the glove she wore, though. She felt the breaker, and snapped it up and into place, quickly drawing out her hand and knocking the squirming maggots away.

With a grinding sound, a section of the tunnel wall opened and she stepped inside, slamming the switch box closed in her wake. A ramp sloped gently upwards inside the tunnel wall and she moved ten feet in, her hand counting the bricks as she passed them. On reaching twenty-three, she stopped and pressed hard, and the brick slid an inch into the wall, and then popped back out. Behind her, the hidden door closed and sealed tight.

At the top of the slope an armored blast door was set—a modern security access pad placed beside it.

She entered a long string of numbers and letters into the pad, and then removed her glove and placed her bare finger on the reader. The dim red light on the device considered for a few moments; then it turned green, and the door opened in a hiss of air as the pressure seals broke. She stepped inside, removing the goggles as lights began to flicker on. The room was about thirty feet across, with three more doors—to the right, the left, and on the back ball. Racks of weapons—modern SLDF small arms—and explosives filled it to capacity. Passing by the weapons, she made her way to the door on the right and passed through to a long hall-way, doors on set on either side.

Reaching one that read ‘MEDICAL’ she opened that door and pulled out Bear’s list from within her shirt. Grabbing an empty field bag, she began to open storage lockers and place the drugs within. After fifteen minutes, she had everything he said he needed—and more. From one bio-locked cabinet on the back wall, she extracted a single bottle; a bottle filled with little blue pills and marked with a skull and cross-bones. Swallowing hard, she put that bottle in her jacket pocket. Quickly, but methodically, she closed everything behind her as she made her way back to the entrance. Pausing, she looked back—no evidence that she had been here. Good, she thought, you can’t be too careful, Liz Hazen. She then left the cache, the blast door sealing behind her, creating a vacuum on the interior and automatically killing the lights and power inside. Elizabeth turned, and began making her way out through the horrid stench of the sewer.

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

Back on the streets, the rain had increased, falling heavier now. Good, she thought, less chance of being discovered. As she made her way back through the city, her ears caught a faint cry. From across the street—behind the wall separating Pacific Lutheran University from the rest of the city—there came a woman’s high-pitched shriek. She almost didn't go to help. She in fact began to walk away, walk away out of this nest of vipers and back to the mountains. But she stopped. She stopped and sighed as she realized that she couldn’t just walk away and leave more people behind. Not again. No, not again.

She turned and entered the campus through the open wrought iron gates. Across the front quad, she could see three Amaris soldiers, two holding the arms of a young co-ed. The third soldier had just ripped the woman's blouse and was roughly pinching her breast with one hand as the other fumbled with his zipper. Cursing her own stupidity once more, Liz walked across the quad towards the four. The soldiers were so intent on their prey that they never saw the real threat until she was on them.

The knife went into the back of the neck of the thug who had torn the woman's shirt. He jerked—dead but his body didn’t quite grasp that fully. Her open hand palm lashed out and smashed the second soldier in the throat. His larynx crushed, the man dropped to the ground, choking and gasping for air. The third soldier dropped the woman, and began to lift his sub-machine gun as Elizabeth cocked back her arm to throw the knife. Suddenly, the soldier stopped, his eyes wide, as he dropped the SMG and grabbed his crotch. The girl on the ground had thrust her arm straight up, electricity cracking from the TASER she had pulled from her bag.

Liz hurled the knife, catching the would-be rapist in the eye, and he too fell to the ground, his feet still twitching from the sudden and violent assault upon his nerves. She walked over to the woman and extended her hand, as the second soldier gave one last rattle and his legs jerked, and he grew still. The stench of their urine and feces filled the air, but the cleansing rain was washing it away.

The pretty young co-ed clutched the TASER so hard Liz could almost hear the plastic cracking. She looked up at her savior, and if she was in shock, she didn’t show it.

"Thank you," she said.

Liz nodded and then spied the comm-pad one of the soldiers had carried. It held a students—the girls—ID card, and it had just finished updating after asking their central HQ for a database search. Damn it!

"Come on. We've got to get out of here before more of them come."

The browned-haired woman just looked at her, blankly. Great, Liz thought, NOW she goes into shock. She knelt down and shook the young woman—HARD.

"Damn it, you stupid bitch, they've got your name! Do you want to be here when their buddies arrive?"

The woman snapped out of it, looked at Liz, and then looked at the reader and stood.

"No,” she said calmly, but her face was white with fear written across it, and her body shivered, making the water soaking her hair spray outwards, as she pulled her jacket tight across her bare upper body.

"Then come with me, girl. I'll take you someplace safe."

"Safe," she nearly let out a hysterical laugh. "There is no safe, anymore, neither here nor anywhere else."

Damn, Elizabeth thought, she grasped that quicker than many of my group had. "You might be right, but it's a place where those," she pointed to the dead men on the ground, "won't be. At least not if we move right the frak NOW, they won’t."

The woman stood and nodded. As the rain continued to fall, the two women made their way across Astoria under the cover of the darkness and the rain and the early morning fog already beginning to flow in from the sea.

Elizabeth looked at the young woman—girl, really, not even twenty yet, she thought. “I’m Sarah, Sarah Copland."

The woman turned her head and stared at Liz for several seconds, then nodded. "Lisa Buhallin."

"Well, Lisa, it's time to go and leave this place far, far behind."

“Can I ask you something, Sarah?”

“Sure, just keep it low.”

“When we get where we are going, wherever that is, can you teach me to do what you did back there? I don’t ever intend to be a victim again, you see.”

Liz smiled. Yes, the girl would do just fine with the rest of the group. “We will teach you that and whole lot of other nastiness, girl. All I ask is that you give me your best—your all. You do that, Lisa, and by the time this is over—if we survive—no one will ever be able to do that to you again.”

“Good.”

[masterarminas]

Chapter Twenty-Seven

July 23, 2767
Black Watch Cache 19-Kilo, Wickup Mountain
North America, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)

Liz nodded to the two guards Vince had posted outside the supply room that now served as a cell. Ned, the tall one, nodded gravely back at her and unlocked the door, holding it open for her to enter. Within was a bare concrete room, even the shelves had been removed. Adrian sat on the floor, a thick compress of bandages tied down tightly over his ruined knee. His boots, belt, and clothing had been taken away, leaving him only with a pair of shorts and a tee-shirt. Just an old bed-pan had been left. The stench arising from it was quite ripe, as well.

She walked in as Danni, the short one, brought her a chair and sat it on the floor facing the prisoner. The former officer of the Black Watch waited until she heard the door close and lock and then she sat. Still just staring at the wreck of a man before her. For an eternity, neither said a word.

“Sarah . . . “

“Shut up, Adrian. I don’t want your excuses or your reasons. I don’t want to hear you beg. The simple truth is I can’t trust you anymore. Which means I can’t let you go. Tomorrow, I am going to take you outside and shoot you in the back of the head. And then we are going to bury you. Tomorrow, Adrian.”

Liz stood, slid her hand into her jacket pocket and withdrew a small bottle of drugs. Without another word, she set the bottle on the floor, turned and pounded twice on the door. Picking up the chair, she left.

Adrian crawled across the floor and picked up the bottle. The long name was meaningless, but the symbol he could read just fine. He closed his eyes and began crying, as he yelled at the door. “I’m sorry! Please, I’m sorry!”


July 24, 2767
Black Watch Cache 19-Kilo, Wickup Mountain
North America, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)

“He took some of these, I don’t know how many exactly,” Bear said, setting the medicine bottle on the table, spilling out a few of the little blue pills, as the quiver in his hand knocked it over on its side. “I don’t even know WHAT the HELL kind of drug this is—the name is pure nonsense, and it’s not in the database. How the Hell did you people not find this bottle on him when you put him there?”

Vince glowered at Bear, as Bernie cracked his knuckles. “He didn’t have anything on him except a pair of shorts and a shirt. Unless it was shoved up his . . . “

“I gave it to him,” Liz said from the head of table. “Yesterday, I gave him the bottle.”

Everyone at the table froze and looked at her, sitting there calm, cool, and collected. “If I hadn’t, then I would have had to kill him myself today. Take him outside and put a bullet in his skull.”

Silence filled the room as the men and women of her inner council absorbed the bald words.

Liz sneered at them. “Did you think this was a GAME, people? He betrayed us for MONEY—if we sent him on his way, Rim troops would be here in a day, maybe two. Keep him locked up? While we move from cache to cache? Eventually we are going to run out of these hidey-holes and then what? Cart him around in shackles until Kerensky comes back with the whole damned Army?”

Bear trembled as he stood. “You had no RIGHT, Captain. Not without talking to us about it.”

He jerked his arm away from Reuben as the older man reached up to him. “Was it easier just letting him OD than looking him in the eye and pulling that trigger? Was it, Sarah?”

She stared right at the young doctor and the others at the table felt the chill of that unflinching gaze. “Get one thing straight, Bear, and get it straight right now. I have no problem putting a bullet in anyone, not anymore I don’t. We’ve lost too much to risk everything because of a traitor among us. If one of you betrays us, I will kill you. And lose no sleep over it. Regardless of who you are. I gave him the Final Escape tablets because if I took him and shot him dead, then half of you would up and walk away. It would be wrong, wouldn’t it; no trial, no chance to defend himself, and death by firing squad isn’t the penalty for theft, right? Right, Bear?”

Sliding her chair back, she stood up and placed her hands on the table. “Now you have a choice—all of you. Make it now. What do you tell the group?”

“Sarah, did he take them himself or did you . . .” Reuben’s voice trailed off.

She laughed. “Oh, Reuben. No, I didn’t force him to swallow the pills. I left him the whole bottle, after I told him he had twenty-four hours left to live. And that I was going to be his executioner. He swallowed them himself sometime after I left.”

Bernie looked at Vince, and with some sort of unseen, unspoken communication, both twins shrugged at the same time. “The frakker offed himself, seems simple enough to me,” Bernie said.

“I’ve got no problem with it,” said Vince.

“I DO!” yelled Bear. “First do no harm—that’s the frakking oath I swore, Captain. MY OATH!” he sat down heavily, tears leaking from his eyes as he squeezed his hands together tightly. “My god, have we come to this? Killing ourselves off because of a mistake?”

“MISTAKE?” hissed Liz. “It wasn’t any mistake, Bear. Adrian knew exactly what he was doing, and that it could hurt us. HE DIDN’T CARE. He didn’t care that taking the antibiotics might have killed Janice. He didn’t care that you didn’t have the supplies you need if someone else comes in shot up and in pain. HE DIDN’T CARE ABOUT US,” she lowered her head and tried to calm down. “He only cared about himself. And next time he could have sold us all out to Amaris; can you imagine how much the Rimmers are offering for us, Bear? How long could he have resisted that, especially if one of you pissed him off?”

“We could have . . . we should have . . . oh God,” Bear sobbed as he clasped his hands to his mouth.

Reuben leaned over and placed his arm around Bear, pulling him into his chest and holding him tight. “She’s right, Bear. He was too dangerous to keep around and too dangerous to let go. Just let it all go, son, let it go.” Bear sobbed in his arms as Reuben patted him on the back, and then turned his head to Liz, pointing his chin at the drugs on the table. “Keep those, those suicide pills in a safe place, Sarah. There may come a day when we count having them as a blessing.”

Liz put the tablets on the table back in the bottle, and placed the bottle in her pocket. “Vince, will you see to his burial?” she asked on her way out the door.

“Not a problem, Captain,” he whispered. “Not a problem.”

[masterarminas]

Chapter Twenty-Eight

September 1, 2767
5 kilometers from Fort Preston Lee
North America, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)

They crept through the thick undergrowth as silent and invisible as panthers in the dark woods. The entire group was deployed on this mission—and each wore the best field gear possible. Cache 19-Kilo had enough supplies that finally every last person in her teams had armored fatigues, night-vision helmets, and weapons. And explosives, we can’t forget the explosives, she thought. Every man and woman carried a R-11, plus a sidearm and a combat knife. Vince and Bernie—two of her ‘heavy’ weapons team leaders—each carried an ancient MG-79D machine-gun in place of the combat rifle. Cradled in their beefy arms, the bulky weapons looked like assault rifles. The four men assigned to their teams—two to each of the former linemen—carried heavy loads of ammo for the voracious weapons.

Two more heavy weapons teams—of two men each—were also here tonight. But they carried a single dual launcher for man-portable SRMs—Short Range Missiles. One carried the launcher, the other a dozen reloads. Almost all of the rest of her forty-two people were carrying two SRM rockets as well, or another belt of the machine-gun ammo. They had learned from the simulators they had run through—ammo was cheap, lives aren’t. Not in the grand scheme of things.

Right now, the group was spread out across two hundred meters of dense Northwest rain forest, making their way slowly and carefully down the steep hillside towards the stream at the bottom. Ahead of her, the man on point—José—raised his right fist and slowly sank down to a squatting position. Liz—and the rest of her team that could see José—did the same. So did those following behind her.

She listened to the sounds of the woods at night, trying to pick up what José had seen or heard. Then she saw it down below along the stream bed. A pair of Rim infantry troopers was walking the perimeter, one holding the leash for a dog. The soldiers were alert, and scanned the surrounding forest with the night-vision gear in their helmets—but her teams were in thick brush. Their fatigues shielded them from giving off heat signatures as well, except at the lower legs and feet, and the ferns covered that signal. The dog stopped and sniffed—but the SLDF gear included scent neutralizing agents infused within the clothing. Detecting nothing more than a few wild rabbits, maybe a distant deer or elk, the dog resumed its trot alongside the Rim troopers. After a few more moments—an eternity—they passed around a bend in the stream and out of sight.

José stood, and waved forward with his left hand, his rifle held tight against his body. Liz and rest stood and once again began to pick their way down the slope.

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

In the base of the stream—hidden among the rocks brought down from the mountains by glaciers eons past—they quickly found the old storm drain leading from the ruins beneath what had become Fort Preston Lee. Centuries ago, there had been a military base here—cast aside by the Terran Alliance—that had fallen into ruin. After the formation of the Star League, the new government had built a new base—and buried the old beneath the foundations. It was cheaper than clearing the old foundations and structures, after all. But the Corps of Engineers had used the old drainage systems as a way to keep the Fort dry. After all, why dig new ones, when the old ones would work just as well? But they hadn’t worked all that well. So, one hundred and thirty-five years ago, Preston Lee received brand new storm drains, leading down to the Columbia basin. Big drainage tunnels that would not become obstructed or jammed, with tunnels large enough to allow soldiers to bypass the perimeter. So the SLDF had placed monitoring systems in the new tunnels, and those systems had worked. And they slowly forgot about the old ones.

The Rimmers probably didn’t even know the old tunnels still existed. After all, so many ancient towns and bases had been in this area that they were always finding something new that turned out to be ancient and led to nowhere. But they did know the security center at Preston Lee monitored the drainage systems. And they depended on those systems to protect them from infiltration.

But the old, forgotten ones were not monitored. Vince and Bernie, along with José and the rocket teams and twenty-five of her riflemen were setting up a covering position upslope. Reuben was with her, though, along with fourteen more riflemen—the ones carrying the plastique.

Leslie and Gail wrapped therma-cord around the old grate and then backed up, trailing a long wire behind them. Gail attached it to a remote and twisted the handle. A brief sputter hissed as flaring light erupted and then died away. Holding her rifle tight against her chest, Liz walked up to the now open grate and crossed over to the tunnels within, the rest of her team following behind.

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

It took three hours to slowly walk—occasionally crawl—through the tunnels. But her inertial mapper said this was the spot. Above them was a ladder leading to a sealed hatch. And according to the construction plans, above that hatch was the main drainage tunnels. This deep inside the perimeter, there were no longer any monitoring systems—why should there be? Anyone entering the tunnels would have passed a dozen or more already, after all.

The problem was, the hatch had been covered by two inches of concrete and rebar. But that wouldn’t be a problem for long. Liam climbed the ladder and applied a thick coat of perma-seal—an epoxy that formed a nearly indestructible bond—and then carefully set loop after loop of therma-cord. Once that was sealed in placed, he applied more perma-seal and slowly pressed heavy ceramic plates into place. The heat-resistant ceramic would direct the force of the thermite charge up and through the steel and concrete, carving a nice neat hole, without a loud explosion.

His job done, he scampered back down, trailing the wires behind him. Giving them to Leslie, he hunkered down, as did Liz and the rest. Another hissing sputter, another flash of light, and a round steel and concrete disk slammed down into the water of the old tunnel; the heat from the edges causing steam to rise and the stagnant mess to bubble and boil.

Liz slowly counted to two hundred, giving the concrete and metal time to cool, then said “Go.”

Mason and Terry were the first up—and neither man fired, or was fired upon. She hurried over to the ladder and began to climb up.

It took only three minutes for the entire team to assemble, and then Liz pointed down one of the connecting tunnels—the one headed north. They followed that tunnel for five minutes until they could see shafts of light from above. The light descended from the ‘Mech hanger being used by the 22nd Amaris Dragoons, just four meters over their heads; one hundred and eight ‘Mechs were housed there, less those out on patrol. And she planned to blow it to hell.

The team worked quickly, planting the explosives along the side of the tunnel. Beyond the tunnel wall on that side was the bunkers used to store the liquid hydrogen used to fuel the fusion power generators of the ‘Mechs, at least according to the construction plans. To breach the wall and the armored fuel bunker, she and the fifteen men and women of her team each carried fifteen kilos of plastique explosive—just about everything that 19-Kilo had on hand. They worked quickly, Reuben directing them, as Liz stood watch.

From above they could hear the Rimmers shouting to each other as cutting and welding torches flared and metal plates screeched as sections of armor were being pulled apart to allow the Techs to reach some defunct component. A few sparks and pieces of molten metal dripped down, but their fatigues protected them from injury. As they placed the explosives under Reuben’s direction, they worked quietly, making no sound that could be heard above.

Finally, the charges were set, and Liz placed the detonator. She waited until her team had already begun to retrace their steps, and then set the clock to four hours. As she pressed the button, its display changed to 3:59:59, then 3:59:58, but she was already following in their footsteps.

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

As the group made their way back towards 19-Kilo, Liz felt a buzz on her arm from her watch. She lifted her right fist and turned back to the west. Ten seconds later, a massive fireball lit the sky, and then the sound of the concussion reached them. She smiled, and turned back towards the cache, slogging onward.


September 3, 2767
Black Watch Cache 19-Kilo, Wickup Mountain
North America, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)


Lisa Buhallin sat on the outcropping of rock scribbling away in a journal book. She was so intent on her work that she did not notice Liz approaching until she heard the soprano voice.

“Mind if I join you, Lisa?”

The young woman looked up at the soldier. She seems so tired, Lisa thought. “Why not, Sarah.”

Liz sat down next to her and took a sip from a canteen. Tomorrow, they would have to move on—this area would very quickly become too hot after the raid night before last. But for now, she could just sit and enjoy the view.

She glanced over at what Lisa was sketching, and was surprised to see a stylized version of the Black Watch crest, surrounded by spectres or banshees or some other spirit thingee.

“What is that?”

Lisa looked up at her. “I like to record my thoughts as they happen, so I don’t forget anything that could be important. This came to me in dream earlier this afternoon. They were like ghosts in the night out there in the woods, Sarah. Vengeful ghosts of those who were murdered; returned among the living to mete out true justice to their killers. We are not guerillas or insurgents or terrorists—we are the Ghosts of the Black Watch. And we shall not sleep until justice is gained for our honored dead.”

Liz’s jaw dropped. “It’s not Sarah, my name. It’s time I shared the truth with all of you Ghosts—really began to trust in you, Lisa Buhallin. I am Captain Elizabeth Hazen of the Royal Black Watch Regiment—and you have just named us.”

“No, Captain Elizabeth Hazen—you named yourselves. You just couldn’t see it because you were too close.”

Liz gave the young woman a tight hug. Yes, she would do fine.

[masterarminas]

Okay . . . some folks have privately expressed their dismay that Book II seems to be focused on a different cast of characters than Book I. I was expecting that; same thing happened when I first posted this . . . elsewhere. Therefore, I have gone ahead and posted ALL of Part I of Blood and Steel; Part II will begin tomorrow with a return to Asta and the characters of Stephen Cameron, Minoru Kurita, Aleksandyr Kerensky, etc., etc., etc.

This concludes our public service announcement.

MA

[LadyTevar]

Personally, I had no problems with it. I understood immediately what we were seeing: how Terrans were reacting to the Coup, how they were dealing with the terror on them.

And I have been enjoying every minute of it. Many will argue over Pavel's death, but we know he was dead before the explosion. Elizabeth and her Ghost Squad have been making things lively for the Isurper, and I won't be surprised if the BlackWatch gets a Ghost Battalion after a Cameron is back on the Throne.

Thank you for posting all of Part I, for showing us these new characters. Please, continue posting, this is good stuff and I want to see how it finishes.

[masterarminas]

Part II

Chapter Twenty-Nine

December 27, 2767
Fort Tobias Harrison
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony

Even for Asta, the morning was cold, but the skies were clear. In the early morning sky the constellations closely resembled those of Old Earth, just twenty-eight light years distant. The field was quiet as the man walked out on the carefully maintained grass. He was fairly short, but stocky, and if age had caused his muscles to lose some of their temper it failed to show in his appearance. He wore SLDF combat fatigues, but not the heavy body armor that would normally be layered atop. Underneath the fatigues he wore a cool-sock—an insulating body suit originally designed for MechWarriors and vehicle crews to manage their body heat in cockpits and crew compartments that could become furnaces—that ensured his core temperature did not drop too much in the frigid air.

Instead of a helmet, he wore a garrison cap. And about his neck, a whistle descended on a length of para-cord. The man looked down at his watch, and then up at the sky. It was slowly brightening in the east. Tucking the clipboard he carried beneath one arm, he turned to face the flagpole set in the center of the field—spotlights gleaming up from the four cardinal points. A five man detail stood by, waiting for the time. It arrived, and the bugle sounded as two of the men attached the flag to the line and a third began raising it. The man snapped to attention and cocked his right arm in salute as the flag of the Star League rose over the field.

The cold was intense, but his bare hand did not tremble, his body did not shiver; he stood there at attention until the flag was fully raised and fluttered in the stiff wind. And then, in time with the distant detail, he lowered his salute once, and raised it again. The detail lowered the flag to half-mast, and the bugle died away. The man lowered his arm and glanced once again at his watch, then at the sky. Thin streaks of golden light were appearing far, far above, but the horizon was still dark.

The man turned back towards the barracks facing the field, and stood at parade rest, his hands joined behind his back, still holding the clip board. A look of disgust spread across his face.

“WHY IS YOUR SERGEANT-MAJOR STANDING ALONE ON THE PARADE FIELD?” he bellowed. Lights snapped on in the barracks, and whistles blew as his cohorts—already briefed and waiting—set upon the new troopers within. They pushed and prodded the half-asleep, half-naked men and women out of the building and onto the parade field. Some of the new arrivals had been through this before, in other units, on other worlds, in better times—they were the ones dressed for the weather.

He waited, until the one hundred and twenty men and women were standing before him in lines of thirty, four ranks deep. Then he began to walk along the lines, shaking his head.

“My name is Sergeant-Major Gerald Howe, of the Star League Defense Forces. You may call me SIR. Better yet, you will not address me what-so-ever until you have earned the right to do so, or unless I ask you a direct question. Each of you has volunteered to join the Royal Black Watch. Every one of you has stepped forward to serve the Star League. And for my sins, I get to see if you have what it takes to become one of us.”

Gerald stopped and looked at tall, burly man, dressed in field fatigues. “YOU. What is your name?”

“MechWarrior Abraham Stolz, 3rd Davion Guards, SIR!”

“WE HAVE NO RANKS HERE AMONG YOU MAGGOTS. NONE! Stolz, why are you turned out in that fashion?”

“Sir, it is the uniform of the day, Sir!”

“THEN WHY IS THE REST OF YOUR CLASS NOT WEARING IT, STOLZ? YOU HAD TIME TO GET DRESSED, WHY DIDN’T YOU WAKE THEM?”

“Sir, I, ah . . .”

“SHUT YOUR HOLE.”

“We are not a line unit. WE are not a PARADE unit. We are the best trained killers and breakers and body-guards in the entire FRAKKING HISTORY OF MANKIND! And we are a team. With one purpose. TO KEEP THE FRAKKIN FIRST LORD AND HIS FAMILY ALIVE! DO YOU GET ME?”

A ragged chorus yelled out, “Sir, yes, Sir!”

“If, IF, any of you are accepted into our ranks at the end of this course, then you will have earned the right to be here. To stand among us. To stand post ready to defend the First Lord with your FRAKKIN LIFE if need be. Right now, I don’t know what your unit commanders were thinking. Sending me a bunch of frak-ups and retards and babies who want to suckle at mommies breast. I AM NOT AMUSED, PEOPLE!”

“We are the best of the best. And you have to earn your place here. You have ten minutes to be properly dressed and back on the parade field from the sound of my whistle. If any of you children decide that you want to go home—be in that nice warm barracks one second after that. Those of you who are dressed, you will do calisthenics while the rest of your class gets ready. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?”

“Sir, yes, Sir!”

“I don’t give a damn if you are Davion or Kurita; Astan or long-service SLDF trooper; a pacifist from the frakkin Outworlds Alliance or a former frakkin pirate. THE ONLY WAY YOU ARE GOING TO BE ACCEPTED TO SHOW ME YOU HAVE HEART.”

“STOLZ!”

“Sir, yes, Sir!”

“Do you know who they named this post after?”

“Sir, no, Sir!”

“A sixteen year old kid. A kid who didn’t know jack—but a kid who had heart. HE HAD COURAGE AND IT WAS MY HONOR TO KNOW HIM. Because he died taking a bullet meant for the First Lord. HE DIED DOING YOUR JOB. Some of you will die—believe it. BUT IF WE ACCEPT YOU THEN NONE OF YOU WILL EVER BACK DOWN OR RUN AGAIN. BECAUSE YOU ARE WHAT?”

“Sir, the best, Sir!”

“BULL TURDS! RIGHT NOW YOU PEOPLE ARE NOTHING. UNTIL I SAY YOU ARE SOMETHING. ALL I ASK IS THAT YOU SHOW ME YOU HAVE HEART! WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR, YOUR TEN MINUTES JUST STARTED!” He picked up the whistle and blew it, and the formation disintegrated as the shivering men and women ran for the barracks and their clothes. Seventeen men and women remained—wearing the uniform of the day.

Gerald walked up to the Davion Guardsman and smiled. “Stolz, let us begin this morning with something to warm you up. ASSUME THE FRONT LEANING REST POSISTION!”

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

Four hours of calisthenics later, Gerald walked down the lines, looking at the sweating, straining volunteers. He stopped and knelt next to one young woman who was struggling to wring out one more push-up.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Just give up. Give up and go back to being whatever the hell you were before you got here. There’s no shame in it.”

“Sir, NO, sir!” she grunted, as her arms locked. The non-com nodded and patted her on the shoulder as he stood and watched the rest. “CLASS, HALT! Remain in the front leaning position.”

“Welcome to hell, maggots. For the next four weeks, you belong to me. Anyone want to quit now—cause I guarantee it is going to get worse? No. Ok, then. ON YOUR FEET!”

The volunteers stumbled up from the ground. All of them were breathing heavy—some looked ready to drop. Easy, Ger, he thought to himself. Can’t wash them all out, not on the first day.

“CLASS, ATTEN—HUT!”

They snapped to attention, a few weaving slightly with the blood rushing back into their heads.

“One year ago today, First Lord Richard Cameron was assassinated by Stefan Amaris. His entire family—except Stephen Cameron and his daughter—died shortly thereafter. In order to accomplish that, Amaris had to kill every last serving and former member of the Old Regiment. Today is a day of mourning for the rest of the universe—but for us, it’s just another day. I want you to think about what the Old Regiment did a year ago today—and how they died. Cause if you remain here, if you are accepted among us, there might come a day when you have to decide how dearly you sell yourself. Go get some chow—we reassemble at 1100 hours in the barracks to start your real educations. CLASS DISMISSED!”

[masterarminas]

Chapter Thirty

January 17, 2768
Fort Tobias Harrison
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony

Gerald Howe shook his head as he scowled at the corporal driving the jeep slowly across the Fort. Strangely enough, his look of displeasure seemed not to faze the young man, which only increased his frustration.

“Sorry, Sergeant-Major, the speed limit applies to everyone—even the top kick,” the young man repeated himself.

“Son, if you don’t get the lead out of your trousers and into that boot, I will have you on every shit-detail this post has to offer, I swear to God.”

The driver grinned, not taking his eyes off of the road. “But Sergeant-Major, you have arrived,” he chuckled as he turned the wheel and slid the vehicle into a parking slot alongside the temporary headquarters of the Royal Black Watch Regiment.

The old non-com opened his door and stepped out, then stopped and glared back at the driver. “You wait right here. As soon as I find out just what has gotten so screwed up that I get pulled back from a field exercise to straighten it out, you are going to take me back to where you found me. Got that, Corp?”

“Yes, Sergeant-Major Howe. Wait for you right here—got it.”

Gerald slammed the door shut and stormed into the building.

“All right McCormick, just what the hell is so important it couldn’t wait until I finished today’s exercise?”

The sergeant seated as the desk rose as he entered the room—but it wasn’t Irene McCormick. He had never seen this NCO before, and the man was wearing the shoulder flash of the Black Watch on his undress uniform.

“Good morning, Sergeant-Major,” he said. “Sergeant McCormick has been relieved, on the orders of the new commanding officer of the Regiment, Colonel Barclay. If you would care to take a seat, I will inform the Colonel that you have arrived.”

“New commanding officer, Master Sergeant, ah Franklin?” Gerald read the noncoms name from the plaque set on Irene’s desk. “Why wasn’t I informed of any personnel changes?”

“The SLDF is not in the habit of informing non-critical personnel of every change of command, Sergeant-Major. Colonel Barclay likes to make a surprise inspection of the units he is appointed to command.”

“So you have served with him before?”

“For five years, Sergeant-Major,” Franklin answered as he lifted his telephone and whispered into it. He nodded and set it back in the receiver. “Go right in, Sergeant-Major.”

Gerald nodded and walked back to the office of the commanding officer—always in the same location in the modular one-size-fits-all modular buildings that the SLDF seemed to be stuck with for quick assembly in the field. There was no name on the door, but he rapped the polymer casting twice, and was rewarded with a “Come!” from the other side. He opened the door and stepped in, closing it behind him, and took three steps towards the desk.

Snapping to attention, he saluted the Colonel and barked out, “Sir, Sergeant-Major Gerald Howe, reporting as ordered, Sir!”

The man was immaculate in his field undress uniform—complete with service ribbons. The ribbons showed he had twenty years in the service, and plenty of awards—but not a single one for combat. Great, Gerald thought, a frakkin REMF. None of his hairs were out of place, though they were thinning atop the crown of the head. A crown he could see clearly, because this officer did not look up. No, he kept staring at a file folder while Gerald stood there and held the salute.

Finally, he looked up, and Gerald could see the ice in his eyes.

“Stand easy, Sergeant-Major. As you are do doubt aware, I am Colonel Patrick Barclay—the officer designated to command this regiment. You have never served with me before; a pity, that. If you had, then you would know how disappointed I am in the status of this unit. Were you aware that only the NCOIC was present at headquarters this morning on my arrival?”

“Of course you were,” Barclay pressed on before Gerald had a chance to reply. “And you knew it was a violation of regulations. ‘When in garrison, all units of the line shall maintain a headquarters staff consisting of the commanding officer, the executive officer, their aides and assistants, the regimental operations officer, the regimental intelligence officer, their aides and assistants, plus a staff of non-commissioned officers and enlisted personnel reporting to the Non-Commissioned Officer in Charge, to facilitate the processing and handling of reports, service records, and semi-annual qualifications.’ ‘Such non-commissioned officer and enlisted personnel shall consist of one person for every twenty serving members of the regiment of the line.” I believe that those are the pertinent regulations, Sergeant-Major, yes? I am waiting, Sergeant-Major.”

Gerald Howe took a deep breath to steady the sinking feeling in his gut; great, he thought, just frakkin great. “Sir, Colonel Barclay, Sir; yes those are the regulations as they apply to regiments of the line. The Black Watch has never been considered as such, however, Sir. With our current lack of personnel, it would be a waste of manpower to post such an extensive HQ staff—right now we are strained to find enough qualified manpower to fill the protection details and handle the training of the new personnel.”

“Regulations, Sergeant-Major, are not impediments to get in our way. They exist for a reason. And as for my Regiment not being a combat unit, that is a gross misperception.”

“Line unit, Sir, not . . . “

“Don’t you dare interrupt me!” Barclay sprang out of his seat, placing both hands on the desk, and leaned across to put his face inches away from Gerald’s nose. “I will not tolerate insolence or insubordination, Sergeant-Major! NONE. Which is why Sergeant McCormick was escorted to the stockade by base military police shortly before you arrived. Master Sergeant Franklin is preparing the report for her court-martial—of course, she cannot remain in my Regiment.”

Gerald counted to three, making certain that Barclay was not going to continue. “I am certain that it was misunderstanding, Sir. Sergeant McCormick has proven herself in combat and as . . . “

“That trooper threw away anything she had done in the past when she violated the UCMJ, Sergeant-Major. There was no misunderstanding, I assure YOU,” he said as he sat once more and picked up a thick file. “This Regiment is the premier unit of the entire SLDF, Sergeant-Major Howe. It is the very best that the Defense Force has to offer. Which brings us to you. Twenty-seven years of active duty service, the last six assigned to Diplomatic Protection Services—that is Foreign Affairs, not SLDF. Explain.”

“My last platoon leader was Stephen Cameron, Sir. When he was wounded and discharged from service I requested to be reassigned to his detail.”

“Climbing the ladder of ambition, eh, Sergeant-Major?”

“No, Sir. I wanted to continue to serve the finest officer I have ever known—even if it meant leaving the Marines.”

“Nearly five years on Terra with the First Lord—only he was not at the time—followed by a year here on Asta. First as his detail commander, and then as the senior NCO of the reformed Black Watch. Let’s talk about your protection detail, Sergeant-Major. You came here with eighteen men and women—plus yourself—and today only five, six if we include you, survive. You lost over two-thirds of your first command.”

“We evaded Amaris forces for nearly ten months until the Liberation, Sir. And we fulfilled our primary mission—keeping Lord Cameron and his family safe.”

“Yes, you did, which is why you assigned to the Regiment, Sergeant-Major. Sentiment, no doubt, played a part in that assignment. I have a slight problem, however; you are not qualified for a position within it.”

“Sir?”

“The Royal Black Watch Regiment—please note that use of the word ‘Royal’—is the elite of the elite. All of our members must be graduates of the Advanced Tactical Combat Course on Mars. For MechWarriors—such as myself—such graduates gain the honor of wearing the crossed six-guns of the Gunslingers. Armor, VTOL, and infantry have their own designations and nicknames of course, as do our artillery and aerospace assets. You have never attended ATCC, have you, Sergeant-Major?”

“No, Sir.”

“And neither have the five members of your detail—Master Sergeant Pappas and Sergeants Candless, Dietrich, Rayborn, and Schell. None of you are qualified for this assignment. What is more, Sergeant-Major, is that you all have missed your last two semi-annual fitness tests and weapon qualifications. As of today, you are relieved of duty. You and the five personnel I named will report tomorrow morning at 0600 to base medical to undergo your testing, followed by range time for your weapon quals.”

“Sir, we were behind enemy lines!”

“That does not excuse the fact that you have not met your requirements. If you and your people fail to pass—and my standard for admittance to this Regiment is far higher than the SLDF pass/fail line—then you will be either reassigned or discharged, depending on the severity of your failure.”

A vein on Gerald’s head began throbbing as he stared at the man seated before him.

“Dietrich and Schell shall be reassigned regardless, Sergeant-Major. As I believe that I have said, we are a ROYAL Regiment—that means that only native born Hegemony citizens are allowed entrance. Neither of them was born on a Hegemony world.”

“Have you cleared this with the First Lord—or Tai-Sa Tanaka, Sir?”

“Tai-Sa Tanaka and his DEST detachment will be returning to Kurita service. I issued orders less than an hour ago for him to be placed on the next transport off-world. And as for the First Lord, no Sergeant-Major, I have not. The command of this regiment—and its personnel—is mine, not his. His job is to rule the Star League—mine is to keep him safe. I need not clear any personnel changes with him or his office.”

Gerald’s jaw dropped, and Barclay smiled. “Now, before you are dismissed, why have you changed the Table of Organization and Equipment for my Regiment, Sergeant-Major? Sergeant-Major?” Barclay continued in a sour voice as Gerald stood in front of him, utterly and completely stunned.

Finally, the NCO shook his head. “Sir, traditionally, the Black Watch consists of three ‘Mech battalions and a jump infantry battalion, plus a company of armor, two of VTOLs, and a wing of aerospace fighters. But that was when the First Lord had the entire First Army and the Reagan SDS as back-stops. With the current conflict—and the need to provide constant security against assassination attempts—Tai-Sa Tanaka and I decided to reverse the proportions. One battalion of ‘Mechs—Gunslingers, of course, with substantial combat experience—and three battalions of the best damned grunts we could find, plus the supporting elements. That is why we requested the Nighthawk XXI powered armor suits for the infantry—they give far better protection and let us carry heavier weapons, without a loss of mobility. When combined with the stealth and onboard ECM, plus the sensor arrays, it makes two troopers the equal of a squad. Now for the personnel themselves, we picked only the best candidates—regardless of their place of birth—but required them to undergo both mechanical and chemical interrogation. The ones we started through the program are fanatical in their personal loyalty to the First Lord—that, Sir, was our number one priority.”

“Do you know how much the Nighthawk suits cost, Sergeant-Major? The High Command did not assign them to the Black Watch because we don’t NEED them. WE are not going to be dropped atop of Geneva or Unity City, after all. Three battalions of irreplaceable suits—all the factories that produce them are in the hands of Amaris—are a little bit much, no? The requisitions have been withdrawn. And as for the reorganization—it is denied; three battalions of ‘Mechs with one of infantry is the correct proportions for this Regiment and we will return to it.”

Barclay slid a piece of paper across the desk, rows of names appearing on it. “Here is a list of all those that did not meet my qualifications, Sergeant-Major. Would you care to inform them, or shall I?”

Gerald bent down and lifted the paper; it was filled with over three-quarters of those in the three separate training classes and two-thirds of the current personnel.

“Sir, you can’t just cut these people. We need . . . “

“I would advise you, Sergeant-Major—while you still remain a Sergeant-Major—not to tell me what I can or cannot do. This REGIMENT needs to be filled according to regulations. Not with a bunch of foreign CRIMINALS, Sergeant-Major. Take this man Stolz, for example: a Davion Guardsman with a felonious record for vehicular theft—forty-seven over the course of thirty months.”

“Sir, Abraham Stolz was a fifteen year old kid when he learned to boost cars for his gang—and never assaulted anyone while doing it. When he was arrested and brought before the magistrate at the age of seventeen, he was given a choice—to join the AFFS or go to jail. He chose the AFFS and the magistrate dropped the charges once he was certain that Stolz would not return to his former lifestyle. Since then, his record has been pristine. And you are deluding yourself, Sir, if you think that the ability to hot-wire any ground vehicle in existence in less than fifteen seconds is a skill that the First Lord might not need someday!”

“You will watch that tone with me, Sergeant-Major. I will not bring you up on charges—yet—but you are confined to quarters until your exams and quals tomorrow morning. During that time, you may not communicate with anyone except the MPs; who are ever so fortunately waiting outside. I must say, Howe, you have certainly lived down to my expectations. Dismissed, Sergeant-Major.”

Gerald Howe—Regimental Sergeant-Major of the Royal Black Watch Regiment—turned in place without a salute and walked out of the office. Waiting for him were two burly looking troopers from the 147th MP Battalion, assigned to Fort Harrison. Master Sergeant Franklin wore a smile that told Gerald it had all been planned—and that simpering syphocant was in line to become the new RSM. He shook his head in disgust. Barclay was one of the most bone-headed idiot REMFs he had ever met. ‘The command of this regiment—and its personnel—is mine, not his.’ ‘I need not clear any personnel changes with him or his office.’ He smiled. Too bad he would not be here to witness the eruption when Stephen learned of this field-grade ass. He smiled, and the chuckles began.

One of the MPs stepped forward. “Sergeant-Major, I’m sorry, but we have orders to escort you to your quarters. Sergeant-Major? Sergeant-Major, are you ok?”

The MPs nearly called an ambulance, Gerald was laughing so hard.

[masterarminas]

Chapter Thirty-One

January 17, 2768
Branson House, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony

Aaron DeChevilier took a long pull from the San Martino cigar that the First Lord had offered him. Part of the personality he had forged long ago, the cigars he smoked tended to the cheap and irritating—good for annoying staff pukes and the bureaucrats. He only smoked the good cigars in the midst of a fight, or in the company of a few select friends. But for a San Martino, he would make an exception. He had arrived at Asta three days ago with the vanguard of the vast shoal of ships bearing the armed might of the SLDF. It had to have set some sort of record, he thought, as he released the smooth, rich smoke in a perfect ring that floated up into the air. We raced from Terra to New Vandenberg with almost half the Regular Army—and fought the separatists for a year and a half before word of the Coup arrived. Then we cut orders and made plans for the entire surviving SLDF—less the handful of divisions and regiments selected to probe the defenses of the Hegemony—to rendezvous more than a thousand light-years away on the other side of known space to invade Amaris’s home worlds. We fought another bitter campaign against the fanatical holdouts in the forts that WE built in the first place, all the while reorganizing men and machines into completely new—but battle-hardened—formations. THEN, we raced back to Asta, another journey of five hundred or so light-years, almost back to where it began. And we did it all in less than three years. More than two thousand light-years traveled, and scores of battles fought.

Only his vanguard had so far arrived—three Field Armies to join what was left of Montoya’s 11th. Two of his Corps had departed a month earlier with Prince Davion and his own AFFS Corps to relieve the Marines still holding out on Carver V. That assault should be taking place tomorrow. Montoya’s remaining Corps—V Corps, the Victory Corps—had remained behind on Asta to reinforce the 3rd RCT, the ‘Ridgeback’ Brigade, and the Combine forces led by Minoru Kurita himself. The remaining eight Field Armies he had set forth into motion would be arriving over the next month. Two more—8th and 13th—commanded by General Andrea Bates, had remained in the Rim Worlds to protect those worlds, and ensure that the Rim Worlders understood just how much their situation had changed. Once they all arrived, he would command more than 2.5 million troopers—united in one command, and for one purpose; the Liberation of Terra itself.

Aaron was one of the very few that knew of the plans the new SAHQ (Supreme Allied Headquarters) was preparing. As the new Commanding General of the SLDF, he had been in that tight-knit circle of those outside the SAHQ that had been fully briefed on Ragnorak. Admiral Jean Kirkpatrick was another, and she was seated across the table from him—as far away from the mellow smoke as she could get without making a scene. To her would fall the task of coordinating the more than 5,400 WarShips and 9,600 Transports of the Fleet. Fifteen thousand K/F drive vessels—it would be the largest single Fleet ever assembled in the history of man.

Lord Protector—and Supreme Allied Commander—the General Kerensky also sat in the room, nursing some hot tea in a crystal glass set in a silver holder. Aaron’s smile faded, as he considered how—once again—just how close they had come to losing the man he called a friend. The man who had chosen him as his hand-picked successor to lead the SLDF and command Ragnorak. His disability had not slowed him, and along with Minoru Kurita he had coordinated the forces of three realms—five, if you counted the Liao and Marik volunteers. Thomas Marik—brother to the late, unlamented Kenyon Marik—sat on the couch alongside Aaron. The Captain-General of the Free Worlds had appointed his nephew as his representative to the SAHQ; as more than that, as Deputy Commander. But Thomas, unlike his brother, knew his limitations. He did have the ‘feel’, as the General put it; that knack for knowing how to command and command well. But he still felt out of depth. Aaron shook his head; that feeling would eventually go away, or at least he hoped it would, for he still felt it himself on occasion.

In an overstuffed chair next to the fireplace sat Minoru Kurita, Coordinator of the Draconis Combine. His son Zabu—now heir to the throne—remained on Luthien, but the Dragon himself was here. He would command the forces of the Combine during Ragnorak—in the first wave, no less! That, Kerensky had told him, was non-negotiable. From the DCMS, Coordinator Kurita had assembled his assault force—forty-eight Regiments of BattleMechs organized in a single overstrength Corps of four divisions. No infantry, no armor, no artillery; just ‘Mechs and aerospace fighters. That number represented a full third of the BattleMech Regiments of the Draconis Combine. The Draconis Corps had been built specifically to drop from orbit directly into the teeth of enemy fire and tear open a landing zone for the following waves. The commander of the other half of the initial drop shared the sofa with Kirkpatrick. Connor Stirling—Senior Colonel of the Northwind Highlanders, but serving in effect as a Corps General—had built his own Corps on Northwind from the Highlanders and Liao volunteers. In nearly constant communication with Kurita, Kerensky, and Cameron, he had decided to build a counter-part to the Kurita forces. The two men—samurai and highlander—had bonded so well that they decided to shift troops between them—so that each Corps was half Draconis and half Highlander and Liao. The two formations were a most potent mixture of firepower, mobility, and fanaticism. If anyone could secure the landing zones, it would be those two Corps, and those two men.

Only eighteen of the Northwind Highlanders would not be making the drop. Those eighteen—three from each of the six Regiments—Stirling had hand-picked for the Royal Black Watch. All had blood-kin in the old Regiment, murdered in their defense of the First Lord by Amaris. But those eighteen had set aside the blood feud to protect the new First Lord. They had been accepted by Hiroyoshi Tanaka and Gerald Howe without a second thought—once they had passed the interrogations, that is. But the Highlanders had not been insulted; they all knew of Wallace Turner. His execution on December 27th had been broadcast across all of Northwind, as well as Asta—uncensored in both cases.

The next-to-last seat was taken by General Sam Anders—liaison to Minoru Kurita. But he was more than that; he was one of the few men that the First Lord trusted implicitly. Because of that trust, he was here in this room, despite his lack of seniority. But Anders sat easily, for in the past year he had proven himself worthy to be in this gathering. Like Minoru, Sam Anders sat ramrod straight, the saucer for his cup of tea held steadily in an unwavering hand. Aaron smiled as he remembered the transmission where he first saw then-Colonel Anders. Then—as now—he had marveled that the military bureaucracy had gotten it right for change.

The last of the eight was the First Lord of the Star League, Stephen Cameron, who sat in his own chair across from Minoru beside Aleksandyr Kerensky. Unlike the formal china cups or crystal glasses his guests drank from, the First Lord held a plain old ceramic mug, filled with steaming, scalding coffee. No guards were in the room, but only the First Lord wore a weapon. Aaron knew that Tai-Sa Tanaka had insisted upon that, once it became clear that even his personal detail would be excluded from these meetings. EVERYONE, even Minoru and Aleksandyr, was checked for weapons, pathogens, and toxins before entering. And they would be, every time they met. Like many other men Aaron had known—like himself, if he would admit to it—Stephen Cameron was fairly stubborn about many things. But Tanaka had insisted, and Aaron wholeheartedly agreed. So did the rest of the ‘inner circle’.

Wallace Turner’s treason had galvanized the SLDF. They had lost one First Lord, and then one of their own tried to kill the only living adult heir? Never again, they vowed. So, Stephen Cameron wore the pistol—loaded and ready—that Tanaka had insisted he wear; and his guests willingly went through the searches and scans. He shook his head, bringing himself back to the present, and saw the First Lord grinning at him. He, apparently, had noticed Aaron’s interest in the pistol.

“Wondering if I know how to even take off the safety, General DeChevilier?”

“Of course not, First Lord. I have READ your service file, after all. You were on the Academy pistol team for marksmanship and qualified Master with projectile sidearms and laser sidearms before you graduated. No, I was wondering if you are going to begin cutting notches on the grip.”

A series of chuckles circled the room, and the First Lord openly smiled as he sat back. “I’m not the Gunslinger, here, Aaron.”

“Touché, my Lord.”

“Any other questions about my keeping score? No; then let’s move on to the next item on the agenda today. Aaron, I want a full Field Army headed out for the Davion-Calderon border region by next week.”

Aaron shook his head. “A Corps is more than enough, Sire. Enough to handle what either of them have left in the region, at least.”

“I’m not worried about that. Neither the Davion troops nor the Taurians will start a fire-fight. We are playing fire brigade in the occupied worlds there, at least until the elections—and probably afterwards as well. A Field Army—and a Fleet.”

“First Lord,” said Aleksandyr. “We don’t have the troops to spare, or the ships.”

“We do. According to the intel we have got from the Catholic Church before Amaris destroyed Vatican City, he has twenty-four Corps on planet. But each of those Corps are—on average—at only two-thirds strength. From other sources we know that he has about the same number of troops deployed on all the occupied Hegemony worlds. Call it about 290 Divisions, 150 of which are on Terra. That’s about the equivalent of five or six of your Field Armies, right?”

Kerensky sighed. “Yes, First Lord.”

“We have—or soon will have—more than ELEVEN Field Armies here on Asta. Counting Stirling’s Corp on Northwind, Minoru’s Corp here, the Ridgeback Corps, V Corps, and the Marik volunteers, that gives us around THIRTEEN. Both Minoru and John Davion have pledged an additional Field Army apiece, for FIFTEEN. That’s either around three-to-one, Aleksandyr. We can spare one Field Army to ensure that fanatics on either side don’t screw up our chance to hold this whole shebang together after the campaign.”

“We can spare the troops and the ships, Sire,” said Aaron, “but, it would eat into our reserves. If Amaris redeploys his own forces—and we don’t pick up the intelligence on it—it could cut our numerical advantage in half. That, is if we don’t take casualties among the ground troops inbound to Terra. Lady and gentlemen, we will take casualties.”

The First Lord turned to his leading naval advisor. “Jean?”

She leaned forward and stared at Stephen until he nodded. And then she nodded in reply. “Perhaps not, General DeChevilier.”

“Admiral?” rumbled Aleksandyr Kerensky.

“The First Lord briefed me in on the bare bones of Ragnorak two days ago, and asked me to look at it from the naval point of view. The Reagan SDS is the toughest, most intricate defensive network the Star League has ever built. Contrary to what is available as public knowledge there are NOT 250 Caspers in the Terran system—that number is a deliberate lie to down-play the strength of those defenses. There are 600 active and on-line. Each of those M-5 Drone WarShips carries eighteen M-11 Drone Aerospace fighters—a system we have never admitted to having. The M-11, or ‘Voidseeker’, is a mid-range fighter with decent acceleration, fuel, armor, and pretty heavy weapons. The Caspers can refuel and rearm their parasites, even in the middle of battle. However, it doesn’t carry any external ordnance for them—that’s the good news; that and the fact that the M-5’s can’t deploy nuclear-tipped ordnance.”

“The bad news; despite the destruction of half of Amaris’s WarShip fleet here at Asta two and a half months ago, he still has the 180 older ships he deployed against Saffel. We estimate there are probably as many again scattered throughout the Core. Those ships CAN deploy nukes. But so can our ships.”

The room was suddenly quiet and still.

“Admiral, we will NOT use nuclear weapons against Terra,” growled Aleksandyr.

“Lord Protector Kerensky,” said the First Lord, “none of us are asking for that. The effects of nuclear detonations IN SPACE, on the other hand; well, in space the Greens can’t scream.”

He pointed his hand at Minoru, and continued. “The Combine weapons production facilities are just now coming to full production—as are the Davion facilities. Very shortly we will have more than enough nukes to outfit every ship we send in—and lay waste to the M-5’s and the Rim Worlders alike. Jean, please continue.”

“Yes, First Lord. I want to suggest sending an advance force of several hundred—perhaps a thousand—WarShips deep in-system, using a pirate point in Mars or Terra orbit. This force—volunteers only—will jump in once the transports begin their attack run from the Zenith and Nadir points. Only WarShips, and their onboard fighters and DropShips will go in—and we will have full magazines of nukes when we do. The M-5’s will swarm us—we will be in range to attack Terra, and THAT is something their hardwired systems cannot let us do. But when they do so, we will rip out their guts with nuclear fire.”

“And your ships will die, Admiral,” mused Minoru.

“And my ships and crews will die, Coordinator. However, given enough nuclear-tipped Killer Whales—and enough volunteers—I will guarantee your transports get to orbit safely, General DeChevilier. And even provide you with three or four thousand fresh WarShips to silence the ground bases.”

“Who will command this forlorn hope?” asked Aaron.

“We will ask for volunteers, for the sake of morale, at least,” replied Kirkpatrick. “It will not matter, however. I have already informed the First Lord that I will direct the spoiling attack from my own bridge.”

Aleksandyr closed his eyes, but eventually nodded. Jean stared at the new General, Commanding; Aaron winced and he slowly shook his head.. “They may have gotten out, Jean. You don’t have to do this,” he pleaded.

“My parents would never have left, at least alive. And if they did not, my husband and children would not. They are dead in Olympia, Aaron—we all know it. And while it may be a suicide run, if it keeps those damned Caspers off your transports, then it’s worth it in the end. Isn’t it?”

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

“Tai-Sa Tanaka?” Gretchen called from the outer office. He glanced at the guards on the First Lord’s office—one each from Asta, the Highlanders, his DEST teams, and the SLDF. Jarl Halvin nodded; no reason that the four natural-born killers couldn’t handle his absence for a few moments. He walked across the inner office and crossed over into what some of men had termed ‘Gretchen-space’. The middle-aged woman who tended the First Lord’s office was pleasant to look at and listen to, but she had the soul of a drill instructor. Almost perfect was not good enough. The staff had learned to quickly flee when they saw her approach with her red marking pen.

His guards—and he himself—had been amused. The petite woman inspired more fear than THEY did. But not today. Today, Gretchen looked scared. And he turned to eyes to the squad of military police standing in her office.

“Gentlemen, may I assist you?”

“Tai-Sa Hiroyoshi Tanaka, we have orders to escort you and your DEST teams to the space-port. Immediately, sir.”

“May I see those orders, Lieutenant?”

The senior MP—an officer from the Eridani—passed a datapad over to Hiroyoshi. Patrick Barclay? “What is the meaning of this, gentlemen?”

“Sir, I have no idea. We have received direct—and legal—orders, however, to escort you and your commandos to the space-port and put you aboard the DropShip Simon Gelder, bound for Benjamin. The orders stipulate you are to have no contact with anyone once we have ‘taken you into custody’. And that I am not to discuss my orders with anyone—other than you. So since I don’t have you in custody yet, Tai-Sa, would you please contact someone before I get my ass chewed out?”

The corner of Hiroyoshi’s mouth lifted involuntarily. He scanned the man’s nametag. Truscott. “You didn’t apply for a position with the Black Watch, Major Truscott. Why, may I ask?”

The man’s eyes grew hard. “It’s not my loyalty, Tai-sa. But the Black Watch are going to spend this war here on Asta keeping that man safe. I intend to command in combat, and I am not sitting this one out on the side-lines.”

“Fair enough, Lieutenant Truscott. Fair enough. Gretchen, would you mind, ah, thank you,” he finished as she picked up the direct line into the First Lords office.

From outside on the stairs, he could hear Cassie’s high-pitched wail—her distress call, he thought of it. And Lady Cameron’s stern voice. It was not a happy voice—and it was not directed at Cassie.

“Hold that call, Gretchen,” he said, as he started for the door.

“Sir, you can’t just . . .,” Lieutenant Truscott began.

“Lieutenant, you and your men follow me, please, that way you would not be in violation of your orders, which also stipulate that you are keep me in sight at all times.”

Absalom Truscott shook his head and waved his men forward, muttering to himself, “It would have been a really good career, it would have been.”

From the top of the staircase, he could see another detail of MPs, locking Thom Pappas and Heather Schell in restraints. Cassie was in the arms of another of her detail, Patrice Danzler, who was holding her tight and trying to calm her down as the little girl shouted and cried at the men leading her very own personal bodyguard away. He heard a sudden slap, and his eyes pivoted to Lady Cameron—the very pregnant Lady Cameron—as she slapped a Captain wearing the armband of an MP.

“Damn you, sir, I don’t give a frak who signed the frakkin order! You will wait here or I will have my husband take you out back and bury your ass!”

The Captain almost lost it—and his head—when he cocked his fist, but two of his DEST members already had their swords out and on either side of his neck.

“AT EASE!” Hiroyoshi bellowed. And to his surprise everyone froze, even Cassie and Lady Cameron. Damn, it worked like Gerald had promised. Since they had never heard him yell, everyone was surprised. He descended the stair-case, but pointed his arm at the MP Captain, and then down at the tiled floor of the foyer. His DEST commandoes grabbed the man, took his weapon and forced him down the stairs in his wake.

“That’s right, you miserable frak, that’s my husband’s pet SNAKE that is about to rip you a new asshole. Asshole. Make my baby cry, will you; make me get up when my back hurts and I have to pee.” She popped the sullen officer on the back of the head—HARD—and slowly made her way down the stairs, two more of her detail helping her.

By now, the MPs at the bottom of the stairs were turning white. Cassie saw Hiroyoshi and wiggled in Patrice’s arms, until she came free and ran over to hug his leg.

“Mister Hiroyoshi, they are taking away Heather! Don’t let them take Heather away! Please?”

He knelt, and wiped her face as her mother got to the bottom of the stairs at last. “No one is going anywhere, my Lady Cassandra. Perhaps you should inform your father; he is in office at the moment, but,” he said grabbing her arm as she began to run, “for your mother’s sake, take the lift? Please?”

“Ok, Mister Hiroyoshi. Sorry, mother.”

The two of them walked over to the concealed elevator set to the side of the foyer and climb aboard. And Hiroyoshi stood and smiled.

“Now, then, gentlemen. You have about one minute to explain the situation to me before you have to explain to the First Lord himself. And then SOMEONE will be receiving a brand-new rectum.”

He smiled broadly.

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

“I know it’s risky, but the whole Ragnorak operation is risky. Admiral Kirkpatrick ran the simulations, and with a thousand ships—plus fighters and droppers—she thinks she can take out the entire in-system Casper force. But only with nuclear weapons.”

“Without nukes, General DeChevilier, gentlemen, I might could take them all out, but it will depend on luck. There will be some leakers—those things are fiendishly clever. But most of them will obey their hard-wired orders to protect the planet, turning away from the transports. Only the outer shell will remain, and there are less than a hundred Caspers in the outer shell.”

“What of the Amaris Fleet?”

“We know they have been prohibited from approaching closer than the orbit of Mars. If we pick a Martian pirate point, then we should be able to engage them as well. If we go with Terra, then your escorts will have to handle the Rim Fleet.”

Thomas Marik spoke up. “It seems to me that we are looking at this based upon what their current deployments are, perhaps . . . “

Aleksandyr Kerensky smiled at Aaron as Thomas lowered his head. “Go on, General Marik, finish that thought.”

The young man—younger than any other in the room, yet the third highest ranking, in theory—blushed, but pressed onward. “Just how smart are these Caspers, Admiral?”

“Smart is the wrong word. They act on . . . instinct, perhaps would be better. They analyze a situation and respond according to what their databanks say.”

“Can they be fooled?”

“Their sensors are too good to be faked out by any but the heaviest ECM blanket.”

“No, damn it, I’m not asking this right. IF, if the Caspers are shown perfectly legitimate data, such as an invading force, with no contrary data, will they take the bait?”

“A decoy?” Aaron murmured.

“Misdirection, General DeChevilier. What would happen if the Caspers were shown an attacking force at the Zenith point—but not one in overwhelming strength? Small enough that they could defeat it in detail, but powerful enough to require their full—or nearly full numbers? Would they respond to it, if it consisted of actual WarShips and Transports and DropShips, and behaved like a transport Fleet bound for planetary attack?”

“You are suggesting making the Caspers believe that one force is the real threat and draw them into the outer system?” Kirkpatrick asked.

“Yes, ma’am. How many would they leave behind?”

She considered for a moment. “I’ve gamed simulations on Fleet maneuvers against the Caspers, General Marik. They would leave a reserve—perhaps two hundred. A third of their numbers. Maybe.”

Stephen leaned forward, a glint in his eye. “And if the ‘transport’ fleet is comprised of slow WarShips, armed with nuclear weapons, and the DropShips are actually assault ships and carriers filled with fighters?”

“We could engage them in the outer system—leave two or three ships with Lithium-Fusion batteries at the zenith or nadir point, we would only have to use one—and bring the REAL assault in close to the planet, with the majority of the Caspers already engaged or destroyed—and several days away at maximum transit power,” Kirkpatrick finished.

“It’s not a plan,” Aleksandyr Kerensky held up his hand. “Not yet, at least. But it is the idea of a plan—and one that I would like to simulated; in addition to your original suggestion, Admiral.”

“Of course, Sir,” she said; and then, turning her gaze to Thomas Marik. “Keeping pitching, General Marik, you just keep on pitching those thoughts.”

“Laird Cameron,” Stirling spoke up. “General Kerensky. If it works, we might have enough ships to make the second attack a misdirection as well. That might well throw off the reserve Caspers—and the Rim Fleet, putting both far out of position for the transports.”

“It is worth looking into,” Stephen said, glancing at his watch. “Damn. I am really pressed for time today, lady, gentlemen. If you would not . . .”

A sudden knock on the door interrupted him. A moment later, Jarl Halvin stepped in. “My Lord, she insisted.”

The DEST commando stepped aside and held the door for Marianne and Cassie. His wife looked furious, and Cassie had been crying. “What’s wrong?”

“Daddy, don’t let the mean soldiers take Heather away. Please?”

[masterarminas]

Chapter Thirty-Two

January 17, 2768
Branson House, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony

“Who the HELL appointed that son of a bitch as commander of the Black Watch?”

Aaron DeChevilier met the icy, infuriated gaze of Stephen with his own—steady and calm. The meeting earlier had quickly disintegrated after Lady Cameron and her daughter had barged in. Aleksandyr Kerensky had been no help; he only winked at Aaron and proclaimed ‘his injuries caused him to tire easily.’ And he had been wheeled out with a twinkle in his eye, his deputy Thomas Marik in his wake. Minoru Kurita left at the same time—due for an inspection tour of his assault Corps, he claimed. And somehow, both Colonel Stirling and Admiral Kirkpatrick had abandoned ship without him noticing in the confusion.

He could not blame them for fleeing, of course. Hell, he didn’t want to be here himself. But when he—and General Anders—tried to leave, the on-duty detail refused to let them pass. Seems the First Lord wanted to talk to them both—after he finished with the MPs. Thank God at least one of the officers involved had enough sense to bend his orders enough to try and give Tanaka a chance to contact someone higher—but Truscott had not known of the other MPs sent to take the First Lord’s old detail in for testing. And that idiot Captain—damn the man! He had grown so frustrated with Cassandra Cameron he actually shouted at her to shut up, which led Heather Schell to strike him. And the whole thing went down-hill from there, when Lady Cameron got involved.

So now he was being called on the carpet by his First Lord—the only man to whom Aaron had to answer other than Supreme Commander Kerensky. Who, when asked on his way out of the door if he should handle this instead, just replied ‘It seems an SLDF internal matter. Aaron can handle it.’ He could swear the Old Man was enjoying this.

“I am waiting, General DeChevilier,” the First Lord said in low, razor-edged voice.

Aaron sighed. “Does it really matter, my Lord? He does not have your confidence, so he has to be replaced.” Or mine, Aaron thought. “Sire, this has been a troubling day for you and your family—for which I apologize as the Commanding General. Let me handle this from here on out—you see to your daughter and wife, my Lord.”

Stephen looked down, and then visibly forced himself to relax, sitting back in his chair. “I shouldn’t have used that tone, Aaron. And yes, handle it. If I get involved, there is liable to be quite a bit of spilled blood—and I don’t need your troops thinking I’m some godforsaken dictator. Much less one that ignores legal procedures and cuts down one of their own for my wife and daughters hurt feelings.”

“You ARE a dictator, Sire,” Sam Anders said, suddenly smiling as Stephen’s head snapped up. “Oh, come on and grow up—FIRST LORD OF THE HIGH COUNCIL. This has been a dictatorship for almost a hundred years, with the only check on the power of your post the Lords of the Great Houses acting in concert. There’s just a couple that are going to oppose you on most issues—and only one who would stand in your way on this one, and him out of spite.”

“You ARE a dictator, brother-in-law. LIVE WITH IT. But be a good dictator, not a frakking Caligula. General DeChevilier will handle the situation with Barclay and life will go on. You have more important things to worry about than some former-Captain that yelled at Cassie or a washed-out former-Colonel about to be sent to the ass-end of the universe.”

Stephen put his elbows on his desk and buried his face in his hands, then ran them through his hair, before sitting back. “Fine. Both of you sit down, please.”

As the two generals sat, Stephen opened the humidor and took out three of the San Martinos. Handing one to each of them, he sat back and placed the third in his mouth, lighting it and motioning for the others to do the same. Sam’s face broke out in a grin, while Aaron wondered just what was going on.

Finally getting the cigar to catch, Stephen drew back a long, long breath—and inhaled. Sam burst out laughing as the First Lord turned green and began to cough and hack. Across the room, Hiroyoshi did not move from his post, but the corner of his lips twitched just a hair.

Sam stood and clapped Stephen on the back until he could breathe again, his eyes pouring streams of water as he finished with the spasm. Then the Gunslinger turned back to Aaron. “Marianne will kill him, if he does that too often, General. He hasn’t smoked since the Academy—since he met her; she detests it, you see. But you like to smoke—and he already has the smell on his clothes from the meeting earlier.”

“It’s,” hack, “more than that. Right now, I really need my nerves settled. So I am using you as my excuse, General DeChevilier.”

“I am yours to use, my Lord.”

“Promise me one thing, Aaron,” the First Lord said, and then stopped.

“Yes, First Lord?”

“Promise me, that Barclay will never—so long as he wears a uniform—set foot on the same planet or same deck as either me or my family; that I will never lay eyes upon him.”

“You have my word on the matter, First Lord.”

“All right. Let’s do it your way, Aaron; Sam. My schedule is ruined for the day, anyway. Who are you going to send out to the Concordat-Suns border?”

Aaron winced. He would almost rather have him focused on hapless Barclay; but he was a soldier. So, soldier on then, you coward, he thought. “10th Army will arrive at the Nadir in two days, Sire. They are already combat loaded, with 3rd Fleet providing escort. If you really want to do this, then they can depart for the border region in five days. But, they don’t have a CO—General Danton had to have surgery for a ruptured appendix day before yesterday. He is transferring to the hospital on planet after arrival to recover.”

“We need someone I can trust to keep the peace—not a hothead still mad at the Taurians for their part in the Uprising,” Stephen mused, tapping his fingers. He took another puff, and coughed once, then exhaled the smoke. He didn’t turn green this time. And he smiled. “How about it, Sam? You up to the task of commanding a field army?”

“ME? I haven’t had a field command in years, Stephen! And the last one was a BATTALION!”

“General DeChevilier just sat right there on that sofa an hour ago and said there shouldn’t be any fighting—nothing on an Army level, at least. But Danton has a staff, right Aaron?”

“He does, my Lord.”

“They know how to run an Army—I need you to run them. Sam, Aaron, this assignment may not make sense in the military logic, but we have to put an end to the perception—however valid—the Periphery has of us as oppressors. I need time, Sam, time to heal the wounds. And I need you out there, keeping things on an even keel between Nicoletta and John and THEIR hot-headed followers that don’t want this to happen. If we fail to keep the peace in the border region and the vote falls apart, then the Star League is done; regardless of whether or not Amaris is defeated. Can you do it?”

Sam Anders gave a sharp nod. “I don’t want—I don’t have the seniority for it. But if you ask me, First Lord, I will serve however you direct.”

“I am asking, Sam, not ordering.”

“General DeChevilier, how do we go about cutting orders for a newly minted Brigadier General to assume command of a Field Army?” Sam Anders whispered, never taking his gaze from his friend, his brother-in-law, his Lord and Master.

“We don’t. All that is required to promote a general or flag ranked officer in the SLDF—even a promotion out of bounds of the List—is the approval of the Commanding General—or Admiral—and the First Lord. In the absence of one of the two, the other may make provisional appointments. I believe you would approve the immediate promotion of Brigadier General Anders to the rank of full General, First Lord?”

Stephen nodded.

“Then, it’s done. I’ll get my staff to fill out the paperwork—buy your stars at the PX before you leave, General Anders—and congratulations to you. The orders will be cut by tomorrow.”

“Aaron, I thought you would fight me on this,” Stephen said. “You’ve fought me on everything else.”

“Sir, I’m a soldier. I understand war—but this isn’t so much war as politics, at least what you have planned for the 10th. You say this task is urgent to keep the Star League intact; then by God, Sir, it is. You trust Samuel Anders to accomplish your goals; then he will. I’ll fight you when I think you are wrong, First Lord; but not on ground I don’t know. The Old Man trusts you and Minoru Kurita trusts you—I reckon that I should trust you as well on this matter.”

“You grant me too much credit, Aaron. I don’t know what I’m doing here; all this is based upon a hope, a dream that we can stop the slide before it becomes an avalanche.”

“The Star League itself, Sir, is based upon a hope and a dream. It’s never lived up to that—not in my lifetime, nor in my fathers. I would be proud to serve the man who makes the lie into a truth. And at this very moment, I am serving a man who just might be able to do that, First Lord.”

For several moments there was silence, until Stephen nodded, and taking one last pull, crushed out the embers on his cigar. “We have work to do, gentlemen,” he said standing, and escorted the two to the door Hiroyoshi was opening.

As Aaron was about to leave, he heard a soft voice from behind him, “A word if I may, General DeChevilier.”

He turned and looked at the DEST commando and commander. “What’s on your mind?”

“There is an idea that has been playing around my head, Sir.” And Hiroyoshi Tanaka grinned.

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

January 17, 2768
Fort Tobias Harrison
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony

Patrick Barclay sat behind his desk, tossing the leather ball back and forth between his hands as he considered the choices. There were just so many senior officers—and powerful families—he could make happy by offering their sons and daughters commissions in the Black Watch . . . which would keep them out of the line of fire in the coming conflict as well. But which ones should he make the offers to? For all its prestige, the Black Watch was a ceremonial unit; really, it was absurd the way that jumped-up peasant Howe thought they were actually NEEDED. Danforth—yes, once the war was over, Senator Danforth’s family would be grateful he had kept their daughter safe.

From the office outside, he could hear a commotion, and raised voices. He frowned and set down the ball as he rose to make his way to the door. But the door opened—opened without Franklin knocking or asking his permission. Then he saw who was striding into his office and snapped to attention.

“General DeChevilier, Sir! Colonel Patrick Barclay, commanding officer of the Royal Black Watch, at your ser . . .,“ he stopped; why was the Commanding General frowning at him?

“You are the most pathetic excuse for an officer that I have ever laid eyes upon, Colonel. I know exactly how you came to hold this post, and General Barclay has given me his resignation because of it.” Aaron shook his head, and took two quick steps, stopping just millimeters from Barclay’s nose. “STAND AT ATTENTION YOUR SNIVELING LITTLE SHIT! I just came from the office of the First Lord, where the MPs YOU sent molested his wife and child, insulted a vital ally in our War on Amaris, and utterly and completed INFURIATED BOTH THE FIRST LORD AND LORD PROTECTOR KERENSKY! NOT TO MENTION ME!”

“You are relieved of duty, Colonel. MY MPs are waiting for you in the outer office. They will escort you and Master Sergeant Franklin to the space-port where you will board a transport—a transport bound for Alpheratz. Once you are there, you will be report to the Military Liaison Officer for the Outworlds Alliance. That officer will assign you duties—duties that you WILL PERFORM TO MY SATISFACTION, Colonel or so help me God I will have you broken and dismissed from the service. GET OUT OF MY FACE!”

Barclay stumbled out of his office in shock, and the MPs outside—led by Lieutenant Truscott—placed both him and Franklin in restraints and took them outside to the waiting vehicles. As DeChevilier walked back into the outer office, he watched Truscott come back inside, along with Sergeant-Major Howe, just released from his confinement to quarters. The old non-com snapped to attention.

“As you were, Sergeant-Major,” Aaron said. “I certainly hope that you don’t think I had anything to do with that idiot being placed in command here.”

“No, Sir. The very thought never crossed my mind, Sir.”

“Good, Sergeant-Major, that’s good. I believe you know Colonel Bradley of the 3rd RCT?”

“Yes, sir, it’s good to see the Colonel again, Sir.”

Ezra Bradley smiled from his seat on the corner of the desk of the NCOIC. “It would seem that the First Lord had a real conniption when he found out just what was going on with this Regiment, Sergeant-Major. And the first person he thought of when he wanted to give the command away was me. Why is that, Sergeant-Major?”

Gerald Howe stood at attention and fixed his gaze upon the far wall. “I believe it is because I told him, Colonel, sir, that you were an outstanding officer who respected the men and women under your command.”

“Sergeant-Major Howe,” said Aaron, “did you realize that Colonel Bradley is now holding down a position on my staff as aide-de-camp? And that he is up for promotion to Brigadier General?”

“No, Sir. I thought he was still in charge of the 3rd RCT, Sir.”

“Well, he’s not. And I am not about to give him up so he can take a demotion from a Regimental Combat Team commander to a plain old Regimental commander. Or insist that he delay his career because YOU leaked what an excellent officer he was to the First Lord.”

The commanding general walked around Gerald and whispered in his ear. “Is it true that you taught the First Lord everything he knows about soldiering? That you made him into the man he is today, ‘Top’?”

“Sir, I did my part—but he was already that man. I just helped to bring it out, Sir.”

“Good enough, Sergeant-Major. MAJOR, GET IN HERE!” he bellowed. “For the love of Christ, Sergeant-Major, stand easy.”

Gerald Howe took the position of at-ease and looked back and forth between the pair of officers grinning like Cheshire Cats.

“Let me introduce you to your new CO, Sergeant-Major Howe. This young man is Ethan Moreau—Major Ethan Moreau. I believe you may have heard of him.”

“Yes, sir, I have sir.”

“Major Moreau was just promoted from Captain. He has served on my staff since he was injured on Apollo. It seems that in our effort to wrest control of one of the forts from the Rim Worlders, an infantry company got encircled by the enemy. Captain Moreau had been forced to eject earlier, and had joined that company on foot. When the infantry commander and his officers were killed, Moreau took command, and held the enemy at bay for two hours until a relief force arrived. Despite being wounded three times himself, the survivors said that he kept leading the defense, at the end fighting in a desperate hand-to-hand engagement in order to protect wounded unable to be moved. He won the Star League Medal of Honor for his actions in that Castle Brian, on that day.”

“Yes, sir.”

“On his first assignment after ATCC, he was posted to the Kurita border—where he fought eighteen duels with their ronin for the Honor of the SLDF and the League. Do you know how many he won, Sergeant-Major?”

“All eighteen, Sir.”

“COR-RECT, Sergeant-Major. Now I have one last question to ask you,” and Aaron leaned in close once more. “Does this man meet with your approval to command this Regiment; I only ask because the First Lord himself has given YOU the power to reject anyone I appoint if you feel they are not suited for the role?”

“Oh, yes, Sir, General, Sir. Major Moreau will do just fine.”

“EXCELLENT, Sergeant-Major. Now that that is done, I believe I have business at Defense HQ with a certain Supreme Allied Commander. Colonel Bradley, shall we depart?”

“There is one more thing, sir,” said Bradley.

“Oh, yes. Major Moreau and Sergeant-Major Howe. Tai-Sa Tanaka requested a posting for that young man there among your Black Watch,” Aaron stabbed a finger at Absalom Truscott. “Can you find him a slot?”

“Not a problem, General,” chuckled Moreau, as the color drained from Truscott’s face, his dream of commanding a line unit in the upcoming war dashed.

“Very good; carry on, then.” And Aaron and Ezra left the building.

[LadyTevar]

Hehehehehehehe... nice to see the bench-warmer get shafted so quickly.

[Diverball]

"Misdirection, General DeChevilier. What would happen if the Caspers were shown an attacking force at the Zenith point—but not one in overwhelming strength? Small enough that they could defeat it in detail, but powerful enough to require their full—or nearly full numbers? Would they respond to it, if it consisted of actual WarShips and Transports and DropShips, and behaved like a transport Fleet bound for planetary attack?”

This seems a little too obvious for a feint. Terra's defenders know, that their opponents know, the SDS just as well as they do. They also know roughly the size of the SLDF WarShip fleet. An attacking fleet only just large enough to take on the M5s ought to be regarded with suspicion. Then again, Amaris and his senior officers are complete lunatics. Who's going to gainsay them? In fact, it occurs to me that they might well be insane enough to try and micromanage the SDS in the midst of battle..... How would a computer system that sophisticated react to being given orders that conflicted with its basic tactical directives, whilst in a combat situation? You'd think it would at least impair the system's efficiency somewhat.

[Deebles]

As someone unfamiliar with the setting, how, and how well, do the Caspars distinguish between "friendly" and "hostile" warships? Are there ever any friendly fire incidents when the behaviour of a cargo ship or friendly war ship somehow gives them grounds for suspicion?