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Good morning, all. Book II is not finished, but this time, I thought I would give you story in chapter postings. Now, I write for personal enjoyment; I do not make a living from it. So, my real-world job might make for a few days time between chapters. Never fear though, unless I stroke out, the story will be finished (then we have Book III, which will concern the Liberation of Terra).

I would appreciate any critiques, comments, or advice that any you might have. Sometimes, I tend to let my taste for old style SF ('40's, '50's, and '60's stuff) influence me, and my cliches are often just too much. If you see me doing something that makes you flinch, TELL ME.

Anyway, hope that you all enjoy. When Book II is finished, I will post the PDF somewhere (probably Solaris 7 again) and post the link. Feel free to download if you want to keep a copy for yourself.

One more thing, while it may look like I am working to random thought, I have actually sat down and outlined the various story-arcs (both in Book I and in Book II; Book III is still in the air). That is not say the outline can't change. Pavel Green becoming Clement XXVII is the result of a discussion over on Shattered Dawn about Stefan and Gunthar's conversation in Chapter Four. Because of that conversation and discourse, I rewrote the outline, and included a whole new story-arc for that character.

That's all for now, I will post the first eight chapters below. Once more, thank you for all your good words and encouragement--and even your bad words and lectures ( ). Enjoy this work in the spirit that it is meant--a short escape from reality into a universe we all love: Classic BattleTech.

Arminas tar Valantil
Grand Master of the Ebon Rose

(a.k.a. Stephen T Bynum)

Blood and Steel

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

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

by

Stephen T Bynum

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





Chapter One

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

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

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

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

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

Timothy Hazen blushed.

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

“I had to get over open ground, Liz.”

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

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

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

“Captain Sheridan, right? That JAG officer with the 342nd? Thought that you looked a little too spiffy just to be visiting me. Oh, Phil is gonna have his hands full tonight.”

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

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

“Just a panini from Roselli’s—Sicilian chicken, just like you like it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly, Elizabeth’s comm-link on her belt began beeping in the tone that meant a message from her unit, the Royal Black Watch Regiment. She frowned and opened the unit.

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

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

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

“Gotta run, Tim, take care of yourself.”

As she stood and walked to the door, a gunshot occurred outside, and people began screaming.

“Liz?” Tim asked, his face suddenly pale.

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

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

“Others are coming to get them.” He gestured with his rifle. “Now move, or I will shoot you.”

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

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

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

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

Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Three

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

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

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

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

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

“Good evening, I am Katlyn Parker.”

“And this is Dan Girout.”

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

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

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

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


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

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

Chapter Four

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And the Congress?”

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

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

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

“Demanded?”

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

“Colonel Green is a Catholic, I believe.”

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

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

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

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

“Your will be done, sire.”

The two men had reached the apartments which Stefan had made his home, the 18th Amaris Dragoons standing watch over him. Stefan stopped at the door. “And Stephen Cameron?”

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

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

“I will brief General Brakel myself, sire.”

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

Chapter Five

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

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

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

As the last of the light faded to the west, Liz drew out the flashlight she had bought before leaving the city. The beam of light shone deep inside the cavern, revealing bare rock, standing water, and mud, lots of mud. But no bears, wolves, or panthers at least; she was grateful for that small blessing. The only weapon she had been able to buy was a survival knife—Amaris had forbidden all gun sales yesterday. To defy that order meant death if the sale were discovered, so she had not even tried to buy a firearm. The knife would have to serve for now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where are my clothes?”

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

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

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

Chapter Six

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why here? Why this cache?”

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

“Have you heard from anyone else?”

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

“And for now?”

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Seven

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Collaborators.” She said the word flatly.

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

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

“I can live with that skipper.”

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

Chapter Eight

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

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

“Holiness, are you well?”

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

The priest bowed as he closed the door behind him, leaving Pavel—Clement XXVII—alone in the darkness once more. No, not alone. Satan was with him, after all. It was funny how he had lost his faith in God after Altenberg, but not that in the Devil. Benedict XXIV had been Pope until he brought himself to the attention of the Emperor. On January 2nd, Benedict had died in the square below the balcony of his office. Gunthar von Strang had handled the execution, and his installation as the new Pontiff of the Church.

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

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

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

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

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

“Holiness, may I join you?”

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

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

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

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

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

“What was the dream about?”

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

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

“I don’t recall that.”

“What do you recall, Holiness?”

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

“Asking me to pray for them? To intercede with God on their behalf?” Clement barked out a bitter laugh. “Should I pray for a miracle for them, Joachim, when I don’t even believe anymore?”

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

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

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

A black robed priest, the purple sash across his stomach denoting him as one of the Papal aides made his way down to him. The monsignor knelt, and kissed Clements ring as he extended his hand. “Holiness, there is a problem at the Gates.”

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

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

“You will halt!”

Clement kept walking, until he stood two feet away from the captain. “What is the meaning of this?”

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

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

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

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

“So?”

“So, Captain, that means that I outrank you. Open those gates, and allow these people to enter Vatican City or I will have your head.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Sir.”

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

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

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

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

“Speak, Grandmother.”

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

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

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

Chapter Nine

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

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

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

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

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

Clement was not Pavel, at least not fully, not any more though. Pavel Green might well have stayed and kept his nose out of what was not his concern. He would have needed a bottle that night, and the next, and the next, though, to try and push aside the screaming that would come from some dark hole deep inside himself.

Clement XXVII could not just step aside and forget what he had heard, however. His nightmares were past the point where drink could lessen the burden. He had learned to live with them—and himself. If he now turned around and walked away, ignoring these people, he would betray himself yet again. No more, he thought. No more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When will their trials be held, Fredrick?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Passing through the door of what had once been one of the many Cameron family estates surrounding Unity City, but was now the home of Stefan Amaris (at least until the new palace could be built), he spotted the Emperor seated at his desk, speaking with Gunthar von Strang. Looking up, His Majesty saw him enter, and his face broke into a grin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am certain, Sire, that many of those inside the camps are guilty of the crimes of which they are accused, and deserve to die for opposing your will,” Clement said, wincing inside as he deliberately slandered the men and women of the death camp. “But many of those there are children, Sire. Young children. Boys and girls whose only reason for being there is that their parents or relatives were sought after by the ISD. Boys and girls who are—if you spare them—still young enough to be taught to love and serve your Imperial Person.”

“Go on, Colonel.”

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

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

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

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

“It can not hurt, Sire.”

“Gunthar?”

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

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

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

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

“You are, my Master.”

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

“It will be done, Sire.”

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

“Pardon me, Colonel?”

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

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

“By your command, my Lord.”

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

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

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

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

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

“But of course, my Lord.”

Chapter Ten

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Liz walked out among her work. The carnage was nearly beyond belief. From the two burning vehicles the smell of flesh cooking wafted out on the breeze. Ruptured intestines had spilled their contents across the roadway, adding to the release of bladders and sphincters in the throes of death. A high-pitched moan came from one carcass on the ground. A man—young or old, she couldn’t tell. His right arm and leg had been literally torn away by the claymores, a stream of the inferno gel had melted the left side of his face; his uniform still smoldered. His one good eye tracked her, but he couldn’t speak, his throat was torn open, the blood spilling upon the ground, his jaw shattered, and his tongue shredded. Liz lifted her rifle and fired once into the man’s head, ending his misery. She moved among the dead and the dying, and a dozen more sharp cracks gave mercy to the suffering.

Chapter Eleven

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daniel groaned and his eyes fluttered open. The skin of his face was bone-white, clammy and cold to the touch. “Captain,” he whispered.

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

“Not shot, Capt’n. My, my heart.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s that, Dan?”

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

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

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

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

Chapter Twelve

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The bomb explosion in the roadway was clear enough, flipping the truck on its side. As were the rifle fire from two separate locations. Zack rolled the footage at four times normal speed, and then sped forward even more, to the second ambush. Once again, the officers and crew watched the relief column as it died, and could see the two figures walking amongst the wounded, killing them where they lay.

“Bastards,” whispered someone in the darkened room.

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

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

“Excellent job, Senior Chief, outstanding work.”

“That’s just Chief, sir.”

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

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

Chapter Thirteen

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

The salvo of rockets from the chopper tore trees from their roots, sending flaming shrapnel hurling across the ridgeline, as the warheads ripped apart the old growth forest. From either side of the helo, the door gunners behind their massive multi-barreled machine-cannons poured lines of fire lit by tracers into the woods surrounding the clearing the rockets had just created. As the gunners ceased fire, the chopper slowed to a hover, the rotors scattering the smoke. Four lines were thrown over the side, and a dozen soldiers—Rim soldiers—rappelled downwards.

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


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

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

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

On the screen, a small red box captured a section of the image, and then enlarged that section. Once again the red box reached out and another section zoomed in. “Right here, sir, five minutes ago by the time-stamp.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t drink, sir.”

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You did an excellent job, Major Weiling.”

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now, Major, when should we . . .”

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

Zack scanned his terminal station. “Massive detonation in the target area, spectrographic analysis reads traces of Composition-27 thermo-baric explosives,” he barked out. “Pattern and scale of detonation indicate at least one metric ton just touched off—inside the caverns.”

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

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

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

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

“Can anyone have gotten out?”

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

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

“Yes, sir, General, sir.”

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 he hurriedly left the office as he sat back down. He calmly folded up the map, and considered the disk in his hand. 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.

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 Int-Sec officers arm 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.

“‘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 code 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 as she learned of her sons murder at the hands of lord and majesty. “I don’t know.”

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—as they entered the small town of Poldi. 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 to his role. 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. Nor the knife which carved the scars across his chest, or the rip of his cross from his neck. No, what lasted was what he did next.

“You believe in a God, priest,” he had asked, 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?”

The leader turned and drew a knife, and taking the youngest among them—a six-month old babe who had suckled at her mother’s breast before her mother had been raped, he slammed her head into the cornerstone of the Church, and then cut the child’s throat.

“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,” the chief said as he grabbed the priest’s crotch, and rubbed him, causing him to stir. Shamed, the priest shook his head.

He did not give in until seven children died. At the eighth, crying, he moved to the girls, raped and beat Bridgette, until she no longer moved. One of the bandits pressed an injector to his arm, and he felt the drug coursing through his blood. The second was easier as he took Gail.

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

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 smaller and more 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 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 questions, he just gave her a lift to the fueling station and diner 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 take out a school bus by accident and kill a bunch of our kids, and 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?”

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. 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. Despite himself, 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 me Drago Kurita.”

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.

Chapter Ninteen

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-line 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 the 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, died of 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. 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 cousin—his uncle—would forsake their traditions over him; no more was 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. 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 [censored] 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.”

“Your wife, Omi she will be forced to watch. Of course, if she volunteers to take her daughters place, then she may—for a while. 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 if 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—seized his guard’s rifle and shot him in the chest. The courtyard became a flurry of shots as the guards and Drago’s family exchanged fire. The boy died, his chest ripped apart by a burst from three riflemen; his sister was next, shot in the head as she dug out one of von Strang’s men’s eyes with her bare fingers. And Drago’s wife—she took aim at him as he finally got his shot.

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

The two shots were simultaneous. Drago’s head exploded from Gunthar’s shot, and his jaw slackened as guards and medics rushed to the side of the Emperor. von Strang had accepted his death, but it did not come to him. For one of his men—across the courtyard—fired at the exact same moment, before Omi Kurita could quite complete raising her rifle. The single shot took her between the breasts, blasting a hole the size of his fist right through her heart.

He holstered his weapon and began to move over to Emperor Stefan, calling for the surgical staff to be readied on his radio as he ran.

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. Yesterday, the swine took Herr Riesel away, and a new manager had lectured them this morning. Lectured 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—after all, 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%. And for that, 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, 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 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 33rd 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 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 ‘Mechs, including himself. Three more were ‘in transit’, if some other regiment didn’t short-stop them and grab them for up for their own use.

Mal clicked his transmit key, “Listen up, you apes. We are going to qualify on all of our 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 which 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, 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, lighting off the rest of the shells remaining in 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 explosion from within, would require a full engine replacement before it returned to the unit.

He just closed his eyes and shook his head as the sirens of emergency vehicles began to spin up in the distance.

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.”

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, then 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, but you are getting better. 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, ma’am, 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.

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 calling 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 ripped 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 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 in the future.

She grimaced as she looked at the blank screens. “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.

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 shells passed by, the air displaced by them pushing down on top of her. Barely an instant later, they impacted two blocks away, the 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 assault, 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—many 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, ma’am,” 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 cause of this [crap] 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 [crap], 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 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 his peace fill your soul.”

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, Amaris 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 a Hegemony-era armory that had not been found by the new government.

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. Exodus. 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—since there was already a Saint Benedict—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 walk 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.

Chapter Twenty-Five

July 17, 2767
Black Watch Cache 19-Kilo, Wickup Mountain
North America, Terra
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 student—the Coup had ended his pursuit of the degree—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 should. “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. 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.

Chapter Twenty-Six

July 17, 2767
Black Watch Cache 19-Kilo, Wickup Mountain
North America, Terra
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--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. 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.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

July 23, 2767
Black Watch Cache 19-Kilo, Wickup Mountain
North America, Terra
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
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 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.”

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 door 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 plastic.

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, the 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 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 plastic 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.

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 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, full 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 one 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!”

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 [crap]-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?”

“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, 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.

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. “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 to me before you have to explain to the First Lord himself. And then SOMEONE gets 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?”

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 my 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 is 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 control 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; and keep them out of the line of fire 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 [crap]! 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 was part of that company. 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.”

“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.

Chapter Thirty-Three

July 28, 2768
Serenity Port, Tranquility
Continent Prosperity, Dante
Outworlds Alliance

“Colonel Barclay? Master Sergeant Franklin?”

Patrick Barclay, Colonel, Star League Defense Forces turned towards the sound of the voice asking his name on the tarmac of the space-port. If you could call it that, he thought. Nine square acres of landing tarmac, with one two-storey building housing Air Traffic Control and Customs & Immigration. No warehouses, no emergency vehicles—no vehicles of any kind had he seen since being dumped here from aboard the Mule class DropShip Ambassador Ross had provided for his transit.

“Barclay,” Ross had said at their one and only meeting five weeks ago, “I have just the post for you. You’ll love it, and it NEEDS an officer of your qualities.”

The sinking feeling had only gotten worse since that meeting. And now this. The speaker was some local hick, dressed like an indig; his pants made from black cloth, fastened with hooks and buttons, his shirt white and starched, creased only by the suspenders which held up those trousers. On his feet he wore thick heavy leather boots, and he wore a straw hat upon his head.

“Yes, I am Colonel Patrick Barclay, SLDF. Can I help you, sir?”

The local smiled. Beamed actually. “Well, Pat, we don’t stand too much on formality here on Dante; my name is Irwin.” He extended a mostly clean hand towards the new arrival, but a few traces of dirt still showed beneath the fingernails.

“You, sir, may address me as Colonel, or Sir. And if you do not mind, I am waiting for the SLDF liaison officer to Dante to transport both myself and the Master Sergeant to our new post.”

The local beamed once again. “My apologizes, right you are, Colonel, Sir. It might so happen, however, that I AM the SLDF liaison officer to Dante. GENERAL Irwin Harper, SLDF retired. General DeChevilier reactivated my commission for the duration, you see. Frees up younger and more able troopers to be on the front-lines.”

Barclay scowled, even as Franklin came to a hurried attention. “I must ask to see some ID, then, Sir. I cannot simply take you upon your word—after all you might be a local attempting to pull some shenanigans upon me.”

“Don’t normally care ID out here in the back of beyond, Pat, but Aaron did say that you were a mite prickly man. Here you go,” he said as he passed across the bio-metric electronic data card to Barclay. The SLDF Colonel scanned the card and—rather sourly—came to attention and saluted.

“Sir. Patrick Barclay, Colonel, SLDF, reporting as ordered, in command of a detail of two. All present and accounted for, sir.”

Irwin took his ID card back and placed it inside his shirt pocket. “Well, now that we have settled that, Colonel, our transportation is right over here. You two will have to carry your own bags though; the Omniss frown on having servants or anything that would present the appearance of servants, so no baggage-handlers.”

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

“THIS is our transportation?” Patrick Barclay exclaimed, as he finally got his throat working again.

“And just what is wrong with it, Colonel? Mankind has been using horse-drawn wagons for centuries?” Irwin asked as he patted the flank of one of the two horses attached to the wooden vehicle.

“You are a General, sir, and the Liaison officer to this world. You represent the Star League; this is a MOCKERY!”

“Technologically advanced vehicles require constant maintenance, Pat, and you have to have factories to build new ones. A mockery; no. It is a simple, low-tech solution to the problem of transportation. We can just breed more horses, son. Have you had any luck breeding a Bentley lately?”

“Still, even on a world like Dante, General, the SLDF liaison officer should have an official ground-vehicle or air-car.”

“Pat, how much do you know about the Omniss?”

“They are just a kooky fringe cult, General.”

Irwin started and his eyes turned cold as he stared—hard—into Barclays. “They are not a cult, Pat. I wouldn’t join a cult, I will have you know. The Omniss feel that technology has divorced man from his soul. They won’t have it on their world. So they left the Old Hegemony four hundred years ago and traveled out here—by starship, which is kind of ironic—in order to practice their faith. They allow us landing rights, but in return, the SLDF and the First Lord respect their cultural heritage. Except for the HPG at the landing field—which is used for emergency communication only—there is not any technology on this planet except what can be made by muscle-power, human or animal. Oh, and windmills and waterwheels and such forth. And you know what, Pat? In four centuries they haven’t had a war, they haven’t killed each other off, they haven’t even had a whole lot of crime. I suggest that you just think about that before you write these people and their faith off as a bunch of kooks.”

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

Four hours later, Irwin pulled in the reins as the wagon plodded into a small camp half-way across the wind-swept plains to a distant range of mountains. Several dozen people were working in the camp, but several stood and nodded to the general. None nodded to him, Patrick noted.

“General Harper, whe . . .” he began.

“Pat, for the hundredth time, boy, call me Irwin, ‘kay? This is your new home, son. You and Clayton bring your bags in, and then we’ll have some supper and get you briefed in.”

As he and Franklin unloaded the wagon, Barclay noted the large pile of cut stones set to the side, along with hand tools. My God, he thought, they work GRANITE by hand? Are these people NUTS?

By the time they had brought in their bags, Irwin showed them to a pair of rooms, and their new clothes laid on out the beds. He had smiled. “Can’t have you wearing those synthetics, can we Pat? Let’s go have some supper, and in the morn I’ll show you boys what we have in mind for you.”

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

The next morning, Patrick Barclay and Clayton Franklin found themselves standing besides a six foot high, four foot wide stone structure, stretching back into the distance to the city of Tranquility. Irwin slapped his hand on the stones and beamed at the two again. “She’s a beaut, ain’t she, Pat?”

He swallowed, not sure of what he should say, and then stammered out, “It is a nice looking wall, Irwin.”

The old man laughed, with the locals joining in. “Wall? No, Pat, this is our new aqueduct; or rather the beginnings of it, at least. It runs from Tranquility back there to here. And when finished it will run to the mountains way over yonder, about forty miles or so across the plains. At least it will when you two finish building it.”

“Sir?” Patrick Barclay croaked, as Clayton Franklin’s eyes went wide and his jaw dropped.

“Why, yes, Sir, Colonel, Sir. That’s what brings you here to sunny Dante. You, and Master Sergeant Franklin, will finish building this aqueduct for the Omniss. We had a whole SLDF engineer regiment here working on this, but with the Coup, they are gone back home to fight the good fight. The First Lord and General DeChevilier—Ambassador Ross as well—felt that you two were the perfect men to finish it.”

Irwin walked around and proudly patted a few of twenty-kilo stones again. “Me and the local folks here will show you how to put it together, and supply you with the materials you need. We even got the land all surveyed and laid out ahead of you. Told the First Lord we’d help on putting together, but the man insisted otherwise, Pat. ‘We made a promise to the Omniss, General Harper, that we would build it, and by God, we will keep that promise.’ He told me that his own self, he did.”

“How much is left to build?” Pat whispered.

“Oh, not much,” Irwin said, smiling, “just another forty miles to where it meets the section coming down from mountain glaciers. And Aaron—General DeChevilier, that is—asked that I send to him a weekly report on your progress. We figure that between you two strapping and fit fine lads, you should be able to manage a mile every two weeks, once you get the hang of it. So how about we kooks show you what you and the Master Sergeant will be doing for the twenty or so months?”

“I’ll resign my commission, first, damn your eyes! I am an officer in the Star League Defense Forces, not a common laborer!”

Irwin nodded sagely, “Figured you might say that. Sure I can’t change your mind?”

“No. This is beyond insult.”

The retired general drew in a deep breath and then exhaled. “Colonel Barclay, it is my duty to inform you that the First Lord has put in place a stop-loss order for the duration. Until this crisis has passed, no officer is being allowed to resign; that includes you. You can, however, refuse this order and I will have you arrested and held in confinement until you can be returned to Alpheratz for court-martial.”

Barclay swayed as the blood rushed from his head, and Irwin smiled at him, but the smile was no longer warm and friendly. No, it looked much like a shark’s grin just before he took a bite.

“The First Lord is rather protective of his friends and family, Colonel, and you managed to piss him the hell off in most masterful way. Did you really think you were just going to be reassigned and the matter forgotten?”

“The choice is yours; get to work on this—dawn to dusk six days a week for the next twenty odd months—or stand trial for disobeying the lawful order of one’s superior officers while in a state of war. I believe if convicted on that charge you would face twenty years in prison. And since we have no prisons anymore, the First Lord asked Coordinator Kurita if the Combine prison system would take you. He said yes. So, which will it be, Pat? Which will it be?”

Chapter Thirty-Four

February 4, 2768
J.P. Stanley Warehouse #8, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony

“Two weeks, two bloody damned frakking weeks!” The man snarled as he pounded the old wooden desk. The thud of his fist against the top not enough to take the edge of his mood, he picked up the lamp and flung it against the far wall, where it shattered next to a second man, leaning against that same wall.

“Was that really, necessary?”

The man at the desk looked up and opened his mouth, but was interrupted by a third man, sitting in front of the desk.

“Both of you let it be. Hollis, you know good and well that we could not execute this op even if we had landed two weeks ago. Yes, that new commander was an idiot and would have been a blessing, but really, how long do you think Kerensky and DeChevilier would have let him frak things up before they fixed it?”

The man at the desk shook his head. “It is just so damn frustrating, Hans. He was an absolute god-send from our point of view, AND WE MISSED THE OPPORTUNITY! Damn it.”

The second man walked up to the desk and took the empty chair. “The thing I hate the most is that those DEST teams are not going to go away. This ‘Black Watch’ is one thing; DEST is an entirely different ball-game, Boss.”

“No use crying over split milk, gentlemen. Now, having seen with our own eyes the security, let’s have it.”

Behind the desk, Hollis leaned back and exhaled. “Perimeter security on the estate is tight with a capital T, Hans.” He picked a folded map and spread it out over the desk. “One kilometer out, they have a ring of observation posts, manned by troopers from V Corps. Each road-way in is covered by two heavy bunkers. The observation posts are manned by a squad of men each, and are spaced every two hundred meters across the entire perimeter. You don’t have a pass issued by the office of the First Lord, you don’t get past the outer perimeter.”

“Thankfully, our patron obtained me a pass for my cover as a journalist, Boss,” the second man said. “Random patrols cover the wooded areas surrounding the estate, complete with dogs. A three meter wall surrounds Branson House itself, one hundred meters from the building. DEST and Black Watch patrol the inner perimeter, along with sensor emplacements. Behind the house are the gardens, but that is the only cover other than the fountain in front.”

“Inner security appears light, but those DEST guys don’t play around. They are teaching some serious no-[crap] tac-ops to this new Black Watch. Watch,” he finished as he set a notebook on the desk and hit a key.

On the screen, video began to play, and Hans and Hollis watched closely. They saw it at the same moment, and Hans lowered his head, closing his eyes. Hollis just whispered, “Frak me.”

“Yeah. It seems as though this First Lord has pulled out ALL the stops. That item there, gentlemen, is a Mark XXI Nighthawk special-operations powered armor suit. I don’t think LIC has acquired the full specs on it yet, but small arms are not going to take it out.”

“You are just full of glad tidings, today, Nelson,” Hans said. “Scratch plan A, then. We always knew we would probably have to; the official residence is just too tough a nut to crack. Any heads-up on when he is in transit?”

“Yes, Boss, but you are not going to like it,” said a fourth man walking into the dilapidated office.

“Liam, there is very little about this op that I have liked.”

“His transits are unscheduled; to the point where they almost seem random. So far, and we have only been on planet a week, understand, but so far, his travels seem limited to a lodge up in the Black Pines. There isn’t a town out there, and newsies aren’t exactly welcome. And when he goes, there is always at least a battalion of ‘Mechs and infantry camped out in the woods nearby. Plus his close-in detail.”

Liam joined the other three around the desk. “But, there is one pass that his aerial convoy has taken every time they have gone up there; right here, about 75 klicks short of the lodge. We could put a remote SAM launcher in place, except . . .” his voice trailed off.

“Yes, Liam?”

“Except that his family flies up there with him, every time he goes. And we have our orders on that score, Boss.”

Hans Trevane scowled at the map as he considered his orders once again. Personally briefed by Erik Kiplinger before he and his Loki team had boarded ship for Asta, the Lyran Intelligence head had stressed the fact that the Archon did not want the family injured. In fact, the Chief had gone out of his way to stress it TWICE. The wife and daughter were not to be harmed. And then Archon Robert had told him the exact same thing again.

“Well, at least we don’t have a time limit on this, gentlemen. Now that we have identified the problems involved, why don’t we earn our princely salaries and figure out a way to take Stephen Cameron out cleanly.”


February 7, 2768
Asta Defense Headquarters
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony

Minoru Kurita sat in the office suite that had been provided for him in the SLDF facility. The fingers of one hand drummed upon the three sheets of paper before him as he considered the matter. Zabu, his oldest surviving son and heir, and the Internal Security Force had uncovered an Amaris agent in place in the DCMS; a high ranking officer, privy to many of the secrets of the Combine. Orders he sent back to Luthien were being copied and sent directly to Terra by the traitor. But his son, and his intelligence chief, had not arrested the criminal. No, they planned to USE him; albeit without his knowledge.

Already, General Kamarov had been ‘promoted’ to a new Joint Command Task Force his son had created. The fictional posting was removed from actual operations, but appeared to be receiving factual information about troop movements and operations plans. Concerned with coordinating the DCMS with the SLDF and Armed Forces of the Federated Suns, the Joint Command—and Kamarov—were engaged in an almost entirely illusory shell game. Oh, there was real, but mostly harmless, information being passed; enough at least to keep the Usurper’s spies content. But Zabu had hatched a plan worthy of Shiro Kurita himself.

At a general staff conference last week, his son had announced that Philip Marik had decided to come into the war on the side of Stephen Cameron. The Free Worlds League was preparing to commit its troops and its navy on the side of the Star League against Amaris. And that, in preparations for joint operations, the Free Worlds League Navy would be conducting exercises with the SLDF in an uninhabited system two jumps away from Oriente.

Oriente, the largest and most modern shipyard and naval base in the entire Free Worlds League, was one of the Crown Jewels of the Free Worlds. Responsible for the construction and support of almost forty percent of the FWLN, those shipyards were always heavily defended. But, in a month, they would not be. At least, that was what Zabu had told the Joint Command Task Force. And Kamarov.

If Amaris took the bait, Zabu’s letter explained, and he attacked Oriente, then Philip Marik would be furious at the ‘sneak attack’. And he would then commit his forces in the fight against Amaris. Masterful, Minoru thought. He had always feared for his younger son; Zabu had shown no interest in the military, but he possessed a keen mind, a subtle mind. Once Kamarov passed the information—and the confirmations were received—then the ISF would ‘discover’ the traitor and shut down the operation.

But, if his son was subtle, if his son was keen of intellect, he was not ruthless. Any force Amaris sent against Oriente would encounter the might of the FWLN defending the yards. And a victory against the rabble might not be enough to force Philip Marik enter the war. His fingers drummed as he considered. Stephen Cameron would not approve; nor would Lord Kerensky. And if Philip Marik ever found out, then he would become the target of the Free Worlds, not Amaris.

Still, he gauged the odds again in his head. Three chances in ten, he calculated, that they will never discover the truth. And, if so, Philip would have to cross the entire Inner Sphere to make war on him. But if successful, then the Free Worlds would respond with a ferocity that rivaled his own DCMS and the SLDF. His fingers stopped, resting on the sheets of paper, as he nodded. He had always been a gambler. And this aspect of the plan he would reveal to no one, not even his son. Let others suspect what he set in motion; none would ever know the truth for certain.

Moving his hand to the intercom on his desk, he pressed a button.

“I need to speak with Captain Sogabe as soon as possible.”

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

“Do you understand your orders, Captain?”

“Hai, my Lord,” Takiro Sogabe replied as he prostrated himself on the floor.

“Good, Captain, very good. Stand please. You CAN NOT be found out, Captain. This must look like it is being done by the Rim Worlds. To that extent, your vessel will be equipped with three seperate nuclear demolitions charges—use them to avoid capture.”

“Of course, my Lord. We will not fail you, Sire, nor will we fail the Dragon.”

“Then go, Captain. Your family, and those of your crew, will be told that you are Heroes of the Combine, true samurai to the last. They will be cared for, as though they were my own.”

Takiro began to bow, but stopped with shock as the Coordinator extended his hand. Slowly he took it, and the Coordinator gripped it hard. “Good hunting, Captain Sogabe.” And the Coordinator and his Otomo left the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts. Such an audacious plan, he thought. The risks were high, but the possible rewards!

Take his ship—the Q-ship Black Rose—to Oriente, masquerading as a Lyran freighter. And when he arrived, he was to wait until the Rim Worlds attacked the system. Then, and only then, was he to launch his nuclear missiles at the Oriente shipyards—and the factory complexes on the planet itself. It was bold and ambitious, and Takiro Sogabe now longer gave any thought to his own death, only on how best to accomplish the will of the Dragon.

Are we going to see more of this series in the near future?

Chapter Thirty-Five

February 7, 2768
Great Eastern Fens
Alpha Continent, Carver V
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)

Major Paul Burkett, Armed Forces of the Federated Suns, swung the massive right arm autocannon of his Victor class BattleMech towards the Rim Worlds hovercraft pouring streams of inferno gel onto the Warhammer of his lance mate. As the targeting reticule in his neuro-helmet settled onto the bulky 35-ton vehicle, it changed color from light blue to a harsh red, and a tone sounded in his ears. Gotcha, you little bastard, he thought as he squeezed the trigger on the control stick in his right hand. The Pontiac autocannon bellowed and spat fire of its own as sixty high-velocity rounds exited the muzzle, the empty cases ejecting into the muck and mire of the swamp around him.

The hovercraft crumpled as the shells ripped apart the light armor frame covering the skirts, and then exploded in a fountain of blazing gel as the magazine feeding the flamer cut loose. Drops of the gel showered down on Burkett and his command lance, but they were MechWarriors, and it would take far more than a few drops of the napalm-like jelly to stop them. The Warhammer he had just saved pivoted it’s torso towards him, and the twin chest-mounted machine-guns barked out a long burst, the heavy slugs tearing into the jump infantry that he had somehow missed spotting a mere seventy meters away.

“Thanks for the assist, Six; that assault sled was beginning to vex me. Hope you don’t mind me returning the favor?”

“Negative, Four,” Burkett replied. He paused and took a moment to glance at his sensor display. Damn that old fool to Hell, he thought again. His battalion—or at least the 23 ‘Mechs left of it—were exactly where the entire 2nd Davion Guards Regiment should have been; exactly where General Montoya had ordered them to be, in order to close off the only possible route of escape for the Rim Worlds forces on Carver V. But Field Marshall Hallis, the Guards commanding officer, had countermanded those orders upon reaching the edge of the swampy fens. 1st and 3rd Battalion, plus Regimental HQ and the attached assault battalion from the Assault Guards were now ninety kilometers away, moving towards the only DRY land in the area. And he and his battalion were the only ones left to secure this sector.

“All Gremlin elements, this is Six Actual. Consolidate at grid coordinates 12-60 and report status,” he spoke into the throat mike tapped to his neck.

“Six Actual, Gremlin Echo One—we are at nine effectives and showing heavy opposition two klicks ahead.”

“Six Actual, Gremlin Fox Two, Fox One is down. Four ‘Mechs functional, but two are badly damaged, sir.”

“Six Actual, Gremlin Golf One—eight effectives, ETA to 12-60 two minutes.”

And of his own battalion command lance, just he and Sergeant Preston in the Warhammer were left. Swell. To his left he spotted the sunlight glittering from the ‘Mechs of Echo company as they trudged through the marsh. The heavy trees, so like the moss-shrouded cypress of Old Earth, to the south blocked his view of Fox, but his sensors showed the four survivors slowly making their way forward. Beyond Fox, the eight remaining ‘Mechs of Golf were just now coming onto his display.

Less than two companies left of his original command—and most were damaged. The Rimmers had pulled back, but they were regrouping for yet another attack in the distance, he was certain. After all they had already hit 2nd Battalion five times in an attempt to break past—why not a sixth?

“Argent Actual, this is Devil-Dog One, respond Argent Actual.”

The voice from the speaker sounded cold and hard, even through the static, Burkett thought. What the hell, my career is finished anyway since I ignored the Field Marshall’s order to follow him. He thumbed his radio over to the regimental frequency.

“Devil-Dog One, this is Argent Gremlin Six Actual. Go ahead.”

There was a momentary pause. “Gremlin Six, stand by for One Actual.”

“Standing by, Devil-Dog One.”

“Gremlin Six, where the HELL is Argent Actual?”

“One Actual, Argent Actual is heading for grid sector 14 on account of difficulty in moving through the marsh.”

“Say again, Gremlin Six?”

“Argent Gremlin is the only unit in grid sector 12. Remainder of Argent is in transit to grid sector 14, One Actual.”

For several seconds, only static came from the speaker. And then a new voice came through. “Gremlin Six, this is Sword Actual, do you copy?”

Burkett sat up straighter in his cockpit—as much as the straps holding him to his ejection seat would allow. “Sir, I do copy.”

“Status report, Gremlin Six.”

“We have repulsed five attempts by Rim forces to breakthrough the perimeter—they are gathering strength for another push, Sword Actual. Gremlin is at 57% percent strength—including damaged units. Request urgent reinforcement.”

“Son, all Devil-Dog and Sword units are engaged EXCEPT Argent elements en route to sector 14. Can Gremlin hold?”

Burkett looked backed down at his display, and saw the first icons of another full regiment of hovercraft emerge from the distant tree-line. “Understood, Sword Actual. Request immediate air-support. Gremlin will hold.”

“Fast-movers are inbound your sector, Gremlin Six. Four minutes. Give them hell. Sword Actual out.”

The transmission ceased as the First Prince of the Federated Suns terminated the transmission. Burkett switched back to his battalion frequency. “All Gremlins, this is Six Actual. Angels are inbound with heavy ordnance, but we have to hold. If they evade past us and get out into the deep fens, these Rim bastards could escape off-world. They have killed too many of our friends and comrades for us to let that happen, brothers. Our failure here will shame our Prince and our homeland in the eyes of the Star League, brothers—so failure will not happen. We will hold the line. We will murder those bastards when they come into range; no one will withdraw, on the honor of the 2nd Davion Guards! Warriors, Knights, Brothers-in-Arms today we stand and shall not be moved! Give them the SWORD OF DAVION!”

An exhausted cheer roared across his speakers as the twenty-two men and women—MechWarriors all—of his command responded. As the Rim hovers closed the distance, nearly in his reach, he flicked a switch on his console. Through all the cockpits of the ‘Mechs of the 2nd Battalion, through the external loud-speakers, the ‘Ride of Valkyries’ began to play. Twisting the external volume to its maximum, he could FEEL the sound vibrating in his cockpit. And as the Rimmers entered range, he snarled, “For God and Davion, my Brothers, FIRE!”

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

Tamkoh Red Eagle glanced at the Rapier to his right as he rocketed across the sky. His wingman was right there, glued to his wingtip as if the two massive 85-ton aerospace fighters were one. Behind him, four more Rapiers of the 332nd Heavy Strike Squadron followed him at Mach Four. His fuel gauge was steadily decreasing at an alarming rate, but General Montoya had said soonest. And the 332nd had been the ones on call. The Davion tin-heads below were in serious trouble, apparently, so the SLDF’s finest would have to bail them out. A beep sounded in his helmet and Tamkoh glanced at his heads-up display. Thirty seconds out. With his left hand he switched frequency to that of the Davions below.

“Gremlin Six, this is Thunderbolt Lead, inbound to Sector 12. Understand you have some treads and toads you need assistance with.”

Static hissed into his ears. Red Eagle frowned and double-checked the frequency. No, it was the correct one.

“Thunderbolt Lead, this is Two. Got ‘em down below; Christ, they are all jumbled up down there; no clean target Lead, repeat no clean Target.”

He looked at his own display—sixteen Davion icons on the screen, surrounded by Rim hovertanks and jump infantry—scores of them. Flashes of coherent light and PPC blasts lit the open fen in the fast fading light. Two was right, there was no way to make a pass without hitting friendly troops. As he began to circle the battle below, he slowed his fighter to sub-sonic speeds and the fuel consumption dropped dramatically.

“Thunderbolt Lead, this is Gremlin Six—you’re late.”

“Sorry about that, Gremlin Six. We have a slight problem.”

“Yeah, they are,” the speaker crackled for a moment with the staccato thud of a heavy autocannon, and in the background Red Eagle could hear music of all things, then came back to life, “sorry, Thunderbolt, got a bit busy. What are you carrying?”

“Infernos and cluster frag, Gremlin. We can not, repeat, can not drop without hitting you.”

“Understood, Thunderbolt Lead. Request immediate fire-support support mission on grid coordinates 12-58, Inferno only, repeat inferno only.”

Red Eagle turned cold. “Gremlin, you are at coordinates 12-58, confirm request.”

“Confirmed, Thunderbolt. Our ‘Mechs can take the heat,” the voice did not seem as confident as the words themselves, “but those vehicles and infantry will die. Deliver the package, Thunderbolt, put it right on top of us.”

“The honor is yours, Gremlin Six. Delivery in fifteen seconds.” Switching back to his squadron frequency, Red Eagle swallowed hard. “Thunderbolt Lead to Thunderbolt Flight, arm Infernos only. Squadron drop pattern theta, target grid coordinate 12-58.”

For a moment there was only silence. “Lead, this is Two, infernos armed, drop-pattern theta, grid coordinate 12-58.”

One by one, the other four of his squadron answered in voices cold and clipped, without showing the strain each of them must be feeling. That he was feeling.

“Thunderbolt Flight, follow me in,” he replied as he banked the Rapier and slammed the throttle forward.

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

The massive Dictator class DropShip trembled as it shook in the turbulent atmosphere. What a cluster-frak, Major Diana Anderson thought as it struggled to get in a position to drop her battalion. The 501st Royal Pathfinder Battalion had been the first unit down on Carver V two weeks ago, cutting out a landing zone for the follow-on heavy forces. With the campaign almost complete its survivors had been trying to de-stress and accept the loss of their friends at the space-port when the call came in. Fifteen minutes ago, the call had come in. She shook her head. Twenty-nine Griffin II BattleMechs were all that remained of her battalion, but each had been repaired and patched and reloaded, and each had a MechWarrior in its cockpit. It had been a miracle that the old DropShip had been able to launch in such a short time, but apparently the Davions had screwed the pooch. And it was up to her and the 501st to save the day. Again. Some days, some days it does not pay to be the absolute best in the whole frakkin’ universe at what you do.

The crimson light on her cockpit console began flashing, and she pulled her restraining straps tighter. What the hell, we’ve always said we could do our job better drunk than anyone else can sober. Today we get to prove it.

The light turned green and the bay door snapped open, as the booster rockets attached to her ‘Mech fired, hurling her from the heavy assault ship. Her own jump jets fired in pulses as she watched the displays—not her altitude, but the one showing her command. Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, TWENTY-NINE, all her ‘Mechs, her people, were clear. Now she could look at the ground. And when she did, she blanched.

A huge circle of the fens was blackened and scorched, sections still blazing from the heat of the inferno gel dispersed from twenty-four thousand kilo bombs. Charred ‘Mech skeletons stood upright, or rested on one knee amid ashes and soot and blackened bone. Melted vehicles were barely recognizable, their structures twisted and warped by the intense heat. The ground approached quickly and she fired her jump-jets on continuous burn until her ‘Mech slammed down into the baked soil only now beginning to refill with water from the surrounding marsh. Steam hovered in the thick humid air, and she was thankful her cockpit was sealed. The stench must be incredible.

A blackened Victor missing its right arm and most of its armor twisted its battered head towards her, and she heard an exhausted numb voice over her intercom. “We held, my Prince. We held. For God and Davion we held.”

“Devil-Dog One,” she softly spoke into her microphone. “We are going to need immediate med-evac for the Davion units on the ground. 501st will secure the sector, but for the love of God, get those choppers in here fast.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

February 9, 2768
Jamestown
Alpha Continent, Carver V
Terran Hegemony

John Davion took a sip of whiskey as he listened to the bagpipes outside his headquarters sing out ‘Danny Boy’. Of the 2nd Battalion, there were a mere five surviving personnel—and none of their ‘Mechs were fit for repair. But their sacrifice had sealed the Rim Worlds forces in, and the SLDF 501st Pathfinders had advanced straight through their lines and devastated the enemy headquarters. Twenty-seven hours ago, the senior surviving Rim officer—a Captain—had surrendered, and Carver V had been reclaimed for the Star League.

But it should not have happened. And it would not have happened if Field Marshall Hallis had not chosen to disregard his orders from General Montoya. Old Marshall Hanson had been right—the AFFS was not ready for this war. At least its leaders were not ready. John had sat right here last night and listened to the explanations Hallis had given for his actions: Montoya had come up through the ranks in Infantry—and Infantry do not give orders to MechWarriors. Modern warfare has no use for infantry or vehicles or aerospace fighters, Hallis had said, it is the knights of the battlefield, the MechWarriors who decide things. Infantry are, after all, good only for garrisoning after the battle and policing spent brass.

He had known of the ‘cult’ of the ‘Mech in his armed forces—had even secretly believed some of its more romantic trappings. The spurs he wore were symbol of that. But now, in a real war, with real lives being lost, his troops were suffering because of idiots like Hallis. He had waved away Montoya’s concerns about this very issue, confident that his officers would follow his commands. But now? Now, he knew that he had been wrong. And the officers that led his troops into battle were not those that should. Many of the Regimental commanders were scions of planetary Dukes, some were themselves ennobled. He had asked David, his younger brother to quietly ask senior non-commissioned officers what they thought of the officer corps.

And today David had brought him the answers. Few long-service NCOs remained in the AFFS, as most could not stand the sheer lack of professionalism. Those who remained were resigned to obeying orders without even trying to advise the officers—because those officers thought themselves superior even to those who had been MechWarriors for twenty years or longer. After all, they held a commission, and the enlisted did not. And they were superior to the officers of the armored forces and infantry and artillery, because those units were not ‘Mechs; which is why when Hallis deployed he left his supporting artillery aboard his DropShips with orders to prepare a garrison compound for the Regiment.

Of the twelve regiments he had brought on this expedition, Montoya and the Star League Defense Force officers had found faults with all of them, except the 4th Guards under the command of his brother David. Not quite to the extent of Field Marshall Hallis, perhaps, but enough to ensure that NO ONE in the SLDF wanted to depend upon a Davion regiment or brigade. It shamed him; shamed him deeply.

The door to his office opened, and David Davion came in. “John, they are waiting for you.”

John Davion nodded and stood, throwing back the remainder of the whiskey. “David, thank you again, but if you do not . . .”

“I know that I am your youngest brother, Prince John. But I do believe I am past the age of adulthood. I agree with you, and it is time that something is done—past time.”

He slapped the younger man on his shoulder, and then pulled him tight in a hug. Stepping back, he asked, “When are you leaving for Robinson?”

“Tonight. Duke Sandoval will have a royal fit when he gets the news—but he will have to back down when he realizes that a Guards Regiment loyal to YOU is ready to break him and his whole family like a twig.”

“And the other two regiments you are taking?”

“The officers are in custody, replaced with MY men. Don’t you worry none, brother. Old Man Sandoval will be as quiet as a church mouse—or he will be as quiet as the grave, his choice.”

John nodded. “Take care of yourself out there, little brother.”

“I’m not the one planning on accompanying the AFFS in the war next year, my Prince. Watch your back, since you won’t have me here to do it for you.”

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

The rows of chairs in the auditorium were filled with rank upon rank of high-ranking Davion officers—almost all members of the nobility. Nine regimental commanders, three brigade commanders, two division commanders, and the Marshall of the AFFS, plus their assistants and staffs, all of whom came to attention as John Davion entered the room. The First Prince made his way to the podium, but did not release them from attention, and silence filled the room.

“Good evening, gentlemen. You may now be seated.” With a rustling of chairs the officers sat, and John could hear the muttered whisperings from among them. ‘Dictator’, said one. ‘Who does he think he is’ asked another. Yes, his officers were quite certain of their privileges. Too certain.

“I asked you here today, gentlemen to inform you of my extreme disappointment in your conduct in this operation. You have—both individually and collectively—shamed not only myself but the entire Federated Suns.”

A loud babble of sound arose as the officers began to stand and protest, but John steeled himself and slammed his clenched fist down on the podium.

“SILENCE!”

“We are at WAR, gentlemen. And I will not tolerate this type of behavior on the part of my officer corps. Have you forgotten the traditions of Rostov, of Prince Alexander? Have you become so political and social that you are more Lyran than Davion?”

“This will end now. All of you are dismissed from my service, effectively immediately. If I have to purge two-thirds of my officer corps to have an effective and professional armed forces than gentlemen I will, by God himself, do just that.”

One older officer, wearing the braids and ribbons of the Marshall of the AFFS rose to his feet. “Sire, you may be First Prince, but that title gives you no right to dictate to the officer corps. They answer to me, as Marshall of the Armed Forces of the Federated Suns. I must convey your orders to them, and this order I shall not convey.”

“Marshall Sandoval, your father might have convinced me to appoint you as Marshall, but you serve at my pleasure. I will allow you to retract those words and return to Robinson, but you must do so now, in the view of your officers.”

“I will not, Sir. You will not destroy this military because of what an Infantryman such as that peasant Montoya has said of us.”

John nodded. “Very well, Marshall.” Stepping out from behind the podium, he placed a hand inside his blouse and withdrew an automatic pistol. “Marshall Sandoval, you are guilty of treason against me and the Federated Suns. The sentence is death.” And with that last word John Davion fired a single shot into Jared Sandoval’s forehead, spraying red blood and grey brains across the officers arrayed behind him.

From the entrances to the auditorium, dozens of armed men burst into the room. “Arrest them all, loyal soldiers. Take them outside, stand them against the walls of this building and kill every last one of them for incompetence.”

One solider, face still covered with burn gel, turned to salute, and then began barking orders at the infantry. As the shocked officers were being led outside, John knelt down on the stage. “Major Burkett, a word if you could.”

Paul Burkett took two steps towards the Prince, his Prince, and stopped, standing at attention.

“No need for that, Major. Why did you hold?”

“You are my Prince, my Prince, and you commanded.”

“Why did you disobey Field Marshall Hallis?”

“Because he was wrong, Prince John. You instructed us all to conform to General Montoya’s orders, yet he couldn’t, simply because Montoya is not a ‘MechWarrior. He shamed us—the Guards, the AFFS, the entire Federated Suns, . . . and you, Sire. He was wrong and I could not let him just wreck the complete operation. I couldn’t.”

“Good. Paul, I need men like you. Right now,” he said as a crash of rifles came from the outside of the building, “I may well be facing a civil war. Those are powerful men I just had put to death. I need a man who does the right thing. I will ask you one question, Major Paul Burkett: can you put the Armed Forces of my House in order, give them back their honor and their morale and their ability to win, instead of playing a role in war-games?”

“I . . . I can, my Prince. If that is what you wish.”

“It is, Marshall Burkett. I am suspending the Martial Code of the AFFS for the immediate future—do whatever you must, but give me an army that I can lead that will no longer shame either of us.”

John Davion extended his hand, and Marshall Paul Burkett took it.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

February 14, 2768
Branson House, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony

“Northwind? Why in the name of Heaven are you going to that other cold, dreary place?” Marianne spat as she jerked the brush through her hair, her face all pinched and tight as Stephen broke the news.

“Love, Northwind is the only core world of the Old Hegemony that was not occupied, and they have supported me—us—unflinchingly. The Elders asked me to attend the Clan Gathering in two weeks, and I can’t say no. Unless you would rather I visit the troops on Carver V?”

She snorted. “There is no way in hell Gerald or Hiroyoshi will let you near a world with unaccounted for Amaris troops still on it. And you know that; so try again.”

Stephen sighed and sat down on the bed, leaning back against the stuffed pillows. “All right, how about this? You are not due for thirteen weeks yet, and Cassie is STILL not enrolled in regular school. How about we load up—just the three of us, and a couple of hundred body guards, and several hundred staff and tutors—and make the trip together.”

His wife quit brushing her hair and turned her head to glare at him over her shoulder. “That miserable planet is almost as depressing as Asta, Stephen. At least here they do not have the Highland tradition to live down to, so they know how to PROPERLY heat a domicile.”

“Sure you don’t want to go, Marianne? I’m taking the battlecruiser Richelieu—her skipper is Susan Collins.”

“Susie made it out?” she asked, turning around to look at him, her face widening in disbelief. “Susie is still ALIVE? The woman I went to prep school with, Cassie’s god-mother, that Susie?”

“The one and the same, my beloved and obedient wife,” he said with a grin. “She got posted to the ship just before the Coup and managed to cut her way out of the Solar System to escape. I found out this morning that she had made it out alive, and then had Hiroyoshi confirm it. Richelieu has been fully repaired—and low and behold, love—it turns out that Richard, spendthrift that he was, allocated almost three BILLION to outfit her passenger section as his own personal transport. Luxury accommodations for ten days there, five nights over Northwind, and ten days back; all of which you can spend with your best friend while I deal with the Elders and the Clan Conclave down in drafty old Tara.”

Marianne crossed the room and laid down on the bed, resting her head on Stephen’s chest. He bent down and kissed her on the crown of her head. “Well, if I get to spend some time with Susie, then I guess Cassie and I can go along; she will love to see her god-mother again, I think.” She sat up and shook a finger in his face, trying—and failing—to keep the smile from her lips. “But you, you are not to get roped into lifting a log and throwing it; or hurling rocks, or bull-wrestling, or what-ever-else those dim-witted Neanderthal impersonators might be doing to amuse themselves. Got it?”

“Yes, dear,” he whispered as she sank back down onto him, and he smiled. He wrapped one arm around her and with his other gently stroked her swollen belly. “You know, we really should be thinking about names for this child, love.”

“I have been, dearest, it is you that has been far too busy with your duties to assist me.”

“Ouch.”

“I was thinking of William David, if it is a boy.”

“My father would be pleased with that if he was still around.”

“Frak your father, Stephen, may he rest in peace, what do you think?”

“Oh, I like it,” the relaxed First Lord of the Star League muttered as he bent down and kissed her once again. “Dad really liked you, you know, even if he did think you were a mite too concerned with your social image for your own good.”

“Hah, he would have called it karmic retribution your ascension to First Lord for marrying me. More parties and formal, boring dinners—from your point of view—than you have ever attended in your whole life, even after meeting and marrying me. Without me to run those things for you, where would you be, now?”

“Treading water while wearing a hundred-kilo rucksack, probably. Of course, if you didn’t care for those events QUITE so much, love, I’d just have Hiroyoshi shoot some of the dilettantes. That would make his day, and mine as well. And what if our new little one is a girl?”

“How does Lindsey Joan grab you?”

Stephen throat tightened, as his wife whispered the name of his dead sister. “Sam will be pleased; I think it is a wonderful choice.”

“Of course you do, Stephen; it was my idea after all.”

For several moments both of them just lay there, saying nothing. Only the crackling of the logs in the fireplace broke the silence. “Have I told you today, just how much I love you, Marianne?”

“Not today, you haven’t.”

Kissing her again, he whispered, “Happy Valentines, love,” and she squeezed his arm.

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,” he began to softly sing in her ear. “You make me happy, when skies are grey. If you only knew, dear, how much I love you; please don’t take my sunshine away.”

“Stephen?”

“Yes, love?”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

“Yes, dear,” he answered, turning off the light on the bedside table.


February 15, 2768
Asta Defense Headquarters
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony

Hiroyoshi Tanaka was admitted to the office of Minoru Kurita. Behind the Coordinator stood two of his Otomo, who—despite knowing well who he was—were watching him intently. He took two steps forward, and then knelt, first to one knee, and then to both. Placing his arms above his head, his palms facing down, he then prostrated himself upon the floor.

“So formal today, Tai-Sa Tanaka, clearly this meeting must concern a matter of great importance,” Minoru intoned from behind his desk. “Rise, honored samurai; stand before me and speak of that which has brought you to me.”

The DEST commando stood, assuming a position of at-ease, his eyes staring at the far wall. He swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. “My Lord, I have come today to ask of you a gift.”

“And what might that gift be?”

“I have been asked by Major Moreau to formally accept a posting to the Black Watch Regiment as his executive officer, my Lord.”

“I see. And what was your answer?”

“I have not yet given him one, Sire. I am,” Hiroyoshi paused, his face twisting in a momentary grimace, “conflicted. If I am to accept, then I would be oath-bound to serve two masters, my Lord.”

“Yet, you serve in that post now, do you not?”

“Officially, sire, no. I—and the members of the DEST teams that you have assigned—are not technically part of the Star League Defense Forces. We are Combine forces, on loan to serve the First Lord of the Star League. But we remain, sire, bound to our service to you and to the Combine. As per your directions and instructions, we serve to keep Stephen Cameron and his family safe, but in the end we answer only to you, my Lord Kurita—and to your Heir.”

Minoru stood, his gaze locking with that of Hiroyoshi. “No one can long serve two masters, can they? What would you ask of me?”

“I, and many of the DEST assigned to me, would asked to be released from our oath of service to you and to the Combine, in order to take up arms officially as the Guardians of the First Lord.”

One of the Otomo twitched behind Minoru. The request was unheard of; an oath to the Dragon was until death. Even those who had long since retired were bound by their oath of service, subject to recall at the Dragon’s whim. Minoru, on the other hand, just nodded his head.

It took them long enough, he thought. They have managed to stretch out their service far longer than I first thought they would without making this request. But it was not unexpected. As he had told Hideki, Gregor, and Mitsuo aboard Mikasa six months earlier, the loyalty that Stephen Cameron could inspire was, well, breath-taking.

“Tai-Sa Tanaka, I have prepared for this day for almost half a year. I have written this order for dissemination among the Draconis military and civil government,” he said as he reached within his desk and withdrew a roll of parchment, bound with a red silk ribbon, and sealed in wax with the Coordinators seal of state. “This order will release you—and any of your men and women who volunteer to follow you—from my service, both now and forever. Provided, that is, that you swear allegiance to Stephen Cameron as your Lord and Master. You and your men will remain subjects of the Combine and will be granted the right to return home, at any time of your choosing. Your families will be allowed to freely depart the Combine to join you, if that is your wish—and theirs.”

“You and your people have served the Dragon with honor, and with skill, and with the true spirit of the samurai. I only ask of you that you serve the First Lord with the same honor that you have rendered to me.”

“My Lord is gracious; it shall be done as you request,” Hiroyoshi whispered.

The Coordinator turned to one of the two Otomo and whispered into his ear. The guard nodded and softly spoke into his radio. Three minutes passed as the four men stood without moving in the office, and then the door behind Hiroyoshi opened. And a third member of the Otomo entered, bearing in his arms two swords, the long and the short, in their lacquered sheaths. The guard knelt to one side of Minoru’s desk and raised the two swords high. Minoru took them and set them upon his desk.

Bowing to the blades, he then lifted the katana and held it out before him. “This is Soul of Winter, forged by the master Miatoyma in the city of Edo on Old Earth nine hundred and sixty-eight years ago.” Minoru set down the katana and lifted the wakizashi instead. “Crafted along side Soul of Winter, was this blade; Ice Blossom. A matched daisho, they have been heirlooms of the House of Kurita since the formation of the Draconis Combine. The have drunk deep in the blood of our enemies, first those of Japan on Old Earth, and then of the Combine.”

Setting the smaller blade down on the desk, Minoru bowed to the swords once more. Sliding his hands beneath both of the swords, he lifted them one more time. “Accept these ancient blades of my House, samurai, and wield them now and forever with honor and strength and integrity, as you have wielded all such weapons in the service of the Dragon. May the spirits of our ancestors that dwell within them guide you on the path you have chosen to walk.”

Hiroyoshi extended his hands, and Minoru laid the swords in them. “They—much as you—serve a new master now, Hiroyoshi Tanaka.” And the Coordinator bowed to his former subject, as did the three Otomo.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

February 18, 2768
Star League Communications Center Complex, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony

Administrator Thomas Reeves had just finished filing the information on a transmission request when he heard the ding of the service bell. Standing up from his desk in the front office of the building that housed Asta’s sole HPG—Hyper-Pulse Generator—he took a bite of his stale danish and then a swig of cold coffee to wash it down with. Swallowing, he walked up to the window at the counter.

“Yes, sir, may I help you?”

Outside, a Master Sergeant in the uniform of the Defense Forces stood, brushing off a few remaining specks of snow from his winter coat. “Yes, thank you. I was told that this was the place to send a message.”

“Well, it is not Western Union, Master Sergeant, but yes we can send a message. You do realize that transmission costs are pretty steep, right?”

The man shrugged, and grinned. “What else do I have to spend my lordly salary upon? I want to send a message to my mother on Skondia.”

Reeves shook his head and handed the trooper a message form. “It’s your dime, but you know that regular mail service could have a package there in just five weeks. Is it so important that you have to let her know tomorrow?”

The trooper beamed again. “Mama is pushing eighty, Sir. And she has been nagging me for the past twenty-three years about giving her some grand-children. Well, last year after I got here, I met the most incredible young widow—and her kids. Popped the question yesterday, and she said yes. Figure I should make Ma happy before anything happens to her.”

“Congratulations, trooper,” Reeves said, smiling. Many of the recent ‘priority’ messages he had sent had concerned just such unions—from SLDF, DCMS, and DCA personnel alike. “I have to inform you that since we are in a time of war, Master Sergeant, your message may be censored.”

“No problem, Sir. I made sure not to include any information the intelligence types might worry about—no mention of my unit or deployment, or about anything really, except my wedding date!”

“That should be fine,” he took the form and scanned it—no the censors would probably let this one go through without any difficulty. “We cannot offer any guaranty, however, that they will not censor this message—and the cost is $500 for overnight transmission to Skondia.”

The soldier winced, but pulled out his wallet, and counted out three hundreds and a handful of twenties. “Ouch,” he said.

“Told you it was going to be expensive; would you rather send it by normal routes?”

He shook his head. “No, how often do you get to tell your mother that you are getting married—and that she has three brand-new grand-kids to boot?”

“Like I said, it’s your dime.”

Reeves rang up the sell, and handed the solider his receipt. “There you go—and congratulations to you and the new family.”

The soldier lifted the hood of his parka up and waved his hand, clutching the receipt in his other, as he headed for the exit. “Thanks.”

As the trooper exited into a late winter snow-storm, he pulled the hood tighter about his head. His fellow agent on Skondia would forward the coded intelligence report to Terra, and soon Stefan Amaris would know that in two weeks Stephen Cameron and his heir would be arriving in the Northwind system.

“Taxi!” he cried into the howling wind.


February 18, 2768
McMurtree Space Port, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony

Hans Trevane frowned as he watched the First Lord’s DropShip climb into the heavens. At least his absence will give us time to figure out a way to kill the son-of-a-bitch, he thought. Twenty-five days to find a way to do the deed, and maybe go home afterwards. Maybe. The last part was REALLY doubtful, especially since the entire planet would be infuriated after the man’s death. At least they had received word that the DEST teams would no longer be assigned to the First Lord’s use; they finally had enough real Black Watch that the DEST had been returned to Kurita service just two days before.

He backed away from the window of the warehouse as the glowing dot of the fusion drives disappeared among the overhanging cloud cover. The rest of his Loki team were in the office, even Nelson since the First Lord had declined to take along any reporters.

“Well, any of you come up with a bright idea?”

For several moments there was only silence, and then Hollis cleared his throat.

“We know that we are not going home after this one, Boss—the target is too well protected. The boys and I came up with one possible solution; but it would make it a one-way trip for all of us.”

“If that is what it takes to accomplish our mission,” Hans began and then stopped. “Hollis, Nelson, Liam, do you know how I came to Loki?”

Three heads shook no. “I do not normally tell many people this, but I think you need to know. Twelve years ago, I was an addict. More than that I was dying from my addiction, and would do anything for another fix. My ‘recruiter’ found me in a jail cell on Skye, awaiting sentence for something I did to get another high and made me an offer too good to turn down. They got me clean—saved my life—and honed my natural talent to the job at hand. I should have died twelve years ago; every day since I owe to Loki—and to Lord Steiner. My life is his, gentlemen.”

The three terrorists nodded their heads—each shared a similar story in common. Loki looked for men and women with nowhere else to go, men and women that had bottomed out, and made use of that. They gave them dignity, along with the fear that any Lyran citizen showed when you merely mentioned their name. That power—over life and death—was far more intoxicating than any mere chemical high. Far more addictive. But in the end, it was just as deadly.

“What is the plan, Hollis?”

“Our orders, Boss, are to take out the target—without collateral damage. Me and the boys, well, hell, sir, we figure screw the orders. Wait until Cameron gets back from Northwind, and set up on the pass, nail the frakking convoy as it passes and then go down and make sure the job is finished with small arms, knives if we have to.”

Nelson nodded his head. “It won’t matter if the Astans or his guards kill us, since we are dead men on our return home, but damn Boss, control got a little TOO sympathetic here. We are LOKI, not some surgical scalpel; and they knew that when they picked us for this job. Way I figure, some political hack got cold feet at the wife and kiddies; well, they can sleep well because they told us not to. In the meantime, we do the job, and do it right; we waste them all.”

Hans thought about the idea for a few moments—they were right in that it made the job doable. “What about the second part of the orders; about making this look like Rimmers?”

“Easiest thing ever, boss,” Liam said, with a beaming smile. “We become Makos.”

A similar grin overtook Hans. Marking your own secret police with a tattoo of a swirling shark, with an ID number on the interior no-less, had to be the stupidest idea he had ever heard of, but House Amaris had done so. The Special Security Forces of the Rim Worlds—the Makos, as they were called—were, technically, part of the Rim World military. Practically, they were to House Amaris what the Gestapo and SS had been to Nazi Germany, what the KGB had been to the Soviets; an arm of the government outside of the few laws that bound the military, answering only to the leader of the Rim, Stefan Amaris. And the armpit tattoo would mark them as Makos as sure as the sun rises.

“You do realize, gentlemen, that each Mako tattoo contains a micro-chip underneath the skin?”

“Boss, were we born yesterday?” Hollis asked with a sneer. “Rim-trash micro-chips; Liam here can forge us each one in a couple of days. And I wield a pretty mean tattoo needle. We get that part done this week, and it is healed and ready to go by the time Cameron returns. Then we quit shedding crocodile tears for the grieving widow and daughter and finish the job.”

Hans grinned at the three unrepentant killers before him. “I like it, let’s get it done.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

February 28, 2768
SLS Richelieu
Zenith Jump Point, Asta
Terran Hegemony

“Maneuvering, on my mark shut down the mains and hold station at the jump point,” Captain Susan Collins, SLDF, spoke into the dim lighting of the main bridge as she watched the distance to the Richelieu’s jump point steadily decreasing. “In three, two, one, MARK.”

“Mains are disengaged, Ma’am; all RCS thrusters are green; ship is holding station at your coordinates.”

The steady pressure of 1-g of thrust died away, and the gravity disappeared, leaving her and her crew—and their passengers—weightless in zero-G. She rotated the command chair until she faced her XO, who also served as the ship’s navigator. “Tom, I hope that you have a solution; the First Lord and his family are waiting, you know.”

The sandy-haired man looked at her in feigned shock. “I am wounded, O Captain, My Captain; cut to the quick, broken and distressed that you would even think such evil . . . “

“The jump solution, Tom?”

“Ahem. Both solutions have already been tripled check, Captain, and are uploaded to the KF control system.”

“Now why couldn’t you have just said that to begin with? Never mind,” she said with a laugh, as he began to answer. “I really, really do not want to know.”

Reaching down, she pressed a stud on the side of her chair, opening a comm-link to engineering. “Harry, we all set to go visit gloomy Northwind?”

“Captain, we are green across the board—KF core is charged and ready, LF batteries at 100%; Engineering is ready for a double transit—Asta-Saffel-Northwind. The core will require 60 seconds to reset between jumps. We are free and clear to jump on your command, Ma’am.”

Flicking another switch, she reached up and adjusted the boom mike alongside her cheek. “All hands, all hands, this is the Captain. Stand by for Jump 1 in thirty seconds. Jump 2 will take place one minute following our arrival in Saffel. Mister Grainger, start the clock.”

“Aye, aye, Captain. Jump clock is running, jump in 28 seconds, MARK.”

Susie leaned back in the comfortable leather seat the SLDF installed aboard all its ships for those officers granted the honor of commanding one. For the next minute and a half she had but one duty, and unless an emergency suddenly erupted, she would not be aborting the jump. Until it was completed, she was as much a passenger as Stephen Cameron and his family and entourage. She smiled at the thought of them again. It had been good to spend the past five days with Marianne and Cassie; seeing how much the little one had grown had shocked her. And while she had learned of Marianne’s pregnancy, she had not completely realized just how far along her friend had been—or how much her belly and breasts had expanded.

Not that her carrying a child had stopped Marianne from berating her for not coming down planet-side and letting her know that she—Susie—had still been breathing. Friend or no friend, Marianne had a sharp tongue—and knew just what buttons to push. It had nearly come down to shouting, until Stephen interrupted and told Marianne that not just any officer could come and visit whenever he or she wanted to. The guards would have never admitted her, and besides she had duties her aboard her ship. Upon seeing his wife’s darkening face, he had beamed an innocent smile at her, and said, “But I am after all the First Lord of the League. A veritable dictator as my brother-in-law reminded me. Which is why I have instructed Lieutenant Colonel Moreau and Major Tanaka to give Susie 24/7 access to Branson House in the future. And that they are to connect any calls she makes to you immediately and without asking her the nature of the call—I do you know two like to gossip.”

And he had smiled that crooked smile of his at them both, and then all three had broken down in a fit of laughter. She smiled again as the scene replayed itself in her head. It had been a good five days.

“. . . in five seconds, MARK,” the bridge engineer sang out, bringing her back to the present. “Four, three, two, one, JUMP!”

The deck vibrated under her as the KF Drive Core engaged and twisted both time and space. To an observer on the picket ships nearby, SLS Richelieu vanished as though it had never been, only to reappear at the Nadir point of the now lifeless Saffel system.

“Jump 1 is complete, Captain,” Tom called from Navigation. “Navi-comp confirms arrival at Saffel-Nadir at programmed coordinates.”

“STATUS CHANGE!” barked the Tactical officer from her station. “Multiple contacts, all vectors, velocity zero, range 1,000 kilometers. Ma’am, contacts are transmitting friendly IFF, confirmed as the escort ships 7th Fleet left behind.”

“Thank, Miss Assante. Tom?”

“Ma’am, engineering reports second coordinates are now uploaded and we may spin up the clock.”

Lieutenant Commander Julius Grainger, nodded at her from his station, confirming the report.

“Very well, Mister Grainger, at your discretion.”

“Aye, aye, Ma’am, from my mark, 30 seconds to Jump 2. MARK.”

She looked across her bridge. It was a good crew; Lord knows they proved that when they managed to fight their way clear of Titan Base during the coup. The 940,000 battle-cruiser Richelieu was one of two such ships designed as a prototype ‘fast wing’ for the SLDF battle-cruiser fleet. More of a balanced design than the Black Lion class with a mixed battery of naval autocannon, PPCs, lasers, and heavy naval gauss cannons, they were capable of greater thrust, and were the first ships specifically designed to carry a HPG for interstellar communications.

While the older ships were fitted with the top-secret ‘hyper-faxes’—and in point of fact so was Richelieu—those systems were inherently limited in the amount of information they could transmit. A HPG wasn’t. In fact, within roughly 45 light-years, people at two separate HPG facilities could have a real-time conversation, though the power consumption insured that happened only rarely. Far more often, the comm section would use the HPG to send a burst message and then receive a reply. But her ship paid for that capability. Not only was the HPG far heavier, it required almost two dozen communications specialists to operate and consumed vast amounts of power when in operation.

After commissioning, Richelieu had passed all of the tests and exercises evaluating her with flying colors. But despite her success, Richelieu—and her sister ship Jean Bart—were not what the Navy had wanted. Construction had been halted after the first two ships, while SLS Alaska and her sisters were laid down. Whereas all of the incomplete Alaskas were in the Rim World hands, both Richelieu and Jean Bart—the latter only 84% complete—had managed to escape. Jean Bart had been hurriedly completed by SLDF mobile shipyards and now served in 2nd Fleet, while Richelieu—her ship—was permanently assigned to the First Lord. She grimaced at the thought. This ship was a WARSHIP, not some VIP transport. Damn Richard for taking such an interest in her. The fact that he had shared the first four letters of his name with the ship had caught his imagination—and she had spent six months in a construction slip prior to the coup having her passenger facilities completely rebuilt.

First Lord Richard had not lived long enough to take even a single trip aboard, but now her battle-cruiser was assigned to Stephen Cameron. She supposed she should be grateful since with the First Lord aboard her ship and crew would unlikely to be involved in assaulting SDS defended worlds. But she did not feel gratitude; she felt guilt.

“. . . in three, two, one, JUMP.”

Once again the universe twisted and Richelieu arrived at the Northwind Zenith jump point.

“Tactical, confirm escort is in position,” she barked at Lieutenant Assante.

“IFF confirms escort is holding station, Ma’am, in a spherical shell pattern 1,000 kilometers out with a second shell at 2,000 meters.”

Ensign Eylem Zhu—her communications officer—swiveled her chair to face Susie. “Ma’am, Halsey is transmitting; the Admiral wishes to speak directly with you.”

“Put Admiral Schaeffer on line, Eylem.”

“Hot mike, Ma’am.”

“Halsey, this is Richelieu. Go ahead.”

“Welcome to Northwind, Captain Collins,” Vice Admiral Jake Schaeffer said. “Don’t you worry about a thing; 7th Fleet will let nothing get anywhere near the First Lord. Captain, transmit your course to my Flag and we will match vector and acceleration.”

“Aye, aye, Admiral,” she replied. “Eylem, Tom, transmit our course to Northwind orbit to the Flag. Maneuvering, bring us about to 033 Mark 171 and prepare to engage mains at 1-g of acceleration for zero-zero orbital insertion.”

“Coming to 033 Mark 171, Ma’am; mains are ready to light on your command.”

“Light ‘em up; Quincy, we’ve got a long ways to go and a short time to get there.”

As the main drives fired, gravity slowly returned until the ship and crew were accelerating at a steady 1-g, a mere 16.6% of the maximum the vessel could maintain. But while the ship could take 6-g’s of thrust, her crew and passengers would be long dead if she held that level of acceleration for more than a brief period of time. All around, according to her sensors, the 120 ships of 7th Fleet began to match her course and speed. She resisted an urge to giggle at the sheer absurdity of it all. General DeChevilier and Admiral Kirkpatrick had insisted upon dispatching the ENTIRE 7th Fleet—all 196 ships of war—to escort her vessel to Northwind. In one hour, the 76 that had been left in Saffel would jump into Northwind, tasked with guarding the Zenith point. The OTHER 120—including six McKenna class Battleships—would guard her perimeter against any possible threat. Frankly, she thought it was a little bit of overkill, but it was the First Lord they were defending.

“All hands, this is the Captain. We have arrived in the Northwind system and are on course for orbital insertion. We will maintain 1-g of thrust until arrival, with turnover for deceleration in 57 hours and 28 minutes. Arrival in orbit will occur in 114 hours and 56 minutes. Stand down to Condition 2. Off-duty watch is dismissed from stations.”

Switching off the intercom, she took the headset from her head. “Tom, you have the bridge.”

“Aye, aye, Ma’am.”

Chapter Forty

February 30, 2768
SLS Bunker Hill
En route to Northwind
Terran Hegemony

Lt. Commander Richard James Butler—RJ to his friends—listened as the various stations aboard the destroyer reported in at the mid-point of the third watch. 0200 hours, and all is well aboard the good ship Bunker Hill, he thought. RJ initialed the mid-watch report and filed it electronically into the ship’s log. Third watch seemed to drag on, but the mid-watch meant it was half complete. He would have laughed at the absurdity of it—he was a communications officer, for the love of Pete—but the Skipper had wanted him to get the experience of standing a watch as the officer in charge. In the SLDF, few officers outside of the tactical department were ever given the chance to take command, even temporarily. It just was not done. But the Skipper had a different view. She had taken him aside and explained that on HER ship, all bridge officers were expected to be able to take command—and that meant taking the command chair to discover just how much responsibility the job entailed.

Which was, at the moment, very little. The corner of his mouth twitched at the thought. Maybe the XO and TO—tactical officer—had wanted to get a bit more rack time. But still, he had to admit to himself as he stroked the leather arm of the captain’s chair, being in command—even if just for a short period of time—made him aware of all the little things he had missed in the comm section. RJ shook his head and stood, stretching as he looked over the bridge. Ratings and junior officers were at their post, tending to their control systems, and the holo-tank in the center of the compartment showed the same image it had projected for the past two days; 7th Fleet slowly moving towards Northwind orbit.

Bunker Hill was one of the far outriders of the Fleet, ten thousand klicks out from the second shell of warships covering the Richelieu with the First Lord and his family. The nimble little ship had ‘zigged’ out, away from the Fleet thirty minutes ago; in five more minutes, she would hit the way-point and ‘zag’ back in, her sensor array sweeping the area of space far out on the flanks of the formation.

“Coffee, sir?” a yeoman asked him, holding a sealed box containing bulbs of hot drinks.

“Thank you, Dietrich,” he answered as he took a bulb labeled ‘cream and sugar’. Twisting the dispenser cap, he let the hot steam bleed off as the liquid slowly cooled, and then took a sip. And almost spat it out his nose. On the far edge of the holo-tank, a red blip suddenly appeared—an unknown contact.

“Contact! Bogey bearing 042 Mark 002, range three thousand kilometers, closing at 15 kilometers per second,” his tactical officer sang out from his station.

The forgotten bulb of coffee hit the deck as RJ sat back down in the command chair and thumbed a button.

“CIC, Lieutenant Hampton,” the voice answered on the other end.

“CIC, Bridge. What do you have down there?”

“Sir, bogey is not, repeat not, radiating, and we are detecting no drive plume.”

RJ thought for a second, and then two, while the bogey steadily drew closer. No transponder signal could mean a malfunctioning civilian ship, but he had the First Lord behind him. He did not believe in coincidences. “Acknowledged, CIC,” he finally answered. “Get me an ID on them ASAP, Hampton.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” the voice replied.

He turned to the Chief of the Watch, a grizzled senior chief petty officer with thirty years experience. “Chief of the Watch, set Condition Two throughout the ship,” he ordered as he throat went dry. Please, he prayed, let me be wrong, he thought. RJ watched the older man’s face for a sign—any sign—that he was doing the right thing. The CPO merely nodded, his face set hard and grim, and he lifted a handset from a rack on the bulkhead.

“All hands, set Condition Two throughout the ship—this is not a drill. All hands, set Condition Two throughout the ship—this is not a drill.” As he finished speaking, the CPO pressed a stud at his station and a klaxon sounded throughout the ship, three deep whoops, echoing through the mostly empty corridors. Across the destroyer, spacers poured from their sleeping berths into the access-ways, pulling uniforms onto their half-naked bodies as they ran to their assigned stations.

Beside RJ, a buzzer sounded on the arm of the captain’s chair. HIS chair, at the moment. Grimacing, he reached down and flicked the switch. “Bridge, Lt. Commander Butler speaking.”

“What have you got, RJ?” the soft contralto voice of the Skipper came over his headset.

“Ma’am, we have an unidentified bogey with no emissions, no transponder, approaching the Fleet from deep space at 15 kps, range is now down to 2,800 kilometers. I have sounded Condition Two throughout the ship, and,” he paused and looked over the status board to his right. “All stations and compartments are now manned, weapons are being warmed. The Plus Five birds are ready for launch, and the rest of the air group will be ready in ten.”

“I’m on my way, RJ. If the XO or Commander Phillips arrives first . . .”

“I will hand over command to them at once, Ma’am.”

“Good. I’ll be there in a few, in the meantime launch the ready flight and have them do a recon sweep . . . “

“STATUS CHANGE!” the ensign at tactical cried out. “Bogey is launching fighters, HUNDREDS OF FIGHTERS!”

RJ stood, as he stared at the holo-tank, now showing scores of crimson dots emerging from the unknown vessel. “Action stations! Clear all weapons, point-defense free!” he cried, even as he heard the skipper mutter ‘scheiss’ over his ear-piece, and the transmission cut off.

“Launch ready fighters—maneuvering sound acceleration warning. In thirty seconds begin evasive action. Comm, signal the Flag and append our sensor data to the transmission. Two hundred—possibly more—aerospace fighters approaching; give them our bearing and range, Sarah. Tell them Bunker Hill will engage when they enter our range.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” she whispered as the blood drained from her face. But she bent down to her console and did her job, transmitting the warning to the rest of the ships of the Fleet.

“Bridge, CIC,” called out Hampton from the intercom. “Identify Bogey One as a Sampson class bulk transport DropShip—70,000 tons displacement. Positive ID on fighter strike: Maket, Mako, Nautilus, and Vulcan—300 plus. At present rate of closure we will enter weapons range in thirty seconds.”

RJ swallowed hard. Those were Rim World aerospace fighters; and they could only be here for one reason.

“Weapons,” he said softly as he sat and buckled himself into the command chair, “you are free and clear to engage the enemy. Senior Chief,” he said with a chuckle, as the old spacer looked over at him. “I don’t think our ship would mind if we don’t wait for the white of their eyes, do you?”

“No, Sir, the old girl won’t mind one little bit,” he said as he pulled his own restraining straps tight. The maneuvering klaxon sounded one final time, and the Essex class destroyer accelerated forward at more than 2.5-g’s, randomly altering heading and pitch as she went. The ship bucked as the capital missile launchers began spitting Barracudas at the oncoming wave of fighters, followed moments later by the laser batteries and naval autocannon. “For what we are about to receive,” the Chief of the Watch began.

“May we truly be thankful,” RJ finished.


February 30, 2768
SLS Halsey
En route to Northwind
Terran Hegemony

“Bunker Hill reports Rim fighter strike inbound towards the Fleet, Admiral. There are at least 300 that we have spotted so far.”

“Fighters are short-ranged platforms, Captain,” Vice Admiral Jake Schaeffer replied. “Where are the carriers?”

“They also reported a Sampson class bulk transport, sir. The Rimmers must have refitted the cargo bays to carry the fighters. Sir,” his chief of staff paused, “Bunker Hill is too far out for any of us to get there in time. They should already be tangling with the leading edge of the strike.”

Jake swore under his breath. Bunker Hill had been a crack ship, with an exceptional captain who had a habit of turning average officers into excellent ones; a captain that also happened to be his niece. The pain tore into Jake for a moment before he forced it down. Too many of us are going to die in this war, he thought. Later, I can deal with this later. “That can’t be helped now, Brett. Scramble the CAP to intercept and have the outer screen execute Romeo.” Ops plan Romeo was based on just such a contingency—and would bring the combined fire of forty ships of the screen down on the incoming strike. The CAP would take any leakers.

“Shall we launch the reserve fighters, sir?”

“No. Hold them back, and look for another shoe to drop. Three hundred is a lot of fighters, but not enough to ensure them of a kill—not against the number of ships they could bet we would use to protect the First Lord. There is something else out there, Commodore, and I want us to be ready when it arrives.”

Chapter Forty-One

February 30, 2768
7th Fleet
Northwind Deep Space
Terran Hegemony

In the outer escort shell, forty Star League warships (eight cruisers, eight frigates, and twenty-four destroyers) maneuvered into formation interposing themselves between the rest of the Fleet and the 281 surviving Rim fighters. Bunker Hill had fought valiantly against the swarming horde, but her defenses were sadly swamped by sheer numbers. None of the tactical officers knew exactly how many hits she had taken before the end, but they could all see the results. The shattered remains of her hull drifted inwards toward the star at the heart of the Northwind system, tumbling end over end amid the debris.

At the velocity the Rim fighters were travelling, they would pass through the weapons envelope of the SLDF vessels in a mere two minutes. Tracking systems strained aboard the ships of the Fleet as tactical officers sought firing solutions and readied weapons. At last the enemy entered range, and—for the first time in this war—the SLDF anti-fighter defensive doctrine was able to be used properly. Capital missiles roared out from launch tubes, their onboard seeker heads locking on the nimble birds of prey streaking towards the Fleet. Scores of missiles—each one the size of the fighters they were seeking to kill—began ripping holes in the tight formations of fighters and strike bombers. Batteries of capital lasers and particle cannons spat beams of coherent energy at the oncoming strike. Capable of only small adjustments in their bays, the energy guns were far less effective than the missile strike, but each beam that struck a target destroyed that same target. Twelve seconds after the first missiles launched and the energy beams tore into the enemy, the capital autocannon of the warships opened up in rapid-fire mode. Dozens—hundreds—of proximity fused shells began exploding in the depths of space, spewing fragments in all directions, tearing into the heart of the Rimmers.

It was another nineteen or so seconds before the Rim Worlders entered their own range, but the SLDF was not yet finished. Thirty-two Pentagon class escort DropShips, carried aboard the cruisers and frigates, entered the fray with their own fighter-scale guns. Each of the four thousand ton vessels carried as much firepower as four squadrons of strike fighters and assault bombers. The leading edge of the strike force was a holocaust of fire and flame and debris as the concentrated firepower of the Star League ships was felt. But the Rimmers did not die alone. Even as they withered under the unrelenting hail of fire, they replied with their own weapons, and this time they launched the external ordance carried by the Makets beneath their wings. Seventy-four Rim missiles streaked towards the cruisers and destroyers of the escort, each bearing a nuclear warhead. Point-defense did all that it could, but the flight time was short—mere seconds to recognize the threat, allocate fire, and hope (pray) that you disabled the missile—and the range even shorter.

Seventeen missiles broke through the last-ditch fire from the escorting DropShips and the point-defense batteries. Six lost their target in the confusion and self-destructed short of any foe. Another five had been damaged by the point-defense fire and failed to detonate as they slammed into the armored flanks of their target. Of the remaining six, two had selected the same ship—SLS Republic, one of the frigates. When the twin nuclear explosions subsided, nothing remained of the ship—not debris, not life-pods, no survivors at all. Four more ships each received a single missile, but only one, the cruiser Agamemnon, survived. Survived, but broken and battered by the nuclear fire unleashed against her and her crew.

112 Rim fighters broke past the escort, but the Combat Air Patrol was there waiting. Six hundred SLDF fighters swooped in and savaged the survivors in a swift exchange of fire. Only three managed to escape, their velocity carrying them into range of the ships of the inner shell. Those three became the targets of twenty-seven Barracuda missiles fired by the battleships and battlecruisers of the inner screen. None of the three survived the salvo.


February 30, 2768
SLS Halsey
Northwind Deep Space
Terran Hegemony

Jake Schaeffer arrived on the Flag bridge of SLS Halsey—a McKenna class battleship—just as the outer screen opened fire. Ignoring the holo-tank display, he walked across to Commodore Brett Telinov, patting him on the shoulder. “Brett, have the flankers launch recon sweeps with their onboard fighter contingents—all of them. I want the entire perimeter swept, but especially this area HERE,” he said, passing his hand across the space on the opposite side of the Fleet from where the Rim fighters had ambushed Bunker Hill.

“You think they had time to set up something that elaborate, Admiral?” his Chief of Staff asked.

Jake shrugged. “I don’t know, Brett, but it is what I would do if I was trying to hit the First Lord here. Rule Number 23; never think you are smarter than your opponent. He ALWAYS knows something that you don’t. Get those recon flights moving, Commodore.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” he replied, and then he moved off to begin issuing orders, leaving Jake staring at the holo-display.

“Where are you, you son-of-a-bitch? Where?” he muttered.


February 30, 2768
SLS Wendigo
Northwind Deep Space
Terran Hegemony

Ensign Monica ‘Showboat’ Potter grunted as the electro-magnetic catapult hurled her Swift recon fighter from the launch bay of SLS Wendigo. The pressure suit she wore kept her conscious, but the massive acceleration—25-g’s worth—pressed her body back into the ejection seat, hard. Clear of the ship, she engaged the fusion drive, and streaked away from the Naga class destroyer at a more leisurely 5.5-g’s. Banking the fighter, she could see the rest of the squadron as it launched from the old ship. Wendigo was the last Naga on active service, and if it had not been for the war, she would have already been sent to the boneyard. A pity, she thought, for the little ship LOOKED more like a warship should than many of the ‘modern’ Fleet designs. Sitting in dock, it seemed like she was moving at the speed of light, and the clean, sweeping lines of her design certainly had make the Nagas one of the sexiest ships in the Fleet.

A harsh, but somewhat amused voice crackled from the speaker inside her helmet. “Showboat, quit day-dreaming and form up on my wing.”

She cracked a smile and with two barrel rolls slid her Swift into formation with her wingman. “Reporting for duty, Reverend,” she quipped.

Lieutenant Dennis Sinclair snorted. An actual ordained Methodist minister, he had turned down the opportunity for a commission in the Corps of Chaplains in order to fly—his largest passion outside of the Church. Fighter Command tended to assign pilots call-signs with a reason, hence his own call-sign of ‘Reverend’. Monica had broken every rule at Brisbane Flight School with her acrobatics in the cockpit—and had nearly been tossed out on her ear for buzzing the tower—which had quickly earned her the name of ‘Showboat’. Of course, he—and every other pilot born—had the same want and need to push their craft to the very limits. Only he had kept his temptations under control; Monica was far less restrained.

“Weapons check,” he said.

“Lasers are hotter than my ass, Reverend,” she said, and he smiled. Less restrained—inhibited, rather—in more ways than one, and he shook his head.

“Showboat, one of these days, girl. Recon pod?”

“Cameras are rolling, sensors are green, and—before you ask—the tank is topped off, Papa.”

“Then let’s get this show on the road; Wendigo Flight Control, Recon Flight 3 headed out on first leg.”

“Roger, Reverend. Good hunting. Wendigo Flight Control over and out.”

The two Swifts turned onto their proper course heading and streaked away at 6.5-g’s in the empty black of deep space.

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

“Reverend, I’m picking up something hinky over here,” Showboat transmitted three minutes later. “Low-level EM emissions, and a possible radar return . . . HOLY [crap]!”

Reverend had just lowered his head to take a look at Showboats data-stream when every threat sensor aboard his Swift lit off. Without even thinking, Dennis slammed the throttle into the firewall and broke—hard—up and away. An eye-searing flash of light erupted across the empty vacuum where his fighter had been, but the capital laser missed. Dozens of ships appeared on his radar display as each quit trying to be a hole in space, firing their drives towards the Fleet.

“Wendigo, Recon 3. We have contact with enemy forces, range 15,000 meters out on 235 Mark 088. Count thirty-six, repeat THREE-SIX, Reprisal class destroyers, and twenty-two, repeat TWO-TWO Pinto class corvettes. We are buster for RTB.” Dennis, looked down and blanched. “Wendigo, confirm four Sampson class DS launching fighters. BLACK WASP DRONES, I say again, BLACK WASP DRONES.”

Swarming like the angry insects their names suggested, the drone fighters—bigger and far harder hitting, but also slower than his own Swift—tore forward on full overthrust in pursuit. Lacking the need for a living breathing pilot, those ships were not limited by the fragility of a human body, and could maintain high-g acceleration until their fuel ran out. Lovely, he thought. “Showboat, are you still with me?”

“Right on your wingtip, Reverend. Can we get out of here? I mean, I like partying and all that, but if we stick around, I think it will turn into rape really fracking quick.”

“Set your course back to the ship, Showboat, go buster until your drop-tanks are empty.”

The two recon fighters fled, as the drones and Rim WarShips followed in their wake.


February 30, 2768
SLS Halsey
Northwind Deep Space
Terran Hegemony

“Around six hundred Black Wasp drones, with another six hundred plus manned fighters and strike bombers, Admiral, plus the fifty-eight WarShips and ninety assault DropShips. What is their commander thinking; those Reprisals and Pintos are completely outclassed by our ships?”

Jake sighed. “Brett, quit thinking like an officer of the invincible Star League Defense Force Navy. I know they drill that crap into your head at War College, but we are far from invincible—the Periphery Uprising proved that clear enough. Think like a pirate. Sure, the Reprisal is small, undergunned, and has tissue paper for armor—and the Pinto is even worse—BUT, whoever is in command over there is very, very smart, and completely ruthless.”

The younger officer frowned. “How so?”

“Our six McKennas could probably deal with those WarShips with no problems; oh, we would take pretty heavy damage, but it can be done. And the escorts can take out the droppers without breaking a sweat, but it will take TIME, Brett. With those Black Wasps flying escort on the strike planes, our fighter reserves will have one Hell of a time stopping them getting through. And that means that this strike might well get in range of the Richelieu. The fighter strike is loaded for bear—the recon data shows that. But they could still out-thrust the WarShips, and the Black Wasps are even more capable of getting here first. They are not doing that, though. No, that commander is keeping everything together, in mutual support range. He has already condemned every last man over there to death, himself included, just to get a shot at the First Lord. And he might well get it this time.”

The chief of staff bit his lip. “Ok, sir. How do we deal with it?”

“That, my young apprentice, is the sixty-four thousand dollar question.”

Chapter Forty-Two

February 30, 2768
SLS Halsey
Northwind Deep Space
Terran Hegemony

“It is not the numbers, or the point-defense, Brett, that is the real threat here. It is their ECM. Bunched together like that, those warships are providing an ECM blanket so thick that we can’t SEE, let alone target, individual fighter squadrons,” Jake Schaeffer continued as he frowned. “Contact Commodore Green aboard the Brazen, and order her to execute Horiatis.”

Brett blanched. “Sir, you can’t send her out there alone—those ships will swamp her and . . . “

“Damn it, Brett, don’t you think I know what will happen? Get it through your head, COMMODORE—we are all expendable. Even this flagship and our own august persons, if that means we keep that man aboard the Richelieu alive. Those ships will buy us two, maybe three, precious minutes to finish our own formation change. Order Green to get her command moving, and then position the rest of the Fleet for Roadblock. And Brett?” he said.

“Sir?”

“Comm Captain Collins. She is authorized to execute Shell Game on her own initiative. Inform all division and squadron commanders they are to comply if she does.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” his Chief of Staff whispered as he bent to his duty.


February 30, 2768
7th Fleet
Northwind Deep Space
Terran Hegemony

As one, one hundred of the ships of 7th Fleet rolled 45 degrees away from the incoming strike and engaged their main drives at the highest level of power possible. Richelieu—and the lighter, faster ships of the Fleet—began to slowly pull away from the battleships, battlecruisers, and the older, slower vessels. From hundreds of launch bays, the reserve fighters began launching, using their high thrust to beat back towards the Rim ships and fighters. Sixteen hundred fighters in all launched—leaving the survivors of the CAP and a reserve of a mere four hundred left to cluster around Richelieu in the center of the formation.

Sixteen ships, however, turned TOWARDS the enemy on the orders of Admiral Schaeffer. Ten Brilliant class and six Crusader class destroyers, the newest and lightest escort ships of the Fleet, attached to his command for this specific purpose. Prototypes of the next generation of escort ships, these destroyers were lighter than any constructed since the Naga, but possessed more advanced armor, more efficient engines, and a far more deadly complement of weapons. Fewer than two score were in service, having been built for field trials before the uprising, but they had not yet been placed in general production. The Coup had put an end to that. But, as none had been captured in the shipyards, Amaris spacers should have little clue to what the diminutive ships were capable of.

As the range closed to 900 kilometers, the Brilliants began spitting capital missiles—sixteen Killer Whales each. The new technological improvements in their design allowed the ships to spin along their axis, and fire both broadsides nearly simultaneously in two waves. Although the SLDF was still very much limited in the numbers of nuclear warheads it possessed in its magazines, Jake had given every last one in 7th Fleet’s inventory to the ten Brilliant class ships. One hundred and sixty nuclear explosions ripped through the heart of the enemy, consuming ships and fighters in balls of fire. The heavy point defense of the old Reprisals and the assault droppers reduced their accuracy, however, and only one-quarter of the heavy missiles found targets—but for each one that did, that ship died.

The Rim ships returned fire with their own atomic weaponry, but this was a style of fighting the Brilliants had been built for. The little vessels lacked any weapon capable of hurting the enemy except their missile launchers—and remaining weapons volume was crammed full of anti-missile systems and ammunition. The volume of point-defense fire poured out by the ten vessels exceeded that of the remainder of all 7th Fleet’s ships combined, and only two Brilliants and one Crusader died. While the Brilliants concentrated on the enemy capital ships and droppers, the six Crusaders opened up with their energy mounts. Each broadside mounted twenty-four naval lasers, in banks of four, and these ships had a new trick up their sleeves for the enemy. The tracking systems aboard the Crusaders included newly developed software that allowed the capital guns to track enemy fighters accurately—and each of the laser batteries had been mounted on gimbaled mounts, giving them far more ability to quickly bear on swift moving targets. Ignoring the capital ships, the Crusaders toggled their guns to anti-fighter mode, and unleashed Hell on the enemy fighters—not the drones, but the manned fighters bearing the nuclear ordnance. Each bank of lasers—six each per ship—targeted a single squadron of fighters as accurately as any conventional scale weapon, but with far, far more damage capability. And unlike the conventional weapons normally used for anti-aerospace work, the capital lasers also reached out to a full 900 kilometers.

Strings of exploding fighters rippled like popcorn across the leading edge of the fighter strike, even as the Reprisals and Pintos reeled beneath the fires of nuclear fusion. But there were too many targets, too much point-defense, and the surviving Rim ships reached their range. Breaking off the missile attack, they poured naval autocannon, naval lasers, and naval PPCs into the forlorn hope of the escort destroyers, and then the fighters pounced. Scores of Black Wasps slammed into the flanks of the ships at maximum over-thrust, pouring weapons fire into the hulls as they dove. Each of these automated kamikazes impacted like a sledgehammer. Ninety seconds after the first missile had roared away, none of the sixteen ships remained.

But the Rimmers suffered badly themselves, with half of the assault ships and warships dead or crippled. Still, almost eight hundred fighters—half of them Black Wasps—remained operational. And then they ran straight into the teeth of the 7th Fleet’s battle-line. Six McKenna class Battleships, twelve Black Lion class and six Cameron class Battlecruisers, and three Aegis class, nine Avatar class, and six Luxor class Cruisers, along with the sixteen hundred SLDF aerospace fighters, and every surviving Pentagon class DropShip in the Fleet—116 in total.

Even though they lacked nuclear weapons for their missiles, the firepower that the core of 7th Fleet could generate was almost unimaginable. With every salvo, Rim warships and DropShips died. Lacking the flexible mounts and updated software of the Crusaders, the capital weapons could not target the enemy fighters so easily, but they had no need to. Their own fighters were there, along with the Pentagons. However, the Rimmers had not exhausted their own supply of warheads, and the battlewagons of the Fleet began to reel under the hammer-blows of nuclear fireballs. Each of the Black Wasp drones proved as effective as any three manned fighters—since it could, and did, maintain maximum thrust at all times, without pilot fatigue. Carrying just lasers and PPCs, the drones had no ammunition worries, and the double-sized fuel tanks meant they could outlast any other fighter craft in service. The drones took a fearsome toll on the defending fighters, even as they died, sacrificing themselves to cut a path through the Star League ships.

Still, in the two minutes it took to cross the envelope of the battle-line, only two Reprisals—both broken and battered—a handful of droppers, and less than two hundred fighters—including just sixty of the Black Wasps—managed to stagger through. Forty-one of the surviving fighters, however, were Makets; each of which still carried two nuclear-tipped missiles.


February 30, 2768
SLS Richelieu
Northwind Deep Space
Terran Hegemony

“Ma’am, Commodore Mountz acknowledges escorts will confirm to your movements,” Tom called out from his station.

“Very well, Tom, please inform the Commodore that I am tired of running. Have the escorts roll to present broadsides to the enemy, and he may engage at his convenience,” Susan replied, as she turned her chair to face the tactical station. “Miss Assante, keep your fire tight and on target—let’s have no blue-on-blue incidents, today, shall we?”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” the young lieutenant at the tac station replied without looking up. Her fingers flew across the console as she allocated targets for the battlecruisers weapons.

Susan turned back towards the holo-tank and shook her head. They did not send enough, she thought. The surviving Rimmers would die like insects in a flame when they met the frigates, destroyers, and corvettes that still surrounded her ship—but all it would take was one. One Maket class strike bomber to evade her defensive fire and get in range to torpedo her ship with a nuke. The enemy strike was thirty seconds out, and closing fast—time to execute the distraction.

“Harry,” she said, depressing a switch on her command chair, “it was your idea, so give the order.”

The voice of her chief engineer came back over the headset. “Aye, aye, ma’am. Docking clamps, release Star League One. Comm, prepare to transmit—IN THE CLEAR—the message.”

With a massive CLUNK, Richelieu shuddered as a 9,700 ton Overlord class DropShip disengaged from the side of the ship, rotated, and accelerated away from the protecting Fleet at 2.5-g’s. At the comm station, Helen Zhu hit her transmission key and began playing her role.

“STAR LEAGUE ONE, STAR LEAGUE ONE. Return to ship immediately. Repeat, return to Richelieu immediately.” The young officer put just the right amount of panic in her voice.

“Negative, Richelieu, Star League One is inbound for Northwind at this time. Cover us.”

“Star League One, you are ORDERED to return at once!”

“Richelieu, I would love to comply, but you do not have the authority to issue that order.”

Susan smirked, and opened her own comm. “Star League One, this is Richelieu actual. Get your ass back here now!”

“Cannot comply, Richelieu. Star League One out.”

The escorts, already informed of the deception, added in their own transmissions—some in the clear, some coded. One of them broke across all of the others. “Star League One, this Commodore Kathy Mountz—get back in formation, damn you.”

“Commodore,” an all-to-familiar voice sang out from the intercom, “do your job and stop those ships. My family and I are going to Northwind. Star League One over and out.” And the transmission ceased.

Susan looked at the holo-tank and held her breath. And then it happened. Half of the incoming strike, veered away in pursuit of the lone Overlord, already out of point-defense range of the rest of the Fleet. They had taken the bait.

She heard Commodore cursing over the intercom, and he ordered half of the reserve fighter contingent sent to intercept the enemy chasing the decoy. An order the fighter reserve promptly ignored as it changed vector and tore into the Rim fighters still charging the Richelieu. Arriving at the same moment as Barracudas, White Sharks, and Killer Whales launched by the escort ships, the strike ripped apart the surviving Makets well short of her battlecruiser.

Meanwhile, on the display in the tank, she could see the fighters sent against the unmanned and automated Overlord open fire. The fake Star League One exploded under their hammering, and the fighters turned back towards the Fleet—and the real First Lord.

“My lord,” she said as she looked down at the image of Stephen Cameron on her display, “it would appear to have worked. They took the bait—had no choice really—and divided their forces. This should give us a good chance of defeating them in detail without taking any hits.”

“Excellent work, Susan. My compliments to your crew, and I think I will leave you to fight your ship now.”

“Thank you, Sir. That was a very convincing recording you made, by the way. Do you treat all your senior officers in that manner?”

Stephen chuckled. “Just the ones who annoy me, Captain Collins. Cameron out.”

“Miss Assante, I do believe we still have some clean-up work to do here. You may open fire on Strike Two at will.”

“Aye, aye, Ma’am.”

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

The last Maket died three hundred kilometers short of launching on the Richelieu. A mere handful of Black Wasps strafed the ship, but lacked the heavy weapons to penetrate her armor; two turned kamikaze and rammed, but the battlecruisers heavy plating held. Twenty-seven Star League ships and over nine hundred fighters were lost, but the Rim World forces failed in their goal to kill Stephen Cameron and his family. There were no survivors among the Rim vessels.

Chapter Forty-Three

March 22, 2768
Station Luthien Ichi
Luthien Orbit
Draconis Combine

Senior Administrator Shintaro Watanabe was a proud man. At the age of 42 standard years, he had been given the honor to command all civilian traffic in the Luthien system from aboard the first—and largest—of the five space stations that orbited the capital world. Now, at the age of 47, short and slight, his hair receding by the day, it sometimes seemed to him, he looked more like a librarian than the officer responsible for traffic control in the space lanes and orbital entry corridors. His subordinates—and more than a few civilians—bowed to him as he walked down the passageway that led to the Flight Control Center. He did not return their bows, but faced forward, and kept his eyes fixed on the armored hatch that sealed the FCC from the remainder of the station.

Luthien Ichi was not his to command; but the FCC was. And not even the commander of Luthien Ichi could enter without his express permission. The two guards on the hatch snapped to attention as he approached, and the senior bowed slightly, extending his hand for Watanabe’s identification. Even though he knew well who this man was, the guard obeyed his orders exactly, taking the card and confirming Watanabe’s identity before asking the guards within the FCC to unseal the hatch. It took two minutes for the armored hatch to open, as the meter-thick door swung wide.

Entering his domain, Watanabe looked over the compartment. Two hundred stations ringed the central platform, set in two concentric circles around a central platform. At each station sat a Senior Flight Controller and his Assistant, wearing wireless headsets and bent over screens showing all traffic—military and civilian, alike—within 200,000 kilometers of the planet Luthien. Atop the central platform, lay another ring of stations like an atoll around his own console and array of controls.

From this chamber, on this station, Watanabe could monitor all traffic to and from the capital—he determined what ship went where, and when it could land, how long it had to remain in a parking orbit, and if it was to be boarded for inspection. His secretary was already present, and had just set a steaming cup of tea down on the desk next to his command consoles. Watanabe bowed to the man, and sat down, placing the headset on his own head, and clipping the signal booster to his belt.

Taking the cup, he took a sip, and then precisely set it back down on the saucer, and pressed a button. A chime sounded in the FCC, and the senior administrator stood, and bowed towards another man standing three feet away.

“I relieve you, Administrator Donnelly,” he said formally to his second-in-command. The lanky officer bowed to his senior and replied, “I stand relieved, Senior Administrator.”

The change of command complete, Watanabe sat once more and pivoted his chair to face his second.

“Slow night, Shin,” Lester Donnelly whispered. “We have thirty transports in orbit waiting for berths aboard Ichi and the other stations, along with four military transports heading towards the ship-yards,” he pointed out the icons on Watanabe’s screen. “System Command has alerted us that we should expect a task group of warships in two standard hours—we have their transponder codes and are routing traffic around the requested lane. Seventy-two DropShips are currently inbound—nineteen for Ichi, twenty-three for the other stations, and thirty for the space-port on the surface.”

“Customs inspections?”

“All foreign vessels have been boarded either by us, or the crews at the jump points. Domestic traffic have been randomly searched for contraband,” Donnelly smiled. “The Yarabushi Maru was not too happy when our inspectors found her stash of illegal pharmacologicals.”

Watanabe returned the grin. Traffic in the Luthien system had increased by a factor of ten since the war began—and the lack of trained inspectors was beginning to give smugglers and drug-runners more of an opportunity than he liked. But with the Combine on a war-footing, not every ship could be boarded and searched; not, at least, without tangling traffic to the Christian Hell and back. Still, any vessel that appeared the least bit out of ordinary was ordered to heave to and prepare for customs inspection.

The ‘light’ traffic today was still far higher than pre-war norms, and his queue showed scores of expected arrivals for later in the day. If he had the manpower—and if the massive factories on the surface below were not running non-stop—he would have used the light traffic flow to stop everyone and board for inspection. But, the demands of Luthien Armor Works—not to mention the Kure Naval Yards—precluded him from doing so. They NEEDED the raw materials and components being brought in from factories across the Combine to complete the ‘Mechs, fighters, and ships the Dragon needed to fight—and win—this war.

“Very well, Les. Go hit the rack after kissing Marlene for me. I will see you tomorrow,” Watanabe said. Donnelly tossed him a crooked salute, and began removing the headset and other gear, and then rolled down his sleeves and pulled his jacket back on. Like all Draconis officials, the Flight Controllers—and their administrators—prized perfection in appearance in public, but here, in the heart of the system, Watanabe allowed a more informal appearance. The stress of the job was enough, without having to endure the heavy wool jacket and tightly button collar for the ten hour shift.

In two hours, half of the controllers on-duty would be relieved, the other half in five more. But Administrators came on shift two hours before their watch changed hands. The policy let the bosses get up to speed, with a shift crew familiar with the current situation, and reduced the chaos. Turning to his console, Watanabe began monitoring his controllers, as he picked up the cup and took another sip of tea.

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

Forty minutes later, Watanabe stood as a red light began blinking on his console. One of his Flight Controllers was standing and staring up at him.

Keying the headset, he whispered, “Mitsu, what do you have?”

The controller shook his head. “Kobayshi Maru is declaring an emergency, sir. They are in deorbit corridor three, inbound for Luthien Ground, and have just entered the troposphere. The vessel is reporting failure on three thrusters.”

Snapping his fingers, Watanabe got the attention of the senior controllers. “Contact the space-port and inform them of the emergency—you, get me a direct link to the Kobayshi. Mitsu, clear the airspace and find out if that ship has enough reserve thrust to pull back to orbit.”

“Kobayshi Maru, Luthien Flight Control; Kobayshi Maru, Luthien Flight Control. Respond Kobayshi Maru,” Watanabe spoke into his boom mike as dozens of controllers leapt into action.

“Luthien Flight, this is Kobayshi Maru,” a voice crackled from the overhead speakers.

“Status report, Kobayshi.”

“Thrusters 2, 3, and 6 have failed completely. 4 and 7 are ‘iffy’. I am dropping like a rock and cannot generate enough thrust to make orbit.”

Watanabe turned to another controller, and flicked the switch cutting the transmission. “What are they carrying?”

“Inbound for Imperial Space-port with twenty thousand tons of cargo for LAW. Machinery and components, including two dozen fusion engines.”

“Kobayshi, Flight. Are auxiliary thrusters responding?”

“Only the attitude controls, Flight. Negative response on all auxiliary systems.”

“Divert to heading 213 and conduct descent to 20,000 feet, Kobayshi. Prepare to evacuate crew and abandon ship.”

“Flight, that course will take us out over open water; and the owners will KILL me if I crash this ship!”

“Kobayshi, that is not a recommendation—that is the order of the Senior Flight Controller for the Luthien System. Comply at once.”

“Damn you, Flight. Changing vector to heading 213.”

Watanabe let out a sigh. He hated losing a ship—and the valuable cargo for LAW—but the new course would take the vessel far out over the Brazen Sea, and away from the densely packed metropolis of Imperial City.

Then his eyes caught the screen.

“Kobayshi Maru, Luthien Flight. Alter your course heading at once.”

“Flight, we have altered our heading.”

“Negative Kobayshi, you are still on course for Imperial Space-port. You must comply NOW.”

“Flight, our instruments say we are on 213.”

“Negative Kobayshi, come hard right.”

No response came from the speaker.

“Sir,” another controller called out from his station in the Pit, as the Controllers called their stations. “We have visual on the Kobayshi—sir, all seven of their thrusters are operating, and they are in a nose-dive into the atmosphere.”

Watanabe froze for a moment, and then lifted a clear plexi-glass shield on his console and pressed the red button below. Klaxons sounded throughout the complex, and his headset automatically patched in System Command, Imperial City Air Defense, and the Naval Headquarters.

“Luthien Flight Control declaring a system-emergency. DropShip Kobayshi Maru, inbound for Imperial Space-port, is not responding to instructions. Vessel may, repeat MAY, be making a suicide run on the city.”

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

Two Sabre class aerospace fighters went to maximum over-thrust and climbed towards the incoming fireball surrounding the Kobayshi Maru. Ripping through the atmosphere at Mach 4.7, the two fighters banked and assumed formation where they could see the bridge.

Chu-i Erik Teller could not make out any movement through the view ports, and he thumbed his transmitter. “Kobayshi Maru, this is Imperial City Air Defense. Immediately alter heading to course 213 true or you will be fired upon. Respond Kobayshi.”

For a second there was no response, and then two bay doors snapped opened, and the snouts of heavy autocannon extended. Teller yanked his fighter hard to the side, but his wingman was not as fast. The salvo of shells tore the light fighter apart.

“Imperial City, target is hostile. Raptor Two is down, I am engaging.”

He swung his fighter behind the massive DropShip and fired his three medium lasers into the engines. One thruster died, and the ship shuddered. He fired again, and plating exploded into the air, and then six cargo bay doors opened, and the Kobayshi dumped thousands of tons of cargo directly into his flight path. Teller yanked back on the stick, but the debris tore into his fighter, ripping off a wing.

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

“Almighty spirits,” Watanabe whispered, “can’t the Navy engage?”

“Senior Administrator, we are moving a ship into position now—but it can’t get there before it will impact. How much damage will that ship do to Imperial City?”

“At that speed, and with that amount of mass, Admiral, it will be like a nuclear weapon going off.”

“Then it is up to the city’s air defense network.”

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

In the Imperial Palace, fifty miles from Imperial City, the Otomo burst into Zabu’s chambers. The Heir to the Dragon still lay in his bed, alongside his favored concubine, for it was not quite three in the morning here. Ignoring his startled cries, the guards grabbed both of the naked people and rushed him towards the elevator that descended to the emergency bunker five hundred meters below.

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

As the glowing heat stressed metal of the nose of the Kobayshi passed ten thousand feet, the speakers crackled to life once more. “Citizens of the Combine. You have made unlawful war upon my Master and your Emperor. Experience now his wrath, and know that this is merely the beginning until you beg Him for forgiveness and repent of your actions in supporting the Traitor Cameron. Hail Amaris!”

At five thousand feet, just as the air defenses opened fire, the detonator on the fifty-megaton nuclear warhead smuggled aboard clicked into place.

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

Watanabe and all of his controllers went white as the nuclear fireball consumed the core of Imperial City. It grew, reaching into the stratosphere, and the hurricane of fire, heat, light, and radiation rolled outwards, devouring Luthien Armor Works, and the Imperial Palace.

Chapter Forty-Four

March 23, 2768
Mount Royal Palace
New Avalon
Federated Suns

“Have you seen him, Mandy? That new guard, Captain Keller? He is GORGEOUS,” Ashley Winton sighed as she smoothed out her skirts around her legs with one hand, and twirled the flower she held in the other.

“And he is MARRIED, Ashley, and OLD. He is almost THIRTY,” Amanda Davion, Princess-and-heir of the Federated Suns replied from where she sat on the grass in the private garden of the Palace.

Ashley, older by a year, and far more mature—at all of twelve—shook her head. “He is not old! Your father is old, and so is Uncle David.”

“Poppa is, well, POPPA, Ashley. And Uncle David is sweet—he gave me Muffin, didn’t Muffin? Yes he did,” she squealed as she scratched the belly of the half-grown St. Bernard laying next to her. Muffin rolled his head back on the grass, and held his paws in the air as she played with him, his tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth.

“They are relatives, Mandy, so they don’t count—Captain Keller, though,” she paused and plucked a few petals from the flower. “He is dreamy.” She sighed again.

“Ashley and Keller sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G . . . “ Amanda began to sing.

Ashley gasped, and turned beet red. “MANDY!”

“Well, you keep on talking about him like he was a horse put out for stud.”

“MANDY!!”

Lance Corporal Denise Walton turned away from the two girls and grinned as she thumbed the transmitter on her shoulder. “Central, this is Shadow 4-2, reporting in. We are still in the gardens.”

“Roger, 4-2. Let us know when you begin moving—the Princess has an appointment with her tutors in one hour and twelve minutes and she is liable to ‘forget’ about it. Latin, you understand.”

“Copy, Central. I certainly would forget about it myself. 4-2 out.”


March 23, 2768
Reynard Davion Interstellar Space-Port
New Avalon
Federated Suns

Overhead, the metal hull of the twenty-four thousand ton cargo ship let out a loud pop, as the plating covering the vessel cooled. Steam rose from around the five cargo legs, while heat shimmered from the naked exhaust ports of the nine primary thrusters. From one side of the spherical ship, a ramp was slowly descending, and dozens of cargo bay doors and hatches were opening, letting fresh air and light into the interior.

Customs Agent Charles Ventor checked the manifest before him once again. SS Marigold Dreams, registered out of Numenor, carrying chemicals for Corean Enterprises, along with two dozen crop-dusters, bound for the farmlands that surrounded the capital. This ship was a frequent visitor to New Avalon, and Charles knew her skipper well. This inspection should not take TOO long to finish. He turned around, as the ramp lowered to the ground, and waved at his boarding team. Turning back, he started to ascend, when a greenish gas belched out of the open hatch.

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

“That’s odd,” murmured Devon Franklin from the space-port control tower, as he lowered his binoculars.

“What is odd, Devon?” asked the Chief Traffic Controller from his side.

“Marigold Dreams, she popped the lower cargo bay doors, but is also opening her small craft doors.”

The Chief frowned. “Maybe she is purging her atmospheric systems,” he said as he lifted his own binoculars.

“Maybe, Chief,” Devon replied. Placing the glasses back over his own eyes, he could see the boarding and inspection team at the base of the ramp—and then the sudden eruption of a cloud of greenish vapor from within.

“CHRIST,” he shouted as the Chief dropped the expensive and powerful spotting glasses and slapped a large red button, thumbing the transmitter he wore at his waist. “HAZMAT SPILL ON PAD C-23! HAZMAT SPILL ON PAD C-23!”

Devon watched in horror as the inspectors—Chuck and his team—dropped twitching onto the tarmac of the field. And then, from the upper levels of the DropShip, conventional aircraft launched in all directions, each spewing still more gas from beneath their wings.

One passed directly over the tower, and he caught a strange smell. And then there was only blackness.


March 23, 2768
Avalon City
New Avalon
Federated Suns

The twenty-four crop-dusters tore across the most densely populated areas of New Avalon, even as the Marigold Dreams continued to pump the wargas into the air of the spaceport itself. Each of the aeroplanes trailed a wide churning fog of yellow-green gas, that spread with the winds, and drifted down towards the ground. Dozens—scores—hundreds of people collapsed into the streets, their bodies spasming as the nerve agent destroyed their nervous system, just as if the human population of New Avalon’s capital were vermin that preyed on the wheat crops of the surrounding countryside.


March 23, 2768
Mount Royal Palace
New Avalon
Federated Suns

“Have you ever KISSED a man, Ashley?” Amanda asked her best friend.

“Well, NO, dummy. With the leash Mother and Father keep me on? When would I have TIME to kiss a man?”

“Do you want to?” she pestered.

Ashely squirmed, and then the two girls and the dog turned towards the sound of heavy autocannon fire coming from the perimeter wall. Muffin leaped to his feet and barked, as Amanda saw a crop-duster spin the sky, spewing clouds of black and . . . GREEN? And then it dropped like a stone onto the palace grounds, erupting in flames and dense smoke. Smoke that was drifting towards the two girls and their dog.

A pair of hands grabbed Amanda from behind as Denise Walton seized the girl, through her over her shoulder and began to run for the safety of the palace. Amanda twisted around, and looked back as the wind-blown cloud came towards her. It passed her dog and her best friend, and both of them collapsed to the ground, twitching and jerking as their muscles responded to the random commands of their nervous systems.

“POPPA!!” She screamed as a gust of wind engulfed her and the guard ten feet shy of the door to safety.

Chapter Forty-Five

March 23, 2768
Branson House, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony

“For the love of God, Marianne . . .”

“DON’T START! He used US; he used CASSIE, as nothing more than BAIT!” she snapped, her emotions starting to get out of hand, yet again.

Stephen Cameron lowered his head and shook it as he tried hard to keep his own anger bottled up. Marianne was still furious over the Rim attack on Richelieu three weeks before. Oh, she had held it all in until the formalities on Northwind were done; had even stayed courteous to Susan Collins and her officers, but after getting home; that was a different story.

Arriving home late last night, Marianne had blasted General DeChevilier on the tarmac at the space-port, calling him a myrmidon pimp, among other things. Aleksandyr had also suffered from her wrath, and the other officers she had just ignored, hurrying to the waiting air-car with Cassie to head home. And today she had not cooled off any.

Suddenly, his wife began to twitch over by the window. “Marianne?” he asked as he stood.

She collapsed into the chair, and Stephen was there, kneeling next to her on the floor. She was crying and sobbing, and he grabbed her and pulled her close against him. “Shhhh… It’ll be all right, love. It’ll be all right.”

“I can’t do this, Stephen,” she wailed. “I can not take this waiting and having people WE HAVE NEVER EVEN MET want us dead.” She stopped and Stephen wiped her face.

“Ok, Northwind was a bust. So how about we go up to the Harrison lodge. Today, Marianne. Let’s just drop everything and go up north and you and Helen and Molly and all the other female members of that clan drink some hot chocolate and talk about the baby. Cassie will love it, dear, and so will I.”

Marianne looked up at him, tears still welling up in the corners of her eyes. “But we just got back; I know they have piles of work for you . . .”

“GERALD!” Stephen yelled.

The door to the bedroom opened, and Sergeant Major Gerald Howe stepped into the room. “You bellowed, My Lord?”

“Gerald, ready the air-car. We are going up to the Harrison Lodge—comm Emil and make sure it is all right with him first, please. If he says yes, we are going up there and will damned well stay as long as my wife wants us to. If the bureaucrats don’t like it—then shoot ‘em.”

He looked back his shoulder and grinned at Gerald, who nodded and shook his head. “I’ll take care of everything, L.T.” Still shaking his head, the old non-com walked out of the room and quietly closed the door behind him.

Stephen turned back to Marianne and cupped her chin in his hand and lifted her head. “I am still Stephen Cameron, love, still the man you married. And I will be—for you, and for Cassie, and for the munchkin we are waiting to arrive—until the day I die. I WILL NOT let this duty change me—or us—into someone or something else.”

She hugged him hard, and kept crying on his shoulder. “I love you, Stephen; I do, I do, I do.”

That is the dirty little secret of this job, he thought. So many people wanted it, desired it, for the power and the authority that went with it. But it has never been a ‘safe’ job. Most especially for those you love. A man would have to be insane to want this kind of life—but it was his duty. And, God help her, one day it would become Cassie’s.

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

Hiroyoshi finished triple-checking the detail that would accompany him and the family up north to the Harrison Lodge. Lt. Colonel Moreau had left him as the officer in charge of the close protective detail, while Moreau ran the Regiment itself. Gerald—as the RSM—was technically not a part of the detail, but in practice ramroded the whole operation. If the Regiment needed him, he had told Moreau, well he wore a comm-unit. Until then, Irene McCormick could handle the paperwork. The corners of his mouth twitched—paperwork was the one thing the SLDF seemed to believe in more than firepower. In the past month, he had filled out more forms than in his previous decade and a half in the DCMS. Perhaps he should have a chat with the First Lord about changing that aspect of the Defense Force.

As he finished the troop inspection, he took particular note of the last officer in line—Lieutenant Absalom Truscott. “Lieutenant, I thought that you were a MechWarrior. Why are you here and why are you wearing that Nighthawk suit?”

“Sir,” the young man replied with a salute, “Maj—Lt. Colonel Moreau instructed me to cross-train with the infantry; in order to get an appreciation of what they have to deal with. Since my last billet was in the divisional MP pool, he thought I should have a more well-rounded profile.”

“I see, Lieutenant. And are you in command of this platoon—the heavy weapons platoon that is providing back-up for the close-in detail?”

“No, sir. I am here as an observer.”

“Who is in command, then, Lieutenant?”

“Sergeant McCrimmon, Sir. Lt. Colonel Moreau instructed me to listen to the Sergeant and follow his direction.”

Hiroyoshi turned his head to look at the slight figure of Wilbur McCrimmon, and then closed his eyes, picturing the files he had poured over again and again. Force Recon with a Marine CAAN unit, then selected for training with the Hegemony SAS. Finally transferred to Special Operations Command—the Blackhearts—two years ago. He opened his eyes and nodded.

“Lieutenant, you are an officer in the Defense Forces. You are in command; correct, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“HOWEVER, I want you to consider what Lt. Colonel Moreau said, and what I am saying. Listen to him, and think hard about what he tells you—McCrimmon has served for almost fifteen years, Lieutenant, and he has probably forgotten more about infantry warfare than you have ever learned. Trust him, but trust yourself as well. Listen to him, but listen also to your instincts, your guts. Your platoon looks good, Lieutenant—board the carriers.”

“Yes, sir,” Truscott said, as he began to salute again, but Hiroyoshi caught his arm. Under full power, the Nighthawk would have not even been slowed, but at the moment, the suits were dialed down to little more than the users natural strength. “One last thing, Lieutenant—in the field, we DO NOT salute.”

“Yes, sir,” the young officer replied. “Third Platoon, load up!”

As the heavy suits of powered armor boarded their four personnel carriers, Hiroyoshi turned to walk back towards the air-cars taking the family and the close-in detail, and their staff.

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

Cassie skipped down the steps towards the vehicles, Heather in her wake as always. Behind them, Stephen helped Marianne waddle down the same stone steps, while Hiroyoshi held the air-car door open at the base. He bent down and picked up Cassie and set her inside the vehicle, where her second guard—Patrice—buckled the little girl in. Heather climbed in across from her.

Just as Stephen and Marianne reached the car, one of the household staff came tearing down the steps, carrying a phone. Thom reached him before he reached the First Lord, however. The man whispered to Thom, who went white, his eyes flickering at Hiroyoshi and Jarl. His mouth slightly agape, he lowered his head, nodded, and took the phone.

“My Lord,” he whispered, “Lord Kerensky for you—it is quite urgent, My Lord.”

Stephen frowned and took the phone. “Yes, Aleksandyr?”

As Stephen listened, he too grew white and pale, and his eyes widened. “I . . . I understand. I will be there within the hour.”

He shut down the phone and handed it back to Thom.

“Marianne, Hiroyoshi, . . . oh Hell.” He braced one hand on Hiroyoshi’s shoulder and climbed up on the hood of the vehicle. “EVERYONE. I want you to take my wife and daughter up to Harrison Lodge. We have just received word from Luthien that a civilian cargo vessel was used to commit an attack on the capital of the Draconis Combine. Imperial City has been devastated. At this time, that is all I know. Pray for the people of Imperial City, and pray for Lord Minoru, since his son Zabu is currently missing.”

Gerald helped Stephen climb down, and he turned back to Marianne. She shook her head. “Go, Stephen. He needs you there; I know that. I also know you don’t want to go, but we will be ok, right Cassie?”

“Right, Mother. Besides, that is more hot cocoa for us, right?” The little girl said, with a sad smile on her face. She might not like it, but she had grown-up enough to accept it over the past few months.

“Right, Cassie,” her mother said. “Well, Heather; it is just us girls today. Shall we?” she asked as she climbed into the rear seat next to Cassie. Stephen closed the door, and stood back with Gerald and Hiroyoshi, Thom and Jarl as the vehicle carrying his wife and daughter, the three more with their close-in detail and staff, and the four armor personnel carriers lifted into the air and flew away.

“Gerald, get me a car,” Stephen whispered as he watched them fly off.

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

Aleksandyr and Minoru sat in the conference room as Stephen walked briskly in, trailed by Gerald and Hiroyoshi. “What do we know?” he asked.

“It was a complete surprise—they smuggled in a high-megaton range weapon aboard a civilian ship that people loyal to Amaris must have taken over. It went in at Mach 4, and detonated 1,500 meters above Togo Square. Eighty percent of the city is gone, along with Luthien Armor Works. The Imperial Palace was heavily damaged. We think—THINK—Zabu made it to the shelter beneath the palace, but if so he is trapped at the moment,” Aleksandyr said.

“It was only the first strike, Lord Stephen,” Minoru whispered. “We have received word of similar attacks—ATROCITIES—on Benjamin and Galedon. The ones who did this warned of more yet to come—as a penalty for waging war against Amaris.”

Stephen goggled at the two men as his mind raced. Was the man utterly MAD? Thank God, Minoru had released Hiroyoshi from service last month. His family was en route to Asta—they had lived less than two kilometers from ground zero. “What—if anything—can we do to help you, Lord Minoru?”

“Get me a clear shot at Stefan Amaris,” the Coordinator replied coldly. “Otherwise, there is little enough for you to do. We will rebuild—that is what we must do.”

Stephen thought for a moment. “Aleksandyr, does the SLDF still carry those disaster pods aboard our capital ships?”

“Yes, First Lord, we do.”

“Good. Have every pod in the system collected and loaded aboard cargo transports bound for Luthien, Benjamin, and Galedon. And—if the Coordinator will accept the assistance—send some of our NBC decontamination teams and engineers trained in search and rescue in urban environments.”

“Thank you, First Lord. I could not ask, you understand.”

“Lord Minoru, we are brothers now, you and I. You did not ask, I offered freely—one brother to another.”

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Cassie loved flying. She like seeing the trees pass beneath as they soared above the rocky pass beneath the level of the overhanging clouds. All that, she thought, I walked across all of that; and she smiled. Her smile went away, as she remembered the other things that had happened, but she nodded to herself. I am a big girl, now, she thought. Seven, and next year eight. Bet no other kid has walked as far as I have. A flash of light and puff of smoke—several puffs—down below caught her eye.

“SAMS!” the driver yelled, as he banked the air-card—HARD—and pressed the button that began ejecting flares from beneath the armored vehicle. Cassie cried out as she slid from her seat across the vehicle—she had loosened her seat belt to watch the trees go by. Just before she hit the armor-glass window, she felt Heather slide beneath her, and slammed into her own guard’s chest. And then a deafening BOOM erupted underneath the car.

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Eight targets for twelve missiles, Hans thought, as the weapons streaked away. Two cars avoided any missiles, but the other two—including the one the First Lord routinely used—were hit and went down. All four of the APCs crashed into the forest as well. Setting down the hand-held remote, he drew his SMG and cocked back the bolt, chambering a round. “I believe we have a job to finish, my friends.”

Chapter Forty-Six

March 23, 2768
Black Pine Forest Preserve
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony

The little girl shook her head as her eyes fluttered open. The damaged air-car—armored though it may have been—had gone down hard, ripping through the old growth forest, shattering tree limbs and branches, and half burying itself into the deep rich soil beneath the snow. She hurt, the little girl did, all over, but the side of her head throbbed the worst, and tears leaked from her eyes as she sat up. Her hand slid across a slick and wet surface, and she opened her eyes wide to look.

It was red, her hand; red with slowly cooling human blood. And Cassandra Sarah Cameron screamed as she saw the reason blood was pooling in the bottom of the air-car.

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Making their way down the slope of the ridge, Hans Trevane clearly heard the wail of a child. Someone survived, he thought. And there could only be one child along on this trip. Nodded at Hollis, his team continued moving towards the source of the sounds, weapons at the ready.

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The crash had been brutal, Absalom Truscott thought as he shook his head. The ringing in his ears would not stop, and his right side felt as though it was on fire, along with his left arm. Reaching out with his right arm, he grabbed a support strut, and hauled himself up and onto his feet. The missile that had struck the APC had impacted just beneath the infantry bay, and it turned the armored hull into deadly shrapnel. Of the seven troopers that shared the bay with him, he was the only survivor. He grimaced with pain as he lifted his left arm and winced as he saw the wound—from the elbow to about half-way down the forearm, everything was fine. But then, the forearm bent 30-degrees. The armor composite had remained intact, but it was warped, and he could feel the rough edges of the broken bones sliding around inside. He could not move his left hand at all. Reaching down with his right hand, he felt his side, and found the jagged shard that had penetrated the armor and lay lodged inside the muscle and skin.

Half of his armor systems were dead, but the fuel cells were live, and the exoskeletal muscles still functioned. Jump jets dead, sensors dead, radio dead; but the pharmacopia was intact. Entering a command code into the shielded keypad on his left forearm—which, by a miracle still worked—he breathed a sigh of relief as pain-killers and coagulants and stimulants flooded into his blood stream. The oxygen feed system was damaged as well, he noted, as the pain receded, so he reached up and unsealed the near useless helmet, tearing it from his head.

And then he heard the scream of a little girl. Absalom Truscott forgot the pain, forgot his wounds. Magnetically locking his left arm to his chest, he pulled an intact rifle from the small arms rack with his right, and staggered out into the forest, following the distant cries.

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

“Cassie?’ a weak voice mumbled from behind her; her mother’s voice.

“Momma?” she cried as she turned around and half-ran, half-crawled across the body of her very own bodyguard—the body that had absorbed the shrapnel that would have killed her if it had not been in the way.

Her momma looked bad—cut and bruised and battered, in the dim light that leaked past the tall trees. A twisted piece of armor pressed hard against her swollen stomach, and Cassie could see more red, more blood, leaking out onto the seat behind her. “Momma, I’m scared,” she gasped as she began to hyper-ventilate, “I want to go home, momma, please take me home.” she finished as still more tears came down her cheeks.

“Baby,” her momma gasped as she reached out with one hand and stroked her daughter’s hair, her other hand pinned to her side by the debris. “Cassie, listen to me. Are you hurt?”

“I don’t think so, momma, but Heather is . . . ,” her voice trailed off as she closed her eyes and lifted her hands to her face, “Heather is hurt pretty bad, Momma.”

“Oh, baby, I know she is, and Patrice is too,” Marianne whispered as tears washed blood away from her own cheeks She could see Heather’s headless body lying on the floor—and Patrice, speared through the heart by another long shard. “Cassie, I know it is hard, but you have to do something for me.”

Cassie nodded, and Marianne smiled. “Go over to Heather, and get her gun, Cassie. And bring it here to me.”

Cassie looked at the ruined, broken body of her guard, her friend lying on the floor of the car, snow already beginning to settle on blood turning to ice. And Cassie shook her head as she whimpered.

“Baby, you have to, baby,” Marianne pleaded.

“Momma, can’t you?”

“I can’t move my legs, Cassie,” she said in a very calm voice, “I can’t feel my legs. Bring me her gun, baby. Bring it to momma.”

Cassie slowly moved across the car, and closing her eyes, she reached beneath Heather’s jacket until she felt the thick, cold grip of the heavy pistol. She pulled it loose and ran back to Marianne, not wanting to look at the red stain that now covered her arm to her elbow, and she placed the pistol on the seat beside Marianne.

“That’s good, baby girl,” Marianne whispered as she stroked her daughter’s hair. “You did very well, Cassie. Now, you are going to have to be a brave girl,” she stopped and swallowed back some bile that threatened to force its way up her throat. “Be a brave girl, and go into the woods. Go into the woods and hide, Cassie, just like Daddy and Heather and Gerald showed you to.”

“Momma,” Cassie cried, more tears coming down. “Don’t make me go away, momma. I want to stay with you.”

“Baby, you can’t. You can’t. Go, go now, before they come,” her mother said, the tears pouring from her eyes. “Go, Cassie, and promise me you won’t look back. Promise me.”

“MOMMA,” Cassie cried.

“Cassandra Sarah Cameron, listen to me. You have to go hide, baby. Take Patrice’s gun with you—Daddy showed you how to shoot. If you see anyone you don’t know, baby girl, shoot them. Now GO CASSIE,” Marianne said as she winced with the pain coming from deep inside her, from the baby that was dying inside her belly. “Go, and don’t you look back. I love you baby, I will always love you, my little girl.”

Cassie shook her head, but stood, and pulled out Patrice’s pistol; it was so big in her hands. And Marianne nodded. “Now go, go and hide, Daddy’s people will come and find you, baby. Quickly now, go.”

From close by, they both heard a branch break. Marianne reached down, and lifted the pistol—the hated pistol her husband had once taught her to shoot. “Go,” she hissed, “and don’t you look back, baby, don’t you ever look back.”

Cassie ran from the wreck into the thick, snowy undergrowth, barely able to see through the curtain of water covering her eyes.

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

Hans could see the wreck as he pushed aside the last of the undergrowth. The car had torn its way through the branches and limbs above, but lost most of its roof in the process. The pilot compartment was crushed, and ragged holes were ripped across the sides and bottom. One of the doors was open, hanging crookedly and swaying slightly in the lightly falling snow—and footprints, small footprints, led into the woods. He smiled again as he spotted a smear of blood on some of the underbrush, just about the right height for a girl of seven or eight.

Keeping his feet planted, he half-turned to Liam and Nelson, and pointed down at the single set of tracks leading away from the crash. Both men nodded and began following them into the dark woods. Turning back to the air-car, he nodded to Hollis and the two men slowly made their way down to where they could look within.

The smell of death was strong in the air; bright coppery smells from the blood, the stench of bowels and bladders that had released their contents; the sharp tang of scorched and burnt metal and sparking electronics, the stink of melted plastics. They were all smells he had tasted before, and he smiled as he looked down into the interior of the vehicle.

Two women he did not know, probably guards, or maybe staff, were both dead. Losing ones head tended to insure that, and with the size of the splinter protruding from the others chest, it was almost a sure bet as well. The third woman, however, he recognized. Pinned in place by metal and armor and plastics, she did not look too good, but her cheeks shivered, and her eyes burned red with tears—and hate.

“Lady Cameron, I would say it is a pleasure, but I doubt that you would believe me,” he said to her.

The badly wounded woman coughed, and blood erupted onto her chin. Hans smiled and shook his head; she didn’t have long, even if they left her alone.

“I take it your husband was in another car?” he asked as he realized just who was missing from the scene, his smile fading.

“My husband, you jackass? You did this to get a shot at my husband?” She began laughing, which turned into a coughing spasm that produced more blood.

“Where is he?”

“Back in Hawkins, you ass. He got called away because of what you bastards did to Luthien and those other worlds in the Combine. YOU. MISSED. HIM. Jackass.”

Hans Trevane forced himself to laugh, though his belly went cold. “Well, then, I guess we should tell ole Stefan that at least we got the bitch wife and his unborn kid. And I have men following your daughter’s tracks right now, Lady Cameron. I might even let them break her in before we finish the job. It’s not often men in our line of work get a chance at royalty.”

Anger flashed across Marianne’s face as she lifted her good arm, the heavy coat falling back to reveal the pistol, Heather’s pistol. She fired; once, twice, and then the weapon—battered by the crash and covered with ice formed from the blood of her daughters very own bodyguard jammed.

Two shots tore past Hans into the woods, but he remained still. The woman—the wife of the man he had been sent to kill—was still pulling the trigger, but the slide was jammed opened. Her hand shook, due to the cold, her shock and blood loss, and the lack of practice. Finally she quit trying and dropped the useless weapon, a look of utter despair on her face.

“Goodbye, Lady Cameron,” Hans Trevane said as he raised the SMG and fired a precise three-round burst into her chest, and then a second one into her head.

Chapter Forty-Seven

March 23, 2768
Black Pine Forest Preserve
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony

Cassie ran as fast as she could through the undergrowth and the thick blanket of snow on the ground. The densely packed drift caught and tugged at her boots, and the ground beneath was hard, slick with ice. Running blindly through the dense undergrowth, she did not see the tree root barely sticking up from the white blanket. The iron-hard feroak root caught her just below the knee, and she slammed down—hard—onto the ground.

She lay there for a moment as she caught her breath, and her shoulders shook as she cried, the tears already beginning to freeze upon her cheeks. Shivering with the cold beginning to seep deep into her bones, she sat up and looked around—and the little girl froze.

Ahead of her, barely ten meters away, lay a thicket of tangled brush, held up by running vines descending from a gnarled old tree. But, in front of the thicket, just before the thorny brambles, the earth had been rooted out, forming a ramp descending into the forest floor. She knew what she saw, for her Daddy had shown her one almost just like it before: it was a ridgeback den. The big animals did not really hibernate, not like bears, anyway. But they did like having a safe place surrounded by earth and plants; a place which locked in their body heat and where they could sleep without being disturbed; a place where they could birth their litters in peace. Holding her breath, she listened as her Daddy had taught her, and she could hear the thick, guttural snoring of a sleeping ridgeback within.

Cassie swallowed, and slowly stood up. She began backing away from the den trying to be as quiet as she could. Daddy said there nothing on Asta as dangerous as a ridgeback defending its den; while she had her doubts after the events of this day, she did not want to be the one who was there if she was wrong.

“Well, well, well,” she heard a voice call out from behind her, and Cassie froze again, gasping. “What have we got here, Nelson?”

A second voice, low and rumbling and scary, answered the first. “A little lost Princess, it looks like, Liam. You, GIRL!” he shouted. “Come here now, before I have to chase you any more.”

Cassie froze, keeping her wide eyes on the brambles before her. The ridgeback had not woken up, but if they kept yelling . . . she closed her eyes and then sprinted forward.

“HEY!” The shout came from behind, but she ignored it, and ignored the thicket as well—she aimed for the tree. That sprawling great gnarly tree with a winding trunk and thick branches. She crossed the snow and her boot scraped across the bark, and then her hands—frozen and blue though they were—were pulling at the vines and branches as she climbed as fast and hard as she could.

BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM! She stopped and spun around at the sound, her jaw dropping as one of the two men raised his sub-machine gun into the air and opened fire. “Girl, you are not running any more; so it’s here, or back there, either way you are . . .”

A furious snort emerged from underground as the sleeping ridgeback woke. A massive bellow erupted from the icy, muddy slide, and then the beast charged forward. Genetically descended from Terran hogs, the Astan ridgebacks were far larger, and much more aggressive. At 8.5 meters from snout to rump, the adult male that emerged from the den was not quite fully grown. Nonetheless, he massed over 750 kilos of gristle, bone, and muscle, covered in a muddy, tangled, snow-frosted black fur that looked far out of place upon a giant pig. Once removed, and cleaned, that fur would be as luxurious as sable, and was one of the reasons the animal was hunted.

But Liam and Nelson were not thinking about the fur of the creature as it charged. It was faster than they could have imagined and left the den like a rocket—a rocket tipped with four razor-sharp thirty-inch long ivory tusks, two in the upper jaw pointing down and back, and two more in the lower that curved up and forward. Head lowered, the great beast charged forward, snorting and squealing and bellowing its fury at having been awoken.

Both of the Loki terrorists lowered their sub-machine guns and opened fire on the animal. But, as Cassie’s Daddy had once told her, ridgebacks took a lot of killing. The massive skull was packed with bone—hardened by the minerals ingested when the animals ate the young feroak saplings. Only a heavy rifle could penetrate that bone shield—and the two men had just pistol-caliber weapons.

The ridgeback struck Liam at waist height, the lower tusks ripping through his belly and out the back, and it reared and thrashed its head from side to side. The four tusks tore through his mid-section, and Liam’s legs went one direction, his torso the other, in a shower of blood and gore. Scenting the blood, the enormous hog bellowed again, and wheeled towards Nelson.

Nelson had knelt, and while the animal was occupied with Liam, he waited until it had turned his flank towards him. And he emptied the weapon into the side of the ridgeback. Snarling with rage, and pain, its flank bleeding from two dozen wounds, the ridgeback wheeled towards Nelson and charged. The impact hurled the man into the trunk of a tree, and then the beast was there, ripping and slashing with the long tusks; biting and pulling with its other teeth. Slowly Nelson stopped screaming, and the blood ceased to flow. But the ridgeback was not yet finished. An omnivore, he was not one to let either meal go to waste. Keeping one eye on the little intruder high up in his tree, he began to consume the two men, his jaws snapping bones like sticks of cinnamon.

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

Clinging to the side of the tree trunk, Cassie turned her face away from the gory sight below, and tried to scramble higher. She grunted with the effort to climb, and then heard sniffing from beneath her. The child slowly looked down into the red eyes of the pig-like creature below. It grunted and squealed and bellowed, and then rose up on its hind limbs and kicked at the tree, making it shake. Cassie yelped and almost fell, but she wrapped her arms around the branch, hanging on as tight as she could.

The ridgeback bellowed its fury, and Cassie could feel the warm stink of its breath just beneath her legs. Then it tusks began slashing at the trunk, striking sparks against the feroak. She scrambled higher, pulling her legs up out of range and clung to the tree, tears streaming down her face as she wailed in horror.

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Despite the pain-killers, Truscott’s side was aflame as he ran through the forest. Then he heard gun-shots nearby, followed by a low-rumbling bellow, and then more automatic weapons fire. And the scream of a little girl. She’s alive, he thought to himself. Absalom, if you ever get out of this mess and you are issued any more screwy orders, just take a personal day and go the hell home.

He spit the blood that was welling up into his throat onto the ground and crouched down low, in spite of the sudden pain from his side. Some-one had shot—and none of the detail had any weapons that made a sound like that. He began making his way slowly and carefully towards the cry, watching the surrounding forest as he went.


March 23, 2768
Royal Black Watch HQ, Fort Tobias Harrison
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony

Lt. Colonel Ethan Moreau was just finishing the required form—in triplicate—explaining yet again why his command needed the Nighthawk suits, when the telephone on his desk buzzed.

“Moreau. THEY WHAT?” he yelled as he bounced to his feet. Dropping the phone, he slammed his hand down on a button on his desk, and alarms began to sound across the entire compound. He charged into the entry-hall of the HQ building just as his senior NCOs and a few officers came into the area. All of them were belting on weapons.

“Launch the rescue birds for Farthington Pass, McCormick—have McMurtree ground all other flights immediately. Inform them, the Navy will shoot down any one flying except us. Mike, get on the phone in my office, get the full scoop, and inform Major Tanaka and Sergeant Major Howe at Defense HQ. Everyone else, get to your ship and get in the air. The Family is down—there were concealed SAMs at Farthington—and I want every man out there now.”

“SAMS!?” exclaimed one of his battalion commanders.

“SAMs,” replied Moreau. “I don’t know, and at the moment I don’t care. Lady Marianne and her daughter—the BLOODY HEIR—went down when their car was hit. The entire reaction platoon was taken out as well.”

“Sir,” one of his armor company commanders interrupted as they ran down the steps of the building. From other structures all around, men were pouring into trucks racing towards the space-port half-a-klick away. “There isn’t anywhere in Farthington Pass the Droppers can set down to off-load our vehicles.”

“I know, son. Your spam-in-a-can are gonna get kicked out from a thousand meters—they have all passed parachute training, right?”

“Most of them.”

“Well, let’s hope the rest are quick studies.”

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At McMurtree Space Port, Captain Isaiah Wheeler listened to the short staccato sentences emerge from the loud-speaker, and cursed. “All right, you damned fools. You heard Regiment—we are responding, and the landing zone may be HOT. Lock and load, troopers.”

Throughout the infantry bays of the Intruder class DropShip Andersonville, soldiers of the Black Watch Regiment checked their Nighthawk armor and gave their weapons a final inspection. Since the Regiment had officially reformed and resumed their duties, Moreau and Tanaka had ordered that a full company of infantry—combat loaded—sit here at the space-port ready for launch two minutes after the order was given. From here, they could reach any point of the planet in less than twenty minutes—if the ship were allowed to thrust at full. His command—Echo Company, 2nd Battalion—was the lucky one that had the duty today.

Sitting down, he pulled the restraining straps tight, and took a deep breath. The engines of the DropShip fired beneath him, and suddenly he was riding a rocket to heaven.

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“Andersonville, I don’t care what your orders are! There is incoming traffic in your flight path!” the controller screamed over the transmitter.

“McMurtree Flight, you had better clear our air-space, or I will shoot the SOBs out of my way! We have declared an emergency—A BLACK WATCH EMERGENCY—so clear me a flight-path or so help me God I will do it for you!”

The controller went to respond, his face flushed and angry—Flight Controllers were God on Earth, and no one—NO ONE—spoke to them in such a manner. But his supervisor was there, and he took the transmitter away. “Copy that, Andersonville. Good hunting. Flight out.”

His subordinate stared at him in disbelief, and the supervisor shook his head. “Go clear your head Bill. Black Watch Emergency means we clear everything—even if we have to ditch incoming traffic in a field.”

His subordinate finally relaxed, and then his head shot up, his face pale with shock. “But that means . . .”

“Yeah. That is exactly what it means. Listen up, people. Everything, EVERYTHING—planet-wide—hits tarmac. NOW. Make it happen.”

The men and women of McMurtree Flight Control hustled to work, keeping their minds off what the emergency declaration might mean for each of them—and for Asta, and the Star League.

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“I want all of our sensors dialed into that area, from every ship in orbit, and I want it yesterday, people. If a mosquito takes a piss, I want to see it,” Lauren McNeil calmly said from the bridge of SLS McKenna. “Commander Abrams, send the ship to Action Stations and clear our starboard battery.”

She looked at the holo-tank as it zoomed in on Farthington Pass. NOTHING could have gotten past the Fleet to land—nothing big, at least. But if the Black Watch needed orbital fire support, then she and the Flagship would be the one to give it. And if the First Lord’s family were dead, then she would ensure that NONE of those responsible would escape, even if it meant annihilating every living creature in an area a hundred kilometers in diameter.

“Weapons are manned and hot; all stations report manned and standing by,” her executive officer called out.

“Send our sensor data directly to the Black Watch command DropShip, Commander. Make sure they can see everything we can.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” he replied, and bent over to carry out the task. Now all we have to do is wait, she thought. And pray.


March 23, 2768
Black Pine Forest Preserve
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony

Truscott could hear the ridgeback ahead of him quite clearly now. And Cassie was whimpering from somewhere above. Good girl, he thought. Get high to get away from the animal. But where were the others that had been doing the shooting? Something, some instinct told him he was being watched, and Absalom dropped to the ground. Three slugs ripped through the over-growth, and then three more hit his armor, followed by another three—once again on the armor. He rolled over onto his back and raised the heavy Mauser, squeezing the trigger as he did, even as six more bullets flattened themselves on his chest. He screamed as his own weight drove the metal splinter deeper into his side, but the burst of coherent energy ripped apart a man holding a sub-machine gun climbing up towards his head.

Not too far away, he heard the ridgeback bellow, and the ground began to shake as it ran towards the sound of popping gunfire; towards him. Oh great, he thought, as he thumbed the selector switch to grenade.

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Hans stayed perfectly still as he heard the SMG fire from Hollis, and the scream of the dying man that had just been shot. The ridgeback in the clearing ahead wheeled and charged towards his team-mate. Good-bye, Hollis, the Loki team leader thought. Say hi to Liam and Nelson in Valhalla for me. He stayed on the ground as the massive hog passed by, fixated on the sound that had hurt it earlier. And slowly he began to creep forward, trying to get a clear field of fire on the daughter of the First Lord.

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The creature tore through the forest like an armored tank, and Absalom raised rifle one-handed as he watched it come. The ridgeback spotted the movement and charged, and he squeezed the trigger. A heavy THUD sounded and the grenade spat away, hitting the ground between the front two paws. It exploded, and the ridgeback squealed with pain as fragments ripped apart its fore-legs and soft underbelly. The grenade ripped apart the beasts throat as well, and the corpse hit the forest floor. But one does not so easily stop 750 kilos moving at close to 30 kilometers per hour. Absalom dropped the rifle and covered his head as the beast skidded into him, one of its tusks ripping through his leg armor and into the flesh beneath.

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Hans heard the grenade and knew his time was up. Hollis had no grenades—none of them did. He stood and charged forward, taking aim at the girl—but she was gone! The little bitch had dropped out of the tree and taken off into the woods again. He looked at the ground, but the ridgeback had torn up the snow and earth; then he saw the tracks; to the east, leading off towards Hillman’s Bluff. And he began to run after his quarry.

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Cassie was exhausted, cold, and dehydrated, but she ran as if the devil himself were after her. Given what the day had brought, who knew? He might well be. Tearing through the underbrush, she broke into an open clearing and threw herself backwards, landing on her butt. Ahead of her, there was perhaps five meters, maybe six of snow, and then the cliff dropped twenty meters to the treetops below. She crawled to the edge, but it was sheer, and the rocks were icy, and she just sat there, breathing heavy.

Behind her, she heard something crash through the forest, but it did not shake the ground like the ridgeback had. And a man emerged; a man holding a gun much like the one the other two bad men had held. She put her hand in the pocket of her jacket, but it was torn, and the pistol was gone; it lay somewhere on the forest floor behind her.

“That was quite a chase you have given me, little one,” he said, as he stood up and began to slow his own breathing down. “You are an intriguing young lady.”

“Where’s Momma?” Cassie whispered as she stared at the tall man.

“Oh, somewhere safe, little one. Somewhere there is no hurt and no pain. And you will get to go see her,” he said, as he passed his left arm through the fiber strap to steady the weapon.

“Don’t cry, liebchin, this will not hurt one bit. I promise you that,” he said as he began to lower the gun.

“Yeah, but this will hurt like Hell, I can promise YOU that,” another voice spoke behind the bad man.

Absalom Truscott limped into the clearing, and using the full power of his suits myomer muscles, he swung the feroak branch he had ripped from the tree back at the ridgebacks den. The heavy wood club slammed into Han’s right shoulder, shattering the joint, and making him drop the weapon. Hans grabbed for it with his left hand, but the club swung down on that shoulder as well. A third swing hit behind his knees and the Loki agent collapsed to the ground. Absalom limped around, and Hans saw him fully for the first time. His armor was ruined, with a shard of metal dripping blood protruding from his right side, and a broken off ridgeback tusk in his left leg, the ivory extending out from both sides where it had penetrated the armor plating, as well as the flesh, bone, and blood beneath. His helmet was missing, and spalls of lead covered his back and chest from Hollis’s SMG. And his arm was; well, it was bent at an unnatural angle.

Absalom reached down and grabbed Hans by the jaw with the armored glove that covered his good arm. “And I hope this will hurt even more you son-of-a-bitch.”

Letting go, he punched down with all of his strength, augmented by the myomer muscles of the suit, and Hans’s skull shattered beneath the pile-driver blow. The armored gauntlet tore through the skull and face, and the assassin limply collapsed onto the ground. Absalom shook the brains and blood from his fist and turned towards Cassie, took one step, and then dropped to his knees—throwing up on the no-longer pristine snow.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

“I’m one of the good guys, Lady Cassandra. I’m one of the good guys, and I am here to take you home.”

All I can say is damn Master Arminas. Damn....(in a good way)........