Oh my god, has it really been three months since I posted an update?!?
Apologies for that, but a combination of commissions on my map gig and utter stress at my main job kept me from continuing this story.
C h a p t e r 0 8: Ma Bell's Long Reach
Massilia,
Continent of Gaul, Alphard
Marian Hegemony
Glass splintered as the empty bottle broke into countless pieces, crushed by a smooth rock the size of a toddler's head. Half the span of a football field away a man flexed his hands, revealing the soft whirr of prosthetics far too pricy for someone clad in a worn long coat and factory workers' clothes. His face was still, retracing the path the rock had taken through the air and the four by four feet opening in the ragged wall on the other side. Metal lattice lay bare across the ruined, pockmarked wall, revealing almost more holes than substance. The man took a few steps forward to check on his work again. Half a dozen bottles lay broken, one neatly placed next to another, all crushed by his stones. A shimmer of satisfaction flashed across his stoic face. With hints of Korean and Mediterranean heritage it was a face that was in a word so average one would forget it the moment one no longer saw it.
With one last glance, the man turned around, picked up his rucksack, drew his beanie down over his ears and nodded towards the deepening shadows off to the side. Footsteps departed in the dark. In some distance, the engines of several cars awoke, their sounds quickly fading as they, too, departed. With trained ease the man navigated through the labyrinthine corridors of the abandoned, decrepit factory and emerged onto the sidewalk of a warehouse district, right where the cones of two street lamps left almost just the hint of an orange glow. There were only few public cameras in the district, and the few of those that actually worked only showed a select mix of prerecorded footage tonight, courtesy of the man's more tech savvy companions.
People numbered ever fewer than cameras at this time. Alphard was warm planet, but even here something like winter existed, and it hit harder in Massilia than in Nova Roma. Icy wind gushed through the warehouse district, driving dust and dry leaves in front of it. Shift change in most of the district would not be happening until a few hours from then, and nobody who did not absolutely have to be outside in the cold did so.
A stiff breeze billowed the man's long coat and he sunk a bit deeper between beanie and woolen collar. Down the street, right, then left, past a few old loading cranes, then right again. The district had seen better days. Time and again he walked past abandoned old factories and warehouses with collapsed roofs or white-painted, boarded up windows. It was an old district in an old city – or whatever passed as old here. Most park benches in the place the man had grown up where older than both city and nation he was in. Still, the district with its myriad rusty corrugated sheet metal buildings was a relic of the early goldrush days of settlement on Alphard, back when everybody expanded wildly, before the planet's economy had found its own steady pulse and mining and manufacturing had moved away from the temperate and colder zones, making way for agriculture.
The man knew the district well. Indeed, he had memorized the full layout in great detail, all the ins and outs and what lead where, what was where, and how not to be seen if he so desired. He turned a final corner and began his walk down a wide, empty road. To his right rose the high sheet metal and concrete walls of office buildings and warehouses, with only a few windows between them. From even fewer of those light shone into the street below in quickly diminishing cones. On the other side of the road a set of three warehouses surrounded by lumps of freight containers – some new, some old and rusting – rose twenty meters into the night sky, bleached red sheet metal covered in the faded yellow logo of a shipping company. Floodlights illuminated the area, and heavily armed private security patrolled behind a metal mesh fence topped with coils of razor wire. Every once in a while, an inconspicuous industrial mech walked by. Nothing out of the ordinary, unless you knew what to look for.
Slowly walking down the road, the man began opening the buttons on his long coat with one hand. Private security was nothing special, however these here all carried standard Marian army assault rifles and body armor, and there was an awful lot of them. Surveillance footage taken by a small drone with the radar cross section of a bumblebee showed around a hundred heat signatures on the compound, with most of them hidden at strategic points where the owners of the warehouse complex had set up what the man could only describe as container forts, complete with infantry support weapons and makeshift, hidden pillboxes. The four industrial mechs walking around the area in seemingly random patterns also carried simple armor plating and, at least, a mix of SRM launchers, machine guns and medium lasers, clumsily covered from preying eyes. No, this was no ordinary setup.
Under his coat, the man felt the familiar weight and shape of a sphere right about the size of a toddler's head. He kept his gait steady so as to not arouse suspicion. They had done their due diligence and, through a mix of bribery, hacking, coercion and plain old rumor-chasing had tracked down the Marian lostech cache to the run-down warehouse district half a planet away from Camp Sulla, arguably one of the last places people ordinarily would expect it. The man was convinced that, if anything remained back at the Marian main military base, it was little more than a decoy.
Coming up, hanging a few meters above the sidewalk on his side of the street a square part of prefab concrete building marked about right the middle of the length of the warehouses. Soft blue light, barely visible if you didn't know how to look for it, shone through milky glass. The position gave a good overview over the warehouses. Which was why the Marians had chosen it as their impromptu command post, ready to lead the 'private security' in case a breach occurred. The man did not slow down. He had walked the same path for the past three weeks, several times a day, alone, among others, in various different sets of clothes. To whoever might look, he by now was a regular occurrence, a normal worker in the district. He and his companions had meticulously kept a tally of everything happening here. Everything they did had led them here. To this very moment.
From several directions, the sound of ICE engines rapidly grew louder, and, as one, a quartet of large, nondescript locally built vans burst into the streets around the warehouse. The man's last coat button gave way. In one fluent motion he pulled the safety pin from the bundle of explosives that had dropped into his hands and hurled the lethal package towards the milky windows ahead and above. It took barely a second the cross the distance. As it crashed through the tinted glass, the man noted with analytic satisfaction that its path perfectly mirrored those of his nonlethal brethren he so thoroughly had practiced with.
The thought vanished as quickly as it had appeared, seared away by shrapnel and fire. Thunder rolled across the district as a mix of high explosives, thermite and inferno gel turned the Marian command post into hellish furnace.
Like clockwork ballet dancers, the four vans stopped as one at positions predetermined in long planning and dry run sessions and disgorged groups of black clad operatives. Hatches flapped open, revealing SRM racks and grenade launchers. Roof coverages flipped to the sides. For the brink of a second the world seemed to hold its breath. Then pandemonium erupted.
From the top of the vehicles jump troopers soared into the night sky, two from each van. At the same time, SRMs roared from formerly concealed hatches, spitting a mix of high explosives and incendiaries aimed at the Marian container 'forts', piercing the thin metal casings and showering unsuspecting soldiers with shrapnel and gel that went up in flames the moment it touched oxygen. In between the carefully orchestrated onslaught black-clad operatives moved methodically through the breaches, heavy armor absorbing what little defensives fire rose to meet them as they dished out death in controlled bursts.
Up above, the jump troopers danced their deadly ballet. Rearing from the surprise assault the four Frankenstein mechs reacted only sluggishly. Their coms were aflame with contradicting chatter and panicked reports, and their own sensors were in no way comparable to the suites true military battlemechs sported. The first and closest to the unknown attackers had just flicked the safety off their bolted-on weapons when figure with a jetpack suddenly filled their field of vision. Something flashed. Hot pain seared through their body before everything fade to black, and they slumped over into their controls. The upgraded industrial mechs were nothing to sneeze at, but they had a glaring Achilles heel: their cockpits were open.
The first mech, called 'Able' went haywire when its pilot died, having a full clip emptied in their body at point blank range. Slumped on its controls, the mech began to walk in an irregular circle, slamming into containers and the warehouse behind, crashing through the thin sheet metal walls, all the while firing its single large laser in wild arcs.
'Baker' found itself plagued by not one but three jump troopers at once, clinging to its chassis like bugs. It flailed its stubby arms impotently, trying to throw them off, moving across the area like a child throwing a tantrum. When they finally let go as one the reprieve was short lived as three satchel charges blasted the machine into at least as many large parts – and countless smaller ones.
Down below, the man had joined his comrades in arms in their gruesome and methodical task. Their initial strike broken any coordinated response – and resolve – and what they did now was part hunting, part mop-up and part execution detail. His own submachinegun spat death in controlled bursts into an enclosed room that the Marians had been using as an impromptu office. Two men went down, their body armor doing little to stop the armor-piercing projectiles. Around him, others of his team had moved into the warehouse and had begun to set remote charges to the containers inside. They were a special brew his superiors had come up with some time ago, and tailored made to get rid of 'solidly made problems'. Here and there a black clad operative threw open some of the container doors to peek inside, doing spot checks to see if their quarry was actually present. The man nodded to himself in satisfaction. Recon had been good, but one of the iron rules of the trade was 'trust, but verify'.
At first, he and his companions had fixed their gaze on Camp Sulla, but after a few days of reconnaissance, bribery, picking up rumors, and maybe a decent amount of nigh untraceable hacking, the picture had become clear that whatever was stored at the Marian's main military base was nothing but a decoy. The neobarbarians had played it smart, and shipped off their grand prize, and had tried to erase their traces. A good move, but one by amateurs trying to play in the major league.
Inside the containers lay stacked crates and sealed boxes wearing the logo of the long defunct Star League Defense Force. Some were big enough that one of them filled the container as a whole. Good. That checked out with the intel they had on the stash.
Around him, the carnage continued unabated. A few Marians had entrenched behind some more solid debris and rained machine gun fire into the operatives' general direction. None of the bursts hit, and the resistance died unceremoniously to a grenade dropped from a jump trooper above.
The third of the Hegemony security mechs stood wreathed in flame from head to toe, inferno gel having found its way across its whole body. Like a fiery scarecrow it illuminated the night. Crumpled and smoldering, the wreckage of 'Delta' had crushed two containers beneath it next to it. Around him, gunfire started to die down.
Checking his watch, the man tapped his comm twice. One by one, affirmative replies reached back to him, and he allowed himself a smile. Time to go. As fast and orderly as they had come the attackers filed back into their vans and sped off. He watched the ruined warehouse shrink in the mirror, then pushed the button on the remote detonator a second operative wordlessly handed him.
The chain of explosions quite literally outshone everything that had happened in the prior minutes. With the horizon aflame, the man and his team vanished into the night.
MHAFS IULIUS CAESAR
en route to Alphard
Marian Hegemony
August 28th, 3010
"
Deceleration phase ending in four… three… two… one. Drive boost off, main drive adjusting to one standard gravity. Remain in place until light switches to green."
Marius could feel three times his body weight rapidly lifting off his shoulders and chest. His fingers had been curled around the rest of the seat he had spent strapped in for the past hour or so, and trying to flex them before he unfastened his safety belt shot daggers of pain through his hands and lower arms.
The Overlord-class' lights flickered briefly, switching from a dull red to green before the normal cabin illumination sprung to life again.
His feet tingled as blood began to circulate normally, rushing back up through his body. Wearily, he got up and grabbed a bottle of water from a locker and a mix of pills meant to help spacers get over the side effects of high-G stress, painkillers included. His head throbbed, tortured by a dozen needle pricks starting from his neck and going all the way to his frontal lobes.
Gods, as much as space fascinated him, he was just too much planet bound to ever get used to the everchanging whims of gravity and acceleration. Gulping down the pills, and emptying the bottle for good measure, he briefly closed his eyes and had to steady himself, grabbing the edge of his desk with both hands.
The cabin was small, an ordinary officer's cabin, just a bunk, a tiny showering niche, a couple of lockers, two fixed chairs, and a desk. IULIUS CAESAR war a combat vessel first and foremost, and there was no place for luxury or special accommodations just for him. That's what IMPERATOR, or Hegemony 1 as it was called, was for. But that wasn't a warship and thus had not taken part in the operation.
Three beeps chiming from the pad next to his cabin's bulkhead notified him of a visitor, and he hobbled over, silently cursing his feet while they slowly returned to their normal size. "Yes?"
"It's me," Aidan Volkov's voice sounded tinny. Marius unlocked the bulkhead – locking things down was a standard procedure whenever the ship moved above speeds simulating standard planetary gravity – and let his comrade in.
"Did you spend decel strapped to the next bulkhead or how did you manage to get down here so quickly?" he welcomed him.
"Not living a totally namby-pamby palace life does have its perks," sun-tanned, dark-haired and bearing his mother's green-blue eyes, the younger Volkov stepped into the cabin with the grace of a leopard and slipped into the next best seat. "You look like crap warmed over… your majesty."
Marius grunted. "Careful, I've been doing full contact mixed martial arts for the better part of a year now. I could beat your lanky ass any day for that kind of disrespect."
"Yeah right. Probably." He watched Marius stretch and wince as joints cracked and the emperor grimaced. "Cripple."
Despite the discomfort Marius had to laugh. "
Imperial cripple, please."
"Alright then, Imperial cripple. Seriously, you don't look great," Aidan's dark pony tail flipped back and forth as he shook his head.
"I feel even worse. Like, 'needing physical therapy once back on the ground' worse." Marius hissed, trying to stretch. "Suppose that's the advantage to active service, eh? Your body gets used to that sort of strain."
"Eh, it never gets pleasant, if that's what you're asking. So," he slapped his legs, "you wanted to talk to me before we make planetfall?"
"Yes. Care for a drink?"
"Right after that pill cocktail? Feeling adventurous, are we?" he chuckled. "Of course,
Hawkbeak!"
Marius produced a bottle of single malt whiskey and two tumblers from a secure compartment of his desk and poured both of them a generous helping.
"Whiskey? Are we down to old man drinks now?" Aidan jokingly raised an eyebrow.
"It's an acquired taste," he rolled his eyes. "I'm stuck on Mount Caelius most the time, with Posca. Like I would have an idea what the hip kids drink!" The two shared a laugh. For a moment, Marius savored the warmth of the golden liquid as it ran down his throat before he spoke up again. "I'd like to get your appraisal of how we did."
"Mine?" Aidan was genuinely surprised. "I'm sure there are more senior officers in the flotilla, or the legions as a whole for that matter, that're more qualified than me."
"Everybody's more qualified than you,
Vulture," he deadpanned. "But honestly, I'm asking you because you've seen direct action under the new paradigm, you've trained forces – and I can trust you not to bullshit me because you're my friend," Marius told him seriously. "I've got full confidence in your mother to handle the big picture,
Vulture. But I need people on site that can talk to me without trying to butter me up."
Aidan blinked. "Thanks… I guess? Alright, where do I start?
Legio I was a mixed bag. The mechwarriors are our most experienced soldiers, but they are all set in their ways, the good'ol Patrician mechjock mafia. Combat performance for them was good throughout the bank, and I would've been surprised if it hadn't been, given most of them have served as long as me or considerably longer. But," he leaned back, absentmindedly rubbing his fingers, "Cooperation between the Cohorts I to III and their armor and infantry regiments was lackluster at best, non-existent at worst. On all three planets they hit, they continually outpaced their support forces, often with disregard to the strategic objectives. On the flipside, cooperation between armor and footsies on their side was textbook, almost too good for green formations, to be honest, and that despite half of their officers being patricians. On Trondheimal, while II Cohort was busy stroking their egos, elements of the 4th Armored and 1st Infantry stopped a larger sized Palatinate counterattack comprised of mechs, armor, VTOLs and infantry cold, then enveloped the enemy and finally wiped it out when the rest of the 4th arrived. Much of the salvage taken on the ground can be pinned on the footsies and tankers. Now, that doesn't mean Legio I's mech did a bad job, the way I see it. Most the time they beat the Patties and achieved their strategic goals. Much of the important infrastructure across all four worlds has taken a hit."
"I sense a 'but' coming?" Marius took a sip of whiskey, swirling the glass in his hand.
"But it opened them up to unnecessary casualties, and we covered less ground in the end because they repeatedly got bogged down individually whereas they could have achieved victory as a united force. Now," he gulped down his drink in one go, eager to continue, "Legio II, or rather IV Cohort as that's all there is right now? They did fine. I've been training some of them between all my little extra tasks, so I'm
absolutely biased," he chuckled, "but since ninety percent of them were new recruits they've all grown into the service together. They've all trained as a combined force from the very start. Not sayin' they are perfect. Trasjkis was the right spot for them to take, with the least resistance, and even then they appeared brittle sometimes. They are green, barely out of training, and for most of them it was the first time they had live ammo flying their way. And their casualty rate proves it. But even under pressure they remembered to act as a team. And they persevered."
Marius scowled. "Well great. So, basically you're telling me our sole full formation is too stiff to work as intended?"
"I'm not going to dunk on my comrades," Aidan shook his head. "Most of them are fine soldiers. But you can't easily overcome institutional inertia. They've been the unit for eighty plus years, and now they've been told to share the spotlight, with something as ordinary as tanks or, Jupiter's hairy balls, infantry!" he chuckled mirthlessly. "You want them to work as intended? Retrain the principle officers. Give those who don't adapt or perform the boot. Maybe break up the formation?" he shrugged. "Like, take out one cohort, divide it in three, then use the three companies as the nucleus for a new legion, and train it up as a combined unit from the ground. That way they'll
have to adapt? I don't know, just a suggestion."
"Your mom's not going to like that. Legio I has been her home for decades now. Lots of emotional attachment. Gutting it and scattering it to the four winds? She's going to hate the thought.
"It's been my home, too, Marius," Aidan reminded him. "And my mom's a big girl. She knows how to take orders, should you pick up my suggestions. I mean, it's not like you'd explode the regiment in one go. Building up Legio II will take until when? 3011? 3012?"
"The last update was that we're on track for mid to late 3012, with armor and infantry, if everything goes according to plan," Marius explained.
"So, it's probably going to take until that year or so until you start to set up Legio III and IV. It's not like you're cutting up my home regiment in one fell swoop then." Aidan eyed his glass, and Marius took the cue to refill it.
"Legio II's the test run,
Vulture. The plan's to look at how setting it up worked, then apply the lessons to the next ones. Taking your idea, we'd take II Cohort and III Cohort from Legio I, then use their individual companies to set up the nucleus of the next two legions. Anyway," he raised his glass, "bottoms up, old chap. You've given the imperial cripple something to think about. Cheers!"
The two men emptied their drinks and shared a moment of silence. Sighing almost simultaneously, Marius plugged the bottle and put the glasses away.
"You know, I'm going to give you your own cohort soon."
"Fuck me," Aidan ran his hands through his face. "You just want to make my life miserable, right?"
"Eh, it's one of my more refined qualities," Marius smiled before turning sober. "That you don't want it tells me you're exactly the right man for the job. Besides, you seem to have the right ideas. Be a shame if you didn't get a chance to apply them."
"There's no escaping you, is there?" Aidan sighed.
"Perks of being emperor."
They lapsed into silence again before the terminal on the small cabin's desk beeped and booped to life, signaling an incoming call.
"Well, that's my cue," Aidan announced and rose. "I'm going to get some more shut-eye. Talk to you on the ground then."
Watching the bulkhead close with metallic click and hydraulic hiss, Marius switched the screen on. A long row of code flashed down the side, a sign that the connection was encrypted. A second later, his sister's auburn mane filled the screen.
"Syv! How are you!" Marius' face lit up.
There was some delay before the younger O'Reilly answered with a smile. "Busy, big bro. Holding the fort for you, together with your grumpy old Posca. Just thought I'd give you a heads up on the situation."
Immediately Marius tensed. "Any more 'terrorist' attacks?"
"What? No!" Sylvana shook her head. "No follow-ups. But the warehouse is gone. Investigators say the attackers must have used some mix of explosives and highly volatile incendiaries. Not a bit of evidence regarding who did it. Local CCTVs were down during the attack and backups were wiped. No eyewitnesses left, and no blood or DNA. Whoever did it, they were like vengeful ghosts."
"Worrying, but that's at least something," the young old emperor exhaled audibly. "That nothing more's happened, I mean," he added.
"There's a parade planned for tonight. You'll be expected to make a speech, and look sharp," his sister told him. "Just wanted to warn you ahead of time."
"Thanks, sis."
"Don't thank me, thank Posca. He's written a speech for you. It's attached to the datastream of this call. You can check it later." She leaned closer to her screen. "So, how did it go?"
He quickly gave her a rundown of the campaign and his conversation with Aidan. "At the end of the day, transportation was a bottleneck," he explained. "There's only so many dropships and jumpships we have access to at the moment. We had to loan a few from the trading cartels to get by, and they don't have excess ships to spare either. And we don't have prime access to new production. Everything we can get is used or stolen. Interstellar transportation is a bottleneck for
everybody." Even after Helm that would stay true for many years.
"We do have corporations building small craft and orbitals locally," she reminded him. "How about paying them to get into the game?"
"True enough. But we don't have infinite money. Even with all the riches we've plundered in the last century, settling three new worlds, funding a massive infrastructure program and increasing our military by a factor of ten or so leads to empty coffers eventually," he told her.
"You could run a tender, like Uncle Corv did with the weapons manufacturers. I'm sure the company at least would take the opportunity to flex its muscles," she suggested.
"It's a good idea. Your idea. So, you go and set it up," Marius yawned and rubbed his eyes. His sister set out to protest but he stopped her, raising his hand. "Maybe I should make you head of my department of finance and economy."
"You don't
have such a department, Marius."
"No, but I really
should. I took some time on the voyage to look at how seriously underdeveloped part of our executive is," he explained.
"Well, thanks, but no," Sylvana shook her head. "I'm
nineteen, big bro. How about you give me a few years on the board of Alphard Trading before springing such a ridiculous idea on me?"
"Alright, fine, Syv. But for sure you know someone… ."
Outskirts of Dalmatia, Illyria
Illyrian Palatinate
September 5th, 3010
Captain Jackson Fletcher stepped over the body of the dead Illyrian noble and took a long look across the valley from the terrace of the large mansion. A few fires still burned in the distance, but not too many. The air smelled of fresh snow, ozone, smoke, and a hint of fear. The estate's entourage – what was left of it after the few men stupid or courageous enough to fight him had left for the afterlife – cowered in the yard. Maybe they'd fetch a good price. Or maybe…
He picked up a radio.
"What are you up to, Blaze?"
Leo 'Blaze' Mercer, captain of the Corpsegrinders was half a world away, a blunt tool doing what he did best: reave and destroy.
"That you, Scarface?" the big man's voice rumbled through a wave of static after a few moments. "Havin' a feast here! Those buggers brew a great bear, and man, I'm not complaining about the honkers on their ladies either!" he laughed. "And you, ya miserable cunt?"
Fletcher felt a shark-like grin grow on his face.
"Oh, this and that. You know, I think I
like it here, Blaze. Just realized I always wanted my own planet."
Hilton Head, North America
Terra, Solar System
October 15th, 3010
"Now that next year's budgetary concerns have been settled, may I inquire how ROM intends to solve the quagmire it has driven us into in the Palatinate?"
Julian Tiepolo, lithe, calm, and by vote the Primus of the last vestiges of the Star League that had transformed themselves into ComStar, the seemingly neutral and objective arbiter of interstellar communication, watched the hologram of Mercy Waters spit proverbial acid into Vesar Kristofur's direction. Throughout the discussions he had observed the grey-haired, square-jawed Indo-Korean woman's mood turn from tense to sour to thinly-veiled-belligerent. But the question was more than justified to spend prime interstellar HPG bandwidth on.
"Vesar, what's ROM's take on this?" he inquired, acting superficially cordial.
"Given the size of the discovered cache and the uncertainty regarding how far the Marian Hegemony had been able to exploit its find ROM concluded that a robust intervention was the most favorable tactic to avoid whatever was hidden in Castle RICHELIEU from falling into the wrong hands. To that end I opted for a proactive approach, making do with forces in the vicinity. ROM recon teams were able to map the area of the Castle Brian, and the order's intervention was successful in securing the find. As far as ROM is concerned, the main goal of our blessed order has been upheld," the forty-one years old Precentor ROM explained himself smoothly.
"Your 'pro-active approach has turned a lostech find – significant as it may be – into a war, a national collapse, and an anti-spy witch hunt across eleven planets," Mercy Waters snapped. "Precentor Illyria's reports have gone from concerned to panicked to outright traumatized. Meanwhile, Precentor Alphard lets us know he is convinced Marius O'Reilly would've been amendable to a quiet and peaceful solution right from the start, seeing as the Marians are trying to stem a colonization program, a military buildup, and infrastructure initiative and an expansion of their education system, all at the same time. Surely that is a situation that'd made the Marians receptive to offers of financial support in return to letting us shepherd their findings?" Waters' hologram looked around the table. Both Alphard and the HPG station on Illyria were part of a chain of stations which primarily connected to the order's superluminal network through her area of operations. Thus, she was privy to the contents of the reports both local precentors had sent to Terra.
"ROM's operative qualities are well-established, and frankly beyond debate. Still, my reading of the situation is such that I must concur with my colleague on Atreus. Your approach, Precentor Kristofur, seems… particularly reckless," Precentor Dieron commented thoughtfully. Tall and broad-shouldered despite his years the man would not have looked out of place on any parade ground of the successor states. "A less panicked analysis of the situation should have seen the mission fronted by the Explorer Corps, and local officials of our blessed order. Given the sorry state of their economy and standard of living, the Illyrians could have been bought off with trinkets and the promise of economic aid. And one certainly could have found ways and means to satisfy the wants of an ambitious young man like Marius O'Reilly." He shook his head. "The plan you set in motion contains to many fault lines," his hologram briefly flickered as he picked up a sheet of paper. "By your own reports, the mercenaries tasked with securing the cache suffered disproportionate losses in their battle with the Marian legions. What if they had lost? What if the Marians had gotten to the bottom of this?!"
"Precentor Dieron, the very nature of my work makes it so that far-reaching decisions often have to be taken based on an imperfect reading of situations far removed from those making them," the slick-haired Kristofur looked from Mercy Waters to Precentor Dieron and, finally, to Tiepolo himself. "ROM studied the battle, and while the force we used emerged victorious, the greater cohesion of the Marian soldiers as well as their mechs individually higher tonnage seems to account for the lopsided kill ratios, despite the mercs force's technological edge. That being said, my actions were communicated to and signed off by the Primus in advance." A barely visible smile flickered across the younger man's face, but Julian Tiepolo caught it and its meaning. 'Ball's in your court'.
"Time was of essence, Mercy, Victor," the Primus admitted tersely. "I authorized Vesar's use of mercenaries due to the rapidly changing circumstances on site. We all strive to act in line with Blake's wisdom. However, sometimes circumstances have our hands bound."
"Chaos always carries with it the seed of opportunity," the younger Precentor ROM steepled his hands and smiled, as much to Tiepolo's as well as Waters' irritation. Before the Primus could act on his annoyance, the head of ROM dropped his cryptic smile and continued. "Between our first intervention and the return of the Marians in force, the mercenaries we employed and Palatinate forces on the ground were able to extract much of the remainder of the cache and ship it off world. What remains on planet is largely the base itself, whose impact is negligible. That's one loose end tied up." He held up one finger. "Our force has withdrawn from the planet in good order after beating a Marian pirate force, and all lostech items that may have had a tangible technological impact in the wrong hands have been evacuated."
But Mercy Waters did not let go. "Leaving this to hired guns was a reckless move, in contrast to all standards of security for an event of such potential impact!" the Precentor Atreus protested, the woman's square face red with barely contained anger. "Mercenaries cannot be trusted with tasks of such gravity, especially considering the sheer quantity of Star League era weapons and technology you so easily had go through their hands. Had I known of this in advance-."
"I assure you, Precentor Atreus, that the decision was not made lightly. For open confrontation, units of the Com Guards would've been my first choice, too, but none were close enough, and as the Primus correctly stated, time was indeed of essence. Waiting carried the risk of losing
all of the Illyrian cache. Hiring disparate mercenaries and equipping them from a local warehouse while providing transportation maybe wasn't an ideal solution, but it was a solution made with the tools at hand, with a solid degree of deniability on our side of the equation," the forty-one years old Kristofur stroked his thin mustache, smiling placidly. "Middlemen and shell corporations provided recruitment and funding. Now, by sheer happenstance the dropship carrying the survivors of the mercenary command in our employ did suffer a catastrophic decompression accident two jumps away from Illyrian territory. Nobody survived. Space is just so harsh and unforgiving of accidents, I'm afraid, and these things happen," he gave Mercy Waters a cold smile. "Luckily, a jumpship operated by the blessed order happened to be nearby and salvaged the dropship and its contents. The second loose end tied up," he raised a second finger. ROM's reputation was well-earned, but Kristofur knew that what he did was just mastering the art of the possible. The trick was to keep up the image of having it all figured out. Not just towards the world at large, but to the people gathered here in particular.
An uncomfortable silence descended over the members of the First Circuit. After a few tense seconds Franklin Novoré, the eldest member of ComStar's
de facto government and Precentor New Avalon cleared his throat. "Sacrifices have to be accepted in the pursuit of Blake's sacred vision. I think I speak for all of us when I say that is sad but adequate solution to this facet of the problem the discovery of Castle RICHELIEU has caused. Have you been equally thorough with the Marians, too?"
Waters snorted, an unceremonious grunt sounding more like a water buffalo than a woman, Tiepolo thought. Before Kristofur could speak Precentor Atreus had already begun.
"If you mistake subtle as a brick with thorough, I'm sure the honored Precentor ROM will answer in the affirmative."
"Covert operations teams on Alphard monitored the Marian movements and tracked the RICHELIEU cache to a civilian warehouse while the Hegemony pretended it remained at their main military base. ROM operatives then attacked the guard detachment and destroyed the contents of the cache with a mix of incendiaries and high explosives. No witnessed were left behind, and our people suffered no losses. They successfully exfiltrated the planet three weeks later via the Alphard HPG compound," Kristofur considered Waters coldly. "To the Marians it will look like an act of foreign terrorism, implicating either Illyrian radicals or actors that can be traced into the vicinity of the Canopians, alternately the League. Potential bread crumbs were left to both ends. So yes," he raised another finger, "tied up as well."
"Can we be certain that the Marian cache has been neutralized?" Precentor Dieron's hologram leaned forward.
"Reasonably so," Kristofur nodded. "Volume and quantity of the destroyed equipment correspond to roughly eighty percent of what the Hegemony could have transported off planet, and the remainder is so diminished that no danger of genuine proliferation exists."
"A few hundred infantry kits and two or three dozen salvaged mechs do not change the balance of power significantly," Jonas Stechlin – Precentor Dieron – mused and leaned back, apparently satisfied.
"What ROM is leaving out is that the order's operation is seen as the biggest terrorist attack on the Hegemony in the past decade, and it's turned into a proper witch hunt. Precentor Alphard has cautioned that, if the Marians keep up their digging, some of the order's informants may be caught in the crossfire," Waters leaned back, grinning like a smug cat.
"I see no reason for your satisfied demeanor, Precentor Atreus." For the first time a hint of annoyance slipped into Kristofur's voice. "Alphard's reaction was more or less what I expected it to be, and ROM's confidence is high that nothing will come from this."
"You cannot be sure of this!" Waters shot back, but the head of ComStar's secret service held up one hand.
"Quite the contrary. I can be as sure of this as any man in my position can. ROM's reputation is well earned, and Alphard, zealous amateurs that they may be, sorely lacks the means to endanger the blessed order's operations therein, even superficially.
This I can, indeed, guarantee you," Kristofur nodded, not just towards the Precentor on Atreus but the Primus and the whole First Circuit.
Waters' frowned skeptically, but sensing she could not push the matter any further she relented. "Your words in Blake's ears, Precentor Kristofur," she scowled.
"This only leaves one further issue. What of the Palatinate?" Jonas Stechlin tilted his head inquisitively.
"Precentor Atreus initial statement about national collapse seems to bear out," Kristofur admitted. "Gamma reports – and the missives from Precentor Illyria support this – that central authority across the four systems of the Palatinate has collapsed in response to the Marian punitive expedition and the mass pirate raids in its wake. There's ongoing, unchallenged raiding by the Crimson Chalice, a conclave of pirate bands operating out of Hegemony territory," he explained, "in two systems, with Illyrian resistance regrouping on Reykavis, and the trading houses traditionally in control of that small nation seem to have consolidated enough manpower there to deter the Marian pirates from making any overt moves against them." He tapped a few buttons and the central holographic display showed an image of a cold planet flanked by a few portraits accompanied by biographic data. "These are some of the pirate leaders ROM has intel on, but the two on the upper right are of particular interest. Jackson Fletcher and Leo Mercer both command sizeable pirate bands. Mercer is a brute who can count on the loyalty of roughly a company of battlemechs. Between the two of them, Fletcher is the brain. Ex-mercenary, as ruthless as it gets. Murder, arson, kidnapping, he's done it all. And he's the big hitter among the Marian pirates. Putting it in military terms, he commands a combined arms battalion of mechs, tanks and infantry, and those criminals appear to know what they are doing."
"All of that us undoubtedly of interest to some," Precentor Tharkad spoke up, his tone making it clear he was not amongst those some, "but what does it have to do with the situation?"
"Everything." Kristofur met his eyes, then looked at Mercy Waters. Precentor Atreus withdrew deeper into her seat and crossed her arms, her hands vanishing in her robe's long sleeves. "Everything. By all accounts from Precentor Illyria, Fletcher and Mercer have taken over the planet and are taking steps to set that fact in stone. We may be witnessing the birth of a new pirate kingdom, this time right at the doorstep of a successor state. A development which we might be able to foster to ComStar's advantage."
For the first time in what felt like an eternity Julian Tiepolo spoke up again. The Primus weighed his words carefully.
"I understand Precentor Atreus' concerns about the situation. Pirates usually have enough common sense to stay clear of our order, but with the advent of a possible pirate kingdom in her proverbial backyard we have to keep an eye on the safety of our rimwards enclaves. That being said, I find myself in agreement with Precentor ROM: we may indeed be able to use the situation to our advantage." He straightened his back. "We have been looking with concern at Marik's growing economic and financial power. It's putting pressure on the C-bill, and by doing so,
all of our operations." Everybody around the table new that this was not just about running the known universe's fax service. "A new pirate kingdom so close to the Free Worlds League borders might be a catalyst for introducing a factor of instability. Raids, disrupting internal trade, abductions… ugly options, but potent ones to put pressure on their economy. If action and reaction are held in moderation on both ends, by our well-meaning hands…" he looked around the table, and found receptive faces.
Corvinus O'Reilly Estates,
Merovian Highlands, Alphard,
Marian Hegemony
Some time earlier, 3010
"You look like a schoolboy thinking up his next prank!" Neeva Lee-O`Reilly called up at Posca.
"That would be the most wrinkled schoolboy on planet,
domina!" he called back, his wrinkles this time just the effect of his broad smile.
The mistress of the large estates smiled back up at him as he dangled his legs, sitting on the edge of a large wooden crate. "You know you don't have to call me that, Posca."
"I know,
domina," the older man chuckled, his muttonchops swaying with the motion and the soft south-eastern wind as he slid down the large wooden crate he had perched on, landing on his feet in a roll belying his age. "Well, that's the last of them," he patted the rough wood.
"That was a lot of agricultural equipment." The corners of Neeva's mouth twitched.
"Your family's lands are vast, and you do have the storage space," Posca answered her evenly, his smile more knowing than mischievous this time. "And it is not for long. A few months, perhaps, and it will be distributed again."
The athletic woman sighed resignedly, watching the workers who she knew were everything but transport a shipment of crates of various sizes into a nearby barn, using carts, forklifts and even flatbeds. "My husband isn't home just yet, but I'd be happy to have dinner with you, Posca. You can tell me about what's going on in Nova Roma, and how my grandnephew is doing."
"How could I say no to such an invitation,
domina?" Marius O'Reilly personal tutor bowed his head respectfully. "Please, lead the way."
He patted the crate one last time. The rough paint read 'Fertilizer'.
It did not contain fertilizer.
