Battletech I, Caesar (Battletech)

09 - Winter Clouds
Well, unfortunately I caught CoViD at the cusp of December, and I still haven't been able to shake soe of its effects to this day. Hence this has taken me longer than I had hoped, and it went through a full rewrite to boot.


C h a p t e r 0 9: Winter Clouds


'The Pad', Landing
Landfall
Free Worlds League
Late 3010

Justin Crechard had to hold onto his ragged straw hat with both of his hands, squinting his eyes against the hot air and dust the fusion torches of dropships in their terminal descent phase cleared off the ferrocrete landing pad of Landfall's sole space port.

Far from the traffic of its heyday during the Star League, the vast grey field lay barren most the time, except for once every five or six weeks that a trader dropped into the system to pick up goods – and sell foreign crap at extortionate prices, but that was just Justin's personal opinion. Four dropships landing at once? That was almost unheard of.

He pushed his wiry frame out of the blast zone and back through the doors of the control tower. Like everything – him included, he conceded sourly – it had seen better days. Coughing and spitting out dust and sand unceremoniously into a nearby sink as the door shit behind him with a metallic creak. Patting off the dust it only now dawned on him that all the sweeping and window cleaning he'd done the past week was all for nothing. 'The Pad's janitor-slash-maintenance guy-slash jack of all trades closed his eyes and silently counted to three.

Spitting a wordless curse into the sink, along with the rest of the sand he adjusted his eyes to the cold neon light of the control tower before climbing up a set of steep metal stairs to the control room. There usually wasn't much to do here, so the crew was small, tight-knit, and everyone knew everybody else. But today the two controllers on duty sat tense in their seats, monitoring a whole slew of screens, listening intently into their headsets.

Rasca Untherman greeted him with a curt nod while she listened to a voice in her headset, a frown burned into her narrow face. Outside, a column of vehicles was approaching fast from the nearby town.

Quietly, Crechard mouthed 'What's going on?!'

"Three Unions and a Mule are coming down," the third person in the control room answered him instead in a whisper. Colin Matambe's hair was a sparse gray fringe despite not even being fifty years old. "It's the army!" he proclaimed with wide-eyed excitement that did little to pierce Justin's shell of well-maintained cynicism.

He did some quick math in his head and came to the conclusion that, no matter what, he was going to hate the resulting work.

"So, the Army, eh?" he leaned on his broom. "Someone's feather must've been ruffled mighty bad for them to come to Landfall," he stated casually.

"It's the business down yonder in the Palatinate. Boy, I haven't seen the boys in purple in decades!" Matambe beamed.

"Will you two cut it!" Rasca spat through clenched teeth, pointing at her headset and the voices coming through.

Holding his hands up pacifyingly while making a face, the maintenance man turned and made his way back down and outside. The roar of engines was more then deafening now, and the air almost scorching hot. Then, from one moment to another, both cut off. Crechard blinked, looking up at the four towering spheres sitting on 'The Pad', purple eagles and alphanumeric codes painted onto their hulls in larger than life patterns. They'd wait a few more minutes until the ground cooled off before disembarking.

Drawing his eyes off the remarkable display of, he stepped into the maze of abandoned sheet metal warehouses and empty offices with milky windows until he reached a public phone. Security cameras were off in this part of The Pad – had been for years – so he did not waste another look around before typing a long number into the numberpad. The dial tone repeated exactly three times before a gruff voice answered on the other end. The connection was audio only.

"Vinnie's Diner, what can we do for ya?"

Justin licked his suddenly dry lips. "Ah, hey there. I'd like to make a reservation for dinner. Uh, a big one. Family from out of town, a surprise visit, heh."

There was a slight pause before the voice spoke up again. "I got ya. How many seats do you want?"

"About three dozen. Big fellas, the lot of them," he answered more fluently this time.

"Got it, I'll let the cook know. Thanks for the reservation. With an order this big, there'll be a rebate next time. You can also redeem that one at the hot dog stand at the big duck pond in Central Park."

"Thanks, I know where that is."

"Pleasure doing business with ya." The gruff voice fell silent and there was a 'click' in the connection.

Crotchety Justin Crechard turned and looked back at the hulking steel spheres out there. A pleasure indeed.


Mount Caelius
Nova Roma, Alphard
Marian Hegemony
December 14th, 3010

"Confidence is high on reports of League battalions having landed on Landfall and Hazeldean. This is backed up by rumors that additional forces have been sighted moving to bolster Sierra, facing Bobby McIntyre's lot, as well as along a corridor from Huntington all the way down to Romita." Each star system briefly lit up and magnified on the wall-covering screen as Blackwood spoke. "Atreus has also allocated funds to stand up planetary militias for up to six months to bolster local readiness."

"How much League metal are we looking at?" Marius had dark rings under his eyes and uncombed hair. Hours of sleep and rest had been few are far between these past weeks filled with the anticipation of the Hegemony's biggest neighbor starting to move. One emergency meeting had led to another. Reports from the border and from events in the Palatinate worlds had to be digested daily, all the while trying to manage domestic efforts to prepare as best as they could, and maintaining a careful balance so that public sentiment was concerned, but not panicked. Never in the six decades of his previous life did he remember feeling this anxious. Anxiety led to anger and frustration, emotions for which he only found limited release for in his increasingly aggressive fights with his personal defense trainer – or his nightly encounters with Olivia. "Give me your best estimate," he held up a hand to ward off Blackwood's usual spiel about unreliable information.

Blackwood pursed his lips for a moment, shuffling through printed reports for effect before he spoke. Compared to Marius the man was immaculately groomed and seemed to be beaming with energy, as if he drew sustenance from the whole situation. "Realistically, we're looking at four to six battlemech battalions plus support elements spread across the part of the border that could be of concern to us. Discounting local militias."

Leaning on the large table in Mount Caelius' underground operations center, almost half a kilometer below the surface, Marius closed his eyes and audibly exhaled. "Anna, could we handle that?"

The Hegemony's highest ranking officer's precisely ironed uniform dotted with medals and countless service ribbons matched Blackwood's appearance in its pristine presentation. But that was where the similarities ended. Anna Volkova was rough-hewn granite where Blackwood was polished marble, though Marius suspected if one were to hammer off the surface one would soon find steel below. Volkova pressed a few buttons and a section of the main screen came alive with charts showing force compositions.
"If they did us the favor of attacking us piecemeal, in a terrain of our choice where we could concentrate our forces for maximum effect? Big fat maybe," she frowned. "They've got the means and expertise to move large forces easier than we do, so chances are they'd be smart enough not to seek out battles with relative parity. Besides, them having air or space superiority is almost a given. Depending on what their strategic objective would be, they could either strangle us by taking our worlds one by one, or simply cut off the head of the snake directly."

"We have five cohorts ourselves," the emperor reminded her.

"Almost five cohorts," she corrected him. "Trust me, your majesty, nobody knows that better than I do. But the numbers don't lie. One of our cohorts is already twenty percent smaller than its League counterpart. Additionally, a League battalion on average is comprised of heavier mechs than our forces, with a higher degree of standardization and cohesion. And even if we were to magically achieve numerical parity by scratching together every personal Patrician levy: half our forces are green. Most of theirs have already seen action." Volkova shook her head. "Oh, we could make them bleed, especially with the new combined arms doctrine, but they'd come out on top. And they've got the kind of reserves we only can dream of."

"Fine." Marius shook his head with a resigned sigh, a thought appearing in his mind. "So, we're outgunned and outclassed. And to top it off, all that even our experienced formations have ever done is do mid-sized clashes against other Periphery powers like the Canopians. I guess those don't really compare against a fully-fledged successor state military?" That had been a lesson the Magistracy had learned the hard way when it had allied with Andurien and jumped the weakened Capellans. In another life.

"The new curriculum at the Imperial War College will account for that, sir," Volkova promised.

"If we make it that far, sure." Blackwood said it with a smile, but there was no mirth in his words.

"We better should!" Marius growled impatiently. Blackwood was hard to read, and his little quirks made for dubiously enjoyable company even in the best of times. "Least of all because you'll be out of a job otherwise and sitting on a silver platter, ready for your old enemies to come and pluck you up!" The black-haired, well-styled man's jaw tightened, but to his credit he simply nodded.

As if to hammer home the point, one of the many smaller screens in the operations center showing news programs flipped to a rerun of Marius' visit to the War College's construction site about a week ago. The Emperor carefully rode a horse on a trodden hillside path, a purple cape billowing in the wind, dragging on his shoulders, demanding his conscious efforts to sit calm and regal in the steed's saddle. In the recording he wore the equivalent of a parade uniform, layers of cloth and kevlar, golden stitchings, mixed with a classic toga, all topped by a brass laurel wreath pressing on his hair. It had been truly representative showing of the throne's hands-on approach to matters of state. A whole army of make-up artists and what felt like a gallon of coffee had seen to that. The camera swept across the scene. Down below, extending over more than a hundred square kilometers, the skeletons of what soon would emerge as administrative buildings, lecture halls, dorms, armories and towering halls in which different biomes would be simulated rose skywards. Areas for physical education and training mingled with the framing of halls where tactics and strategy would be taught and trained on holographic battlefields once the academy opened its gates. It would still be years until graduates left the college. If they made it so far.
"The army we're building, Anna? I want them to be able to operate in any condition. At least some of them. A true strategic force, not some fair-weather raiders. That means low and zero G, vacuum or toxic atmospheres."
He rubbed his eyes.
"Anyway, discussion for another time," he whispered more to himself than his audience before he straightened. "What else do your eyes report, Mr. Blackwood?"

The Marian spymaster changed the main screen to a tumultuous scene showing the interior of a large parliament, dominated by the crest of the Free Worlds League. "Events on the border have had a mixed reception on Atreus. Word has it parliament basically had to bludgeon Janos Marik into action. His brother came out swinging, indirectly accusing the Captain General of dereliction of duty. The news faxes report he's stated that 'the authority bequeathed onto the Captain General by Resolution 288 carries with it the responsibility to shepherd the protection of all citizens of the league, not just those that the Captain General may deem as relevant for his personal political support'. There've long been rumors of a falling out between the two brothers, but this has been the first time the younger Marik opposed Janos so vehemently and publicly. Now, with the words in the open, there's certainly bad blood between the brothers. And since many think it's been the Duke of Procyon's push that finally got the Captain General to act, his support in the provinces has grown rather than that of his brother. The silver lining for us in this is that the words Marian Hegemony don't appear in the resolution, and that by and large the League once again appears to be more occupied with itself than with us, or the Palatinate."

"Let's pray it remains that way. What little they have done so far has posed nigh insurmountable obstacles to us, should the going get tough," Volkova sounded resigned.

"League troops may be staying on their side of the border. League money certainly is not," Blackwood explained with a hint of worry. "Part of the resolution was the allocation of funds for foreign aid, which is a very tame way to say that Atreus is pretty much openly bankrolling the Illyrian resistance." He flipped to another menu and the dossier of a middle-aged blond man with a long beard and a long red scar across the breadth of his face appeared. "Herod Gundermann, a member of the former ruling council and now the de facto leader of the Palatinate rump. He's been gathering loyalist forces on Reykavis, and also several mercenary companies have entered his employ, both with mechs and with armor. No known big names, mostly smaller formations: Markham's Marauders, the Flashlords, Loki's Lance," he named a few, but none of them directly rang a bell with Marius, despite the feeling of fleeting familiarity. "Needless to say, the Illyrians don't have the funds left to pay for all those mercs. So, where's the money coming from? Atreus."

"It stands to see what that money really buys 'em," Volkova shrugged.

"Well, apparently, it buys them success." The main screen switched to battle rom recordings, showing a clash in a wide valley. "Black market salvage got us this here. Supposedly a battle on Trondheimal between the Void Wyverns and a mixed Illyrian-mercenary force that dropped in via the planet's pirate point. It's only rumor so far, but word has it the Wyverns got mauled, badly. Bad enough to withdraw from the planet. And the Patties have continued to probe both Trondheimal and Trasjkis, though the latter seems to be held by pirates made from sterner stuff. Or with better brains."

"I suppose that's the cue to ask about our most ambitious acquaintance in the field of spontaneous illegal passing of property. What's Fletcher doing?" Marius turned his attention to the big screen and found himself surprised at Blackwood's hesitation. "Well?"

"Ambitions meets ability, if I had to give you a quick summary." Blackwood sounded surprised at his own words. "Fletcher's Silver Moon Syndicate has tightened its grip on the majority of Illyria, and for now he's content to keep Blaze Mercer's men for when he needs a scapegoat for the really dirty stuff. I doubt Mercer understands that Fletcher is using him as an easy means to pin the blame for any atrocity on him. The man is sly as a snake. 'Statesmanlike' is another adjective that seems to fit."

"Not exactly the words one would usually associate with a pirate," Volkova commented.

"True, but the shoe seems to fit. Word from the planet – Illyria, that is – has it that he's been hiring mercenaries of his own, but there's been no confirmation via MRB so far. Fact is, however, that large numbers of both armor and infantry have appeared on the planet, mixed in with a few battlemechs here and there, as well as three lance-sized units," Blackwood explained.

Volkova and Marius exchanged a few glances before the older officer spoke up. "I may actually be able to shed some light here. Your perspective is still that of a man from the Inner Sphere, Mr. Blackwood. The mechs are most likely singular guns for hire, or pairs of ronin. Those are far more common out here than established mercenary commands, even if the command in question is just a lance. As for the others… The worlds of the Periphery – the real, deep Periphery – offer a vast supply of men and women with little to lose, but much to gain. Many mercenary commands hail from worlds deep in the void: infantry battalions, sappers, armor companies fielding what is effectively Age of War kit, sometimes just a group of friends with guns and acquired skills. These are cheap, and there are plenty of them, and they don't appear in any MRB database because MRB has never ever heard of 'em in the first place."

"Fletcher most likely uses the bulk of those mercs to pacify Illyria proper, and the mechs he can use to bolster his own core forces?"

It was a statement phrased as a question, but General Volkova simply nodded. "That'd be my guess, too, your majesty. A company of armor using primitive heavy tanks is still a formidable show of force, and will threaten any light or medium mech stupid enough to waltz into its middle. And boots on the ground mean Fletcher can control the Illyrians."

"Turns out he's doing more than just that," Blackwood pointed back at the screen, now showing a multitude of sales documents, security cam footage and cargo manifests. "A number of larger Hegemony corporations have just recently started their switch from slaves to trained pleb labor forces, gradually dumping thousands back onto the markets, here and on Suetonius. Seems your reforms are bearing fruit," he smiled sardonically. "Well, as it turns out, the Silver Moon Syndicate and its associates have been buying up those slaves in bulk and shipping them to Illyria."

"What the hell does Fletcher want with that many slaves?!" Volkova frowned as she straightened her shoulders, some of her larger medals audible clanking against her uniform buttons.

"He's rebuilding the planet. Restoring infrastructure, expanding mines, setting up new ones," Marius quietly answered as he watched the footage of rows of people being herded off the ramps of dropships like cattle. "Isn't that right, Blackwood?"

"Indeed, it is," the spymaster hid the flicker of surprise well. "How did you know."

Marius smiled wearily. "Because it's what I would do." He looked at a picture of Fletcher. The man who would be king. A momentary uncomfortable silence descended over the room as none of the three felt inclined to expand on the line of thought of Jason Fletcher as an established ruler of his own fiefdom. Then, surprising himself probably as much as the others, Marius flashed a grin. "Well, who's going to be the one to slap their thighs and carry on? Anna? What about recruitment and production?"

"Bear in mind this is more of the Magister Militum's purview, your majesty, but since your uncle is indisposed I'll be relying on the data he provided," General Volkova prefaced her statement, shuffling through some papers on the table before finally booting up her noteputer instead. She cleared her throat. "Right now, we're in the middle of raising Cohort V, Legio II. We're looking at a two-edged sword, your Majesty. At the moment, there are waiting lines in front of every enlistment office on every Hegemony world. Even on the new ones. In fact, we're getting for more people willing to enlist than we could reasonably take. The media coverage of the ongoing crisis has been extremely effective, especially so as this is the first time in Hegemony history that the possibility of an actual, direct foreign threat to the nation has manifested."

"We may have to tone it down a bit. We're walking a fine line between raising concern and inducing panic. And we don't want the latter," Marius mused.

"The last we need is a public panic when we're trying to maintain the impression of being in control of the situation," Blackwood agreed. "With your permission I will approach the relevant media conglomerates to offer 'guidance' on the issue?"

"Granted," Marius nodded. "Proceed, Anna."

"We're looking at a number of currently insurmountable bottlenecks. Even if we take only every tenth recruit lining up in the streets we're still critically short on instructors and training facilities. The latter can be somewhat helped by prefabs and old-fashioned tents, especially on the less densely populated worlds were space isn't an issue. But as far as instructors go, there simply aren't any. I'm currently rotating NCOs out of the two legions to fill some gaps, but half of those legionaries are green themselves. And the move leaves gaps in the existing command structure."

"What about mercenaries?"

"Using access to the army's discretionary funds I was able to secure the services or a few mercenary lances to temporarily bolster our defenses. With the League financing the Patties, and beefing up their own borders the local market is pretty empty. Most larger formations are already employed at the moment, and those that aren't are too far away. There's also the issue that our overall reputation does not endear us to some of the better-rated commands. With that said, only a few of the ones we hired are suitable as trainers for recruits, especially given our new paradigm. They can teach some basic mech handling, but that's about it."

"What about your secret deep periphery mercenary hordes?" Blackwood asked only half in jest.

Volkova snorted and the veins on her neck stood out. "Sure, I'll hire some three-toothed yokel who barely speaks understandable English or Latin due to language drift to train a centuriae of new Marian shock infantry. Or have three inbred guys and a mangy dog from six hundred light years away with their tank that's four centuries out of date teach new recruits the fine details of cohort-sized armor operations."

"Doesn't that stand in contrast to what you said earlier about Fletcher hiring them?" Blackwood inquired.

"What's good for the goose isn't necessarily good for the gander here. It's one thing to suppress unruly locals or fight off a few raiders. It's something entirely different to have the same people attend to the training and creation of a regular army," Volkova shook her short-shaved head. "We'd have to train and equip them first to our standards to use them as force multipliers. Which, incidentally, leads us to the next bottleneck. Production and procurement aren't keeping pace with the speed by which we're trying to set up new cohorts. Infantry equipment and support vehicles, that's something we can handle domestically, even though suppliers are strained to expand their base of operations to keep pace with our demand. It's everything else that's a problem: energy weapons, main battle tanks, ASF, let alone mechs. We're reliant on salvage, the secondary market, and outright theft for those."

Marius nodded and sighed. "And, of course, our domestic efforts to remedy this are still in their infancy. Great," he winced. "Do what you can. In the meantime, concentrate on those formations that we can actually get battleworthy. We need boots on the ground, in case bad comes to worse."

"Losses from the punitive expedition have been restored, so we are no worse off than before, and at the current rate we're adding about a centuriae of armor and a cohort of infantry to the active forces per month. Mechs are about a maniple per month that we're standing up, but only because we draw some from the existing units and replace those with salvage from RICHELIEU."

"We need to keep that strictly limited, Anna. A lot of those pieces won't do us any good if we lose them in the field, but they're worth their weight in C-bills if we let our schools and corporations study them eventually. It's also not worth inviting undue foreign attention," Marius cautioned.

"I understand, your majesty, but we're talking about one or two mechs per month at most, and those are basically Frankenstein-mechs as long as the boys and girls at Alphard Trading don't get that salvaged automated repair suite running again," Volkova explained. "We've also started to equip select squads with the pulse laser Mausers. Feedback has been… subdued, except for the obvious moral and PR boost."

"Having held one of these, that doesn't surprise me, to be honest," Marius sighed. "For all its bells and whistles it's a bloated piece of hardware, more of a squad support weapon than a battle rifle. Still, beggars can't be choosers, as the saying goes."

"We've got more than ten thousand of those things stashed away. Maybe there's a way to cut some of the fat off some of them?" Blackwood spoke up. "Get rid of the survival kit, redesign the stock, things like that?" Noticing their surprise, he chuckled. "Firearms aren't my specialty, but I do deal in information. I did my due diligence."

"He's got a point," Volkova agreed. "And with so many in pristine condition, maybe someone figures out the pulse mechanism in the process."

"Fine. Put it on my uncle's roster," he stifled a yawn. "No, scratch that, I'll tell him myself. He wants to meet me later today. Something else?"

"You'll be pleased to hear that the mechanized Infantry Legio I is almost seventy percent ready. Although…," she paused.

"Although what?" Marius raised an eyebrow.

"There have been persistent, ah, 'hickups' regarding supplies. Deliveries have been mixed up between the infantry formation and the actual, combined arms Legio I," Volkova looked like a child anxious to tell its father it had destroyed some heirloom vase.

Marius' face stiffened and his voice fell to an almost whisper.
"Anna, I've had about three hours of sleep each night for the past three weeks, and I've got zero patience left for utter dogshit like this. Drop the Roman pretense, rename the formation to 1st Infantry Division, discipline the ones responsible for messing it up. Severely." He took a deep breath. "Anything else?"

Glady, there was not.


Camp Sulla
Forty Miles North of Nova Roma, Alphard
Marian Hegemony
Afternoon of the same day

He had barely even closed his eyes when Hegemony-1 sat down on the landing pad, but Posca, always hanging in the back like an observant shadow, had commanded him to try and take a nap. He also had had to promise him to go to bed early and actually sleep the whole night. Like a six years old boy. Sometimes he wondered who actually was the most powerful man in the Hegemony. Right now, he wasn't sure if it wasn't actually.

Members of his praetorian guard ushered him into a large, well-lit warehouse where Corvinus O'Reilly, the acting secretary of defense for the Marian Hegemony, awaited him together with a corporate delegation that introduced themselves as members of a joint venture of Brubaker-Botamu Automotive and Maccallan Steelworks. The former he knew as producers of construction equipment and busses, the latter he had to admit he had never consciously heard of. Polite greetings were exchanged as his giddy uncle introduced the industrialists, and in a calm moment he managed to slip the Mauser issue into Corvinus' purview. Much to Marius' surprise – and gratefulness – the rotund O'Reilly accepted the additional task in stride.

Loudspeakers at the ceiling cackled, and with blaring pompous music Marius' fatigue gave way to sudden surprise and interest when the anxious delegation pulled the tarp off a large construct in the center of the warehouse, revealing the rough-hewn metal chassis of what was presented to Marius as the working prototype of the first domestic ICE-powered 40-ton tracked tank.
"We're calling it the Tonitru, or 'Thunder'," the leader of the delegation explained with a beaming smile.

To say it looked rough would have been a monumental understatement. The armor was all hard angles and visible weld marks, and the basic track layout reminded him more of a caterpillar than a tank. Less of a thunder and more of a burp vanishing in a gust of wind.

Sensing his mounting disappointment his uncle drew him away, sending reassuring smiles at the gathered industrialists.

"It doesn't look like much, but having a tank is always better than having no tank. And, praise where praise is due, making the initial investment is something that takes courage. Building military gear that can survive in the Succession Wars is no small feat. Besides, that's just the thing they cobbled together to actually have something to show up with," he patted the cold metal covering the top of the tracks. "But I've been assured it works. Well, it can drive and shoot, that is. They are even confident enough to have a design team look into a version that could be powered by a fusion engine – should we ever get a steady supply of those. That would be faster, better armed, and carry more armor."

In roughly twenty years or so, Marius thought glumly, baring a sudden outburst of high-tech manufacturing across the Hegemony. But there was the memory core…

Corvinus O'Reilly waddled over to the tank and heaved himself up to dig his hands into the exposed engine on the machine's back.

Marius could see how closely the older, stout man inspected everything in front of his eyes while the delegation's attention switched between the Emperor and the Magister Militum and back again. After a few minutes that felt far longer, the older O'Reilly untangled himself from the exposed engine block, wiped his hands down on his camo pants and unceremoniously walked back to the Emperor.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please give us a minute," he called out to the company men and gave Marius a wink with his head. The two men walked a few paces off and stuck their head together.

"So?"

"Let me tell you something, boy: I've seen a lot of unimpressive gear in my active year, but this here? That's most unimpressivist heap of metal and wires these tired old eyes have ever come across," he huffed.

"Is that even a word?" Marius frowned.

"It is now," he stated with the iron-clad certainty only someone who slipped into clothes far too tight everyday and proudly wore a double chin could muster.

"So, it's that bad?" Marius couldn't stop the disappointment from flowing full-speed into his voice. He couldn't realistically have expected something spectacular, no. But at least something that wasn't an embarrassment would have been... nice. He caught the project lead expectantly staring at the two of them and forced a weak smile.

"Bad? Ehhhh... a harsh word that. See, if the universe could give the concept of 'below average' a shape? That'd be it," he nodded at the steel beast. "The speed is utterly ordinary for something in that weight class. Probably a bit on the slow side even. On paper it's supposed to have a top speed of just below 65 kph. The firepower? Well, the radio operator can also handle the frontside machine gun to take potshots at infantry, and the large laser's a, well, utterly uninspired slightly-better-than-midrange workhorse. Shouldn't go toe-to-toe with anything the same size on its own if it wants to come out of it alive, though. The armor's real tough for a thing of that size, though. Something you'd find on machines ten to fifteen tons heavier, usually." He sighed, then shrugged. "The boys are gonna love it."

"So, it's a doozy and – wait, what?" Marius raised an eyebrow and stared over his shoulder, back at the machine with open skepticism. "That thing looked like someone stacked some bricks and gave them a vague metal-ish paint job as an afterthought."

"You're thinking in terms of firepower per ton, of pure speed, of martial prowess. You're thinking like a mech jockey... your majesty. What you need to do is think like a general, a leader." All joviality had left his voice. "That rumbling diesel engine? Every mechanic in every garage on each and every one of our worlds can fix it, jury rig it, get it running again. That's how basic and simple is it. The armor? Every machine shop in the most remote parts of the Hegemony has the cranes and blow torches to fix or replace it. And it carries seven tons of it. The electronics? Half the equipment is commercial, off the shelf stuff. And the pieces they purpose-built is also made up of parts that are off the shelf. And that large laser? Its mount and capacitors are built so that the one Lockley-Odinson is working on here on Alphard will be able to replace it." He gave the emperor a long, hard look. "By then, every nut and bolt of that tank will have been domestically built. And every militia unit raised, ever, they'll be wanting to sell their reproductive organs to get a hand on that ugly piece of iron. Seven tons of armor your mates can hide behind, and a big ray gun to shoot back at the enemy? Times ten, times fifteen?" He shook his head. "That's a hell of a lot of leverage your average weekend warrior suddenly gets."

"A Magistracy 'mech company won't bat an eye at an ordinary motorized militia formation, but it's a whole other song if they are backed up by a maniple of tanks or two. And we can replace them far easier than they can replace or repair their mechs." Understanding dawned on Marius' face.

"Precisely," Corvinus nodded emphatically. "That ugly thing over there? It doesn't have to be great. All it needs to be is just good enough. And they can probably keep that thing in operation with wires, duct tape and a prayer for months on end. In a sense, it's actually perfection." He flashed a smile. "Cherry on top, it's dirt cheap. Also, as long as we can't buy enough better vehicles for the legions, this is a viable stop-gap solution. Remember: a tank…"

"…is better than no tank," Marius finished. Looking back over his uncle's shoulder at the prototype and the men waiting for them, a resigned but somewhat reassured smile slipped onto Marius' face. "So, we're going to buy it then?"

Brubaker's eyes met his and he nodded, pursing his lips. "A lot, my boy. Like, a lot."


Following its introduction in early 3012 C.E. the Brubaker-Botuma Tonitru medium tank lived in the shadow of mote established, more versatile and more capable designs for the first years of its existence, largely unnoticed by the successor states and the main periphery powers. But that did no harm to its popularity in the Hegemony's backyard. First used by the Marian legions and soon it's planetary militias, Brubaker-Botuma quickly received export licenses when tentative relations with the government on Stettin were established. In the following two decades the design proliferated throughout the near periphery as a result of Marian diplomatic relations and security treaties with planetary governments rimwards and anti-spinwards of the Inner Sphere. But it was the warming of relations with the Magistracy and, eventually, the war that escalated from the Andurien-Canopian thrust into the Capellan Confederation that catapulted the design into the limelight as one of the pillars used to hold onto confederate worlds during the course of the war. Outperformed in almost all aspects like armament, speed and versatility, it became the prime target for field refits and impromptu upgrades. Despite its performance deficits, the 'Thunder' was well-received by tankers and infantry as its heavy armor let it excel where it really mattered: survival. Even in the 32nd Century the Tonitru in its original configuration can still be found across the periphery, despite the fact that Brubaker-Botuma has long since concentrated on upgraded designs […].
Origins of an Arsenal: Hegemony Weapons in the 31st Century.
Imperial War College Press, 3105 C.E.
 
Simple to maintain, simple to operate, cheap and survivable. Just the kind of machine Marians need.

My guess is that Captain General is posturing, invasion of Marian Hegemony would be too expensive for perceived benefit it would gain. There are more important borders to watch for.
 
MG, LL and 7 tons of armor. That sounds pretty good.

Marian lived as long as it did in the otl by being a meme and too much trouble to be worth the kicking. Good to see them work to further that.
 
I had to revise the armor down to 6.5 tons rather than 7 due to the half-ton of ammo for the coaxial machine gun.

Tonitru TO-1u

Designed in 3010 and first having entered service in 3013, the Tonitru TO-1u "Thunder" medium tank is a simple, easy to maintain domestically produced combat vehicle mainly used by the Marian Hegemony, but also sold in significant quantities throughout the neighboring states and even the Deep Periphery.

Mass: 40 tons
Movement Type: Tracked
Power Plant: 160 ICE
Cruising Speed: 43.2 kph
Maximum Speed: 64.8 kph
Armor: Standard, 6.5 tons
Armament:
1 Machine Gun
1 Large Laser
Manufacturer: Brubaker-Botuma Automotive
Primary Factory: Pompey
Communication System: Del Rey Electronics F-250
Targeting & Tracking System: Agrippa Applied Tech. Ltd. Type LL-6/400
Introduction Year: 3013
Tech Rating/Availability: E/X-D-C-C
Cost: 641,433 C-bills

Type: Tonitru
Technology Base: Inner Sphere (Introductory)
Movement Type: Tracked
Tonnage: 40
Battle Value: 480

Equipment Mass
Internal Structure 4
Engine 160 ICE 12
Cruising MP: 4
Flank MP: 6
Heat Sinks: 8 8

Internal Armor
Structure Value
Front 4 28
R/L Side 4/4 20/20
Rear 4 16
Turret 4 20


Weapons
and Ammo Location Tonnage
Large Laser Turret 5.0
Machine Gun Turret 0.5
Half Machine Gun Ammo (100) Body 0.5

0_0.png

Mid-production model Tonitru TO-1u with infantry riding on it, ca. 3031 C.E.
Image generated using MidJourney.
 
Simple to maintain, simple to operate, cheap and survivable. Just the kind of machine Marians need.

My guess is that Captain General is posturing, invasion of Marian Hegemony would be too expensive for perceived benefit it would gain. There are more important borders to watch for.
Even OTL, Janos Marik probably would have loved to get rid of the Marians as a thorn in the League's side. But then as now he runs the risk of getting jumped by the Lyrans and Capellans, as any significant movement of troops from their borders would be noted and be taken advantage of. Politically and strategically, the safety of the Periphery-facing systems simply isn't worth losing the Bolan thumb for, for example. Anton Marik knows this as well, but he's convinced that by forcing his estranged brother to act he's given him a no-win scenario. Which is a bit far-fetched, but not completely wrong (but such is the fate of most rulers, always having to weigh the least bad options), given that the kind of funds he's spent just now already probably outweigh the combined pre-collapse Palatinate-League trade.
MG, LL and 7 tons of armor. That sounds pretty good.

Marian lived as long as it did in the otl by being a meme and too much trouble to be worth the kicking. Good to see them work to further that.
It's one of the cornerstones of BTech that sometimes even the most reasonable and baseline decisions aren't being taken. Some of it you can explain away with the technical and political constraints of the setting; space feudalism always keeps the central ruler wary of handing too much power to local nobles, for example. The Marians always have/had to weigh their actions, trying to be "not enough trouble to be of concern, but too much trouble to take care of".
So Tonitru is better at troop survival/preservation than anything els?
The big advantages are: easy to maintain/produce, and hard to kill. The latter concerns both the vehicle and the crew. The Hegemony is a tiny power in comparison to most, and only has the most barebones arms industry, so keeping trained personnel alive and having a high chance of salvage/repair are definately immense advantages to consider.
 
Here's the second part of the prologue.

I'll play around with this for the next chapters as well until my computing credits run out. For now, the focus is on finishing the next chapter. Had to rewrite the first part of it twice, and had to cut part three as a whole (I maybe might add that later as a self-contained mini story about a slave girl/woman joining the legions to gain her freedom as per the new laws and then try to buy the freedom of her family).

 
10 - Winter Heat
Bet you thought this was dead, right?

Well, you're wrong!


C h a p t e r 1 0: Winter Heat


I was the deputy senior engineer on one of the team the Company* had working in what you youngsters now call the Meggido Mechworks Complex. There were a lot of us, back then, doing the real foundational work that you rely on nowadays. The biggest team was busy deciphering the repair suite the Army had brought back from Illyria. With that thing, the easiest way to imagine it was a fully-automated mini mech assembly and disassembly line. So, if they could figure out how it did the things it did, the reasonable expectation was to replicate the basic setup on a greater scale in form of an assembly line. If you allow me to draw a comparison from ancient Terran history, what we did there was the Hegemony's equivalent of the Manhattan Project. I had the privilege to work under and with some of the best minds Marian society had produced. One team was using a supercomputer to aid them in rebuilding the programming language the SLDF had used. Another big one was busy not just figuring out the function of all the mechanical components, but what they'd actually been made off. There were twelve teams in total, at least two hundred people, and the Company made sure everybody shared data regularly, did brainstorming sessions. […] True, the new guys coming in around the start of 3015 sped the process up, even though they were understandably not that enthusiastic about making their, erm, contributions. But that year we got the first exoskeletons running. You know how that spiraled into a whole other thing, but I digress. Anyways, we scaled up from there: four meters, six, seven-and-a-half, eight meters, until we got the myomer layouts and tensile strengths right. The rest, as they say, is history. Bumpy, veeery bumpy history. – Dr. Tankred Levy in the documentary Iron Fist and Steel Gladius, 3091 C.E.


Mount Caelius
Nova Roma, Alphard
Marian Hegemony
December 31st, 3010

Sleep came fast to Marius, but it was a restless one. One moment he was in his bed, the next one the air smelled of ozone and snow.

The wind howled, whipping at his face. A torrent of cold air kept him dangling uncontrollably on a frayed rope at a gargantuan cliff. The light had a purple hue, and the wind smelled of ozone. It felt familiar, but not in a good way. The cliff should have been grey and white, but its dark, imposing presence stretched endlessly into an ethereal abyss. He could feel a pressure on his lungs. The air was thin, each breath an effort, reminiscent of the altitude that had once threatened to claim his life. The wind, a biting gale, whispered through unseen chasms, carrying with it the chilling echoes of past betrayals. Of chaos. Of future betrayals.

Down below, a great beast roared, and the sound of large wings flapping carried up to him.
His hands trembled as he clutched the frigid metal of his climbing gear, trying to steady himself in the harness. Was this a dream? Was he awake? The equipment that had once been a lifeline now felt like a trap, as the rope turned and twisted. Deep down inside, he knew he would fall. Had fallen. Would fall again. The fear that had gripped him during that fateful fall manifested itself in the tightness of his chest.

A shadowy figure appeared right next to him, suspended midair. A face peeled itself from the blackness. It was Janos Marik. It was the Primus. It was his father. It was his bodyguard. It was his son. What do you want!? Marius wanted to cry, but suddenly his mouth was dry, and only a wordless croak left his lips. Yet, the shadow understood him all too well. The many-faced man smiled, smiled until his face seemed to split on the edges. Laughter erupted from many unseen mouths, all around him. The eyes above the unnatural smile bore deep into Marius' mind.

A tense exchange passed between them, a silent negotiation of power and fear. Then, in a swift and deliberate motion, the bodyguard severed the rope. Marius felt the world shift beneath him, the ground giving way to nothingness.
He fell. In the farthest corners of his mind, he knew it was a dream. And yet, the sensation of weightlessness overwhelmed him like a tidal wave. Winds howled around him, swallowing the scream that tore from his throat, and the blackness below him gave way to a jagged field rushing ever closer…

Marius woke with a start, his heart pounding in his chest. Sweat coated his brow, and he reached for the lamp beside his bed, dispelling the shadows that clung to the corners of his consciousness. Outside, the first fingers of light climbed over the horizon, turning the black of night into shades of dark blue.

It was the last day of his second year as Emperor.


Senate of the Marian Hegemony
Nova Roma, Alphard
Marian Hegemony
December 31st, 3010

Night had fallen, and the halls of the Senate glittered and gleamed in all facets of gold, jewelry, and pomp. Outside, light shows played off the sides of the capital's skyscrapers, and swarms of small drones painted illuminated displays into the night sky. Everybody of wealth and fame had gathered, and those with the most of both found themselves keeping each other company under the vast shining dome of the Marian Senate. Some wore senatorial togas, but those were few and far between as the guests of the New Year's Eve festivities had broken out their finest and most extravagant apparel. Strong colors dominated with the men, while heavy jewelry and low-cut dresses with hair styled high were the current fashion for the female attendees.

Between the mingling crowds scores of faceless slaves in plain grey livery raced back and forth to cater to the guests' every whim.

Bogged down by an endless chain of encounters demanding his attention by exchanging polite greetings and small talk conducted with fake enthusiasm, Emperor Marius wound his way through the crowd. Personally, he did not care much for the overt pomp, but – as a remnant of a prior life and on Posca's insistence – the dignity of his office demanded that appearances had to be kept. Wearing deep purple trousers and a knee-long tunic of the same color, heavily embroidered with golden threads that formed the Marian crest on the right side of his chest, and carrying golden laurels in his dirty blonde hair, the young emperor matched the other guests' splendor.

Much like a nagging mother, his tutor and advisor ensured that was the case. With his own parents dead and gone, Posca's care was a continuing source of ambivalence. Grief, that mother and father were deceased. Secret joy, and appreciation for the old man's genuine regard. And regret that he had not kept the cheeky man around the first time he had walked this earth. Well, one lived to learn from one's mistakes. Twice, in his case.

Glimpsing his sister, he made a beeline for her, ignoring the friendly gestures of a few more guests and senators. She was in the company of a man roughly his own age, smiling and nodding politely when he called out to her.
"Syv!"
Striding over to her, her face turned into a wide smile, and she met him halfway, completely ignoring the man who'd been talking to her. Red faced he took the hint and merged back with the crowd.

Without a care in the world for decorum and etiquette, the two siblings embraced, Marius, lifting her off the floor a bit. It felt right and solidified his conviction to keep his close family in his life once again.
"Aaaaw, big bro, you've saved me," she chuckled, whispering in his ears.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk, Syv. He didn't look that bad to me," he playfully reprimanded her. "Besides, if someone got saved it sure was me."

"He was boring," she corrected Marius. "A thousand things is happening at this party right now, in this moment, and he was boring."

"And that's about the biggest affront possible," Marius concluded.

"Today, it is. You got that right, big bro." She paused. "You look terrible," Sylvana whispered as she held the embrace for a moment longer.

If he looked terrible she looked stunning, her long hair held by a silver diadem with a purple jewel framed at the center while she wore an asymmetrical, shoulder-free gown of dark green and silver scales.
"And you sound like Posca," he responded sourly.

"Good!" she let go of him and squarely looked him in the eyes, pouting. "At least the old man is looking out for you."

Despite himself, Marius' face turned into a boyish grin, and he felt a bit of the tension slip away. He sighed quietly. "Not enough sleep, and bad dreams when I do sleep, Syv." He flashed a smile. "It's a privilege seeing you again soon after Christmas. How's Meggido going?"

"Really, talking business on a day like this?" his sister rolled her eyes, though her voice betrayed her.

"Humor me, Syv!" he held up his hands. "I've had to make small talk with about two hundred people so far, and my brain feels like dying. I need something of substance to keep going, or I might as well throw myself off the balcony," he pleaded.

"You really should try to enjoy yourself, big bro." She threw her auburn mane back over her bare shoulders. "Have a drink, be merry!"

He held a golden chalice under her nose, swirling the liquid. She sniffed, then frowned.
"Prune juice? On New Year's Eve? Really?"

He barked a single laugh. "Watered down grape juice, actually. If I took to drinking to get through the evening you could probably use my liver to power a fusion generator for a dozen years by now."

She looked back at him with eyes far too mature for her age, caressing his cheeks with her hand. "You're always too responsible, Marius. Try to enjoy life every once in a while."

Uncomfortable, he averted her eyes. Even Posca, despite his silent-yet-obvious condemnation of Marius' affair with the Lady Octavia, kept telling him to enjoy what little free time he had. "That's the burden of the throne – and of being your big brother!" he grimaced.

"You can't really claim I've been anything but exemplary in my conduct, as a sister and as a scion of House O'Reilly," she pouted. "Enjoy your fruit juice then. I hope it doesn't play with your intestines. Meggido's making good progress, by the way, despite the hellish daytime temperatures. Crews are working mostly from dusk till dawn to avoid the worst of it, condensing a dirt road into a two-lane gravel runway. Project managers on site report up to five kilometers per day unless greater differences in elevation need adjustment, like bridges."

"Damn, that's fast," he whistled appreciatingly through his teeth. The ochre plains, chasms, and buttes of Meggido were not quite terra incognita, but with temperatures of up to sixty degrees Celsius on summer days they were hard to traverse. "How long till they make it?"

"About two to three weeks until they reach the Pillars, I'd say. Then they'll start blasting, and the Company will begin to set up a rail line along the cleared route. That'll take a year, at least, I guess. Too many variables to give you a better estimate, big bro."

The Pillars of Kadesh. A massive formation of intermingled buttes and towering cliffs right at the desert's center. There, under two hundred meters and billions of tons of solid granite, the Company would start to blast and dig into the rock under the guise of a mining operation to set up a top-secret test and research facility, trying to re-install and understand lostech and data gained from the Illyrian cache. The ultimate goal: domestic production of battlemechs.

That getting there would be arduous was an understatement. Just carving out enough rock to set up the base facility would take at least a year, and while ATC wasn't letting any time go to waste, having set up myomer growth test series in a number of labs already, even the most optimistic projections put the idea of a Marian battlemech years into the future – if all went according to plan, which things never did. But Marius had good reason to assume that by having such a plan, the Hegemony actually was doing better than most already.
"Thanks. I reckon the devil's in the detail, little sis."

Sylvana O'Reilly pursed her lips and nodded, then leaned to the side, looking past him. "Speaking of the devil…"

Marcos Kimura sauntered through the crowd, his wife at his side, a wide jovial smile plastered across his face. A younger woman around Sylvana's age followed them with a bored expression.

Marius gave his sister a quick hug. "Enjoy the evening, and wish me luck." Duty called. And he had always been fond of not postponing arduous tasks.

Leaving Sylvana behind he went over to greet the leader of the Senate's traditionalist block.
Marian politics didn't know established political parties, and rather than being a true legislative body, the Senate sat at a strange crossroads where sometimes its members would pick up executive duties while at the same time acting as an advisory board to the throne and a sort of transmission belt for its constituents' desires. Its voting and interest blocks were fluid, but by and large it consisted of four groups: the Traditionalists, who stuck closest to Sebastian O'Reilly's initial ideas of state and society. The Mercantilists, who represented the interests of finance, industry, and trade. The Idealists, who sought to turn the Hegemony into an egalitarian utopia. And the Realists, who concerned themselves more with the matters at hand than greater ideals. Of the four loose coalitions, the traditionalists held the most seats on the Senate floor.

Athletic, with almond-shaped eyes and jet-black hair that showed just a hint of gray at the temples, Kimura matched Marius' height. His mixed Japanese and South American heritage gave his skin a warm olive tone, and he had a well-defined jawline and high cheekbones. Wearing a crimson tunic with black and gold embroidery fastened with a wide leather belt with a large golden buckle showing his house's crest, Marcos Kimura drank greedily from a wine glass. His cheeks were reddened and there was a slightly glazed look in his eyes.
Marius circled the pair's orbit for a few more moments, and he found himself forced to revise his idea of the man. Boisterous, loud, drunk, that he was, but no matter whom he talked to, he seemed to know their name, a few personal details, desires, and needs, and he offered them an open ear. Drawing people into his circle seemed to come naturally to the man, and even though politically he was boorish, he apparently knew how to remain in people's good graces and bind them to himself.

"Emperor!" he called out. "Finally, the two people running this oversized hen house meet."

His wife Octavia, tall and statuesque, with long, dark blonde hair cascading down over her bare shoulders, maintained her composure, but Marius knew her little tells by now. One corner of her mouth slightly pointing down, one eyebrow ever so slightly raised. No doubt, the Lady Kimura was displeased.

He put on his best fake smile, extending his hand. "Well, someone has to, don't we? I see you've been enjoying yourselves. At least one of us is then," he pointed at his own chalice. Seeing the inquisitive expression on the older man's face, he leaned closer conspiratorially and made a grimace. "Grape juice."

"Oh boy, what are you doing?!" Kimura guffawed, grabbing the offered hand and giving it a shake. "Get a drink! It's the only way one can stand all the lickspittles and two-faced progenies of Perfumed Quarters' whores," he made a sweeping gesture with his own glass.

While inclined to agree with the general sentiment of the statement, a certain diplomatic disposition was necessary as Emperor. "My sister recommended I do the same."

"Smart girl, your sister!" Marcos nodded, his tongue not yet quite at a point where his speech would begin to slur. "Not sure if I'll actually make it to the turn of the year, but everything's better than even more bastards wanting this or that from me."

"Lady Octavia, you look as beautiful as always," the older O'Reilly tilted his head in a polite greeting, eliciting a courteous smile that was betrayed by her sparkling eyes.

"You're too kind, your Majesty." Octavia actually dropped a curtsy, leaning forward and offering him a brief but calculated look at her propped-up cleavage. "I believe you haven't met our daughter yet…?"

Her husband turned his head. "Ava, get over here," he barked at the woman following the pair.

Getting a closer look at her now, Marius had to catch his breath. Ava Kimura had inherited her mother's beauty and her father's striking features, mixing Octavia's grace with Marcos' patrician cheekbones and jet-black hair that artistic hands had formed into a beehive held together by chains of white pearls and meshes of gold. Taller than her mother, she wore a simple black dress that left little to the imagination. In contrast to her choice of garment, she wore enough golden jewelry to buy half a continent, including a solid gold-encrusted epaulet with amethyst chains. To call her beautiful would have been an understatement.

Going by the shades of red on her nose and cheeks she was also at least as drunk as her father, and her expression left no doubts about what she felt about the occasion as a whole.

As she mustered him he couldn't shake the feeling of familiarity that went above the simple fact that he saw both her mother and father in her features.

"Lady Kimura, it's a pleasure making your acquaintance," he tilted his head and put on his best smile.

Bored and disdainful eyes stared back at him, and the younger Kimura downed her drink in one go. "Is it, Your Majesty?" she curtsied gracefully despite her obvious annoyance and intoxication.

Marcos Kimura stiffened, and Octavia's golden mane whipped around, her eyes shooting daggers at her daughter. After a pause, Ava bit down a sigh. "It's an honor and pleasure to be here, sire," she told him, making no effort to mask the dishonesty of her statement.

Not certain if he felt amused or insulted, he involuntarily chuckled, and raised his chalice in recognition with a smirk. 'Have it your way then, girl,' he thought. "Please, enjoy your evening. I'm sure within all this," he pointed at nothing in particular, "you will find something to entertain you."
Turning to her father, he leaned in, lowering his voice. "Are you a betting man, Lord Kimura? I heard Chef Chimeyo Hanzo is preparing his famed sushi up on the balustrade, and the magistrate of Pompey has challenged Lady Emora to an all-out eating contest."

"Well, slap my balls and call me Mercury!" he exclaimed, drawing looks from passers-by. "Come on, wife, I have to see this. Those two are like two human black holes!" He pulled her along, unceremoniously abandoning their conversation.

Octavia looked back at Marius half pleading, half angry, but he could only shrug as her husband dragged her up the wide marble stairs.

Next to him, Ava Kimura picked up a full glass from a passing tray, emptied it in one go, and dove back into the crowd, the look of boredom and annoyance never leaving her face. Marius briefly considered following her but decided against it.
Stupid old man, he told himself. You couldn't just make someone interested in you like that. But her not giving a damn had been… refreshing.

For the next half hour, he managed to ward off at least two dozen attempts at idle conversation with little more than a stern look and empty platitudes, until he found Senator Malik Al-Amin in an alcove, enjoying the company of two women who looked like polar opposites.
The smaller one had fiery red hair woven into seven thick braids, pale skin, and almost unnaturally green eyes. Her silken dress was short and almost see-through, and her voice was bright as a bell as she laughed about something the senator had just told.
Casually hooking her arm onto the senator, the other woman's skin was almost midnight black in the alcove's light, and her dress made from thousands of small golden scales covered her arms, and shoulders, and reached down to her ankles, it was cut in a form-fitting manner that made it almost more revealing in a sense than that of the younger woman.

"Your majesty! Ah, it is good to see you!" Al-Amin's sonorous baritone boomed with genuine appreciation as he spotted Marius, respectfully bowing his head.

"I'm glad to see you're enjoying yourself, Senator!" Marius called out. "May I join you for a few minutes?"

"Of course, sire!" Al-Amin smiled broadly. "May I introduce my second wife, Adelina? It's the first time she's participating in these festivities."

The woman in green performed a perfect and deep curtsy, her cheeks blushing as she murmured "It's an honor, your majesty. I would clink glasses with you, but I am with child."

"The honor's mine, Lady Adelina, and all my best wishes to you and your child's health," Marius gently took her hand to help her up again and gave her a warm smile.

Al-Amin's smile broadened even more at the mention of his unborn child.
"And I believe you have met my first wife, Kyalla?"

A thousand tiny scales rustled softly as the darker woman bowed elegantly, her lilac lipstick and eyeshadow making her bright eyes look bigger.

"We have, senator, on a few occasions. A pleasure to have you here again."
Marius quickly glanced from the women to Al-Amin and back again. Lucky bastard.

"You must excuse us for not having met you earlier," the senator bowed his head slightly, "but we had to feel from work for a few moments of privacy."

"Work?" Marius frowned. "Here? On New Year's Eve?"

"What better place and time is there?" the senator chuckled. "All that have money and the power to spend it are right here. Catching up with old acquaintances and business friends like this is far easier than by courier ship and stupendously expensive HPG messages. Besides, it is very easy to cloud the minds of greedy people in the company of my two most beloved pearls. Alas, are you not working, too?"

Music, speech, and laughter from a thousand people wafted into the alcove. The throne brought with it the implicit expectations of maintaining relationships with all those people gathered here. Marius grimaced. "I've been trying my best to put off all the idle chatter meant to put people into my good graces for their own greed," he admitted. "But now that I'm here, might I steal you away for a minute or two?"

"Naturally, sire," he nodded. "My pearls, mingle and be merry, I will catch up with you shortly."
A few moments later they had the alcove for themselves.

"I have a favor to ask of you," Marius began. "Or an honor to bestow upon you, depending on how you will see it."

"You have my attention, sire."

"Illyria," Marius hissed, making the word sound like a curse. Which it very well may have been. "It's becoming a millstone around the Hegemony's neck. The only reason we're not running out of money as I try to prepare the nation for the worst is that there simply aren't enough guns, mechs, dropships to spend it on. Uncertainty stifles growth, senator, and I want – I need – our economy to grow if we are to persist. And I'd like you to aid with providing said growth. Have your heard of Stettin?"

Al-Amin raised an eyebrow, then motioned Marius to take a seat between the stacks of cushions in the alcove. The senator scratched his beard.
"A system corewards of us, close to the Free Worlds League. Used to be their colony. ComStar's official maps don't provide any data; but outside the Inner Sphere, what does that matter?" he winked mischievously. "I know of the system, and of its people."

"Good. I'd like you to go there as a representative of the Marian Hegemony, and establish economic and trade relations with them, senator."

Al-Amin hesitated, tilting his head inquisitively.
"An odd request, Your Majesty, seeing how I am of the Senate, not of your government. Moreover, I am not a diplomat."

"Maybe not, Senator. But, it's faster to build a bridge if you've got people working on it on both sides," Marius shrugged. "I am not asking you to serve as permanent ambassador or to make great political gestures. Just to get the door open. I have no designs for Stettin other than to make money off them. Besides, it concerns your self-interest, and that of the Mercantilists, so who better to ask than you?"

"And yet, you may find the task to be harder than you expect it to be, Your Majesty. With all that has transpired with the Palatinate, planets might not find it in their best interest to welcome us, even if we come bearing gifts," the senator answered.

"Just so," Marius sighed and nodded. "Originally, Illyria should have provided the Hegemony with new markets to foster and bolster our economy. Now, with things as they are there, and money being needed elsewhere, I've been looking to expand our horizon. We have no workable relations with any of the larger nations in our vicinity. Most see us as hostile neighbors, for good reason," he admitted. "Trust is built drop by drop, but lost in buckets, Posca likes to say. I'm sending you because I see you as a level-headed man capable of making a deal, of building that trust. I reckon you know what to say and when to say it. That is, if you're willing to go."

Al-Amin weighed his options for a few moments before he spoke again.
"Consider me intrigued, sire. What would my capacity be, in those official deals? And, am I correct to assume that, should I succeed, you would look to employ me again in a similar fashion for other planets?"

"One step at a time, senator, one step at a time. There are countless worlds in the barbaricum to eventually build relations with. We'll cross that bridge once you've returned from Stettin. As for your powers there: you are to make every reasonable concession for dealing on their home turf for as long as it will allow us to trade with them. On Stettin, they make the rules."
And once the door was open, the sheer weight of the Hegemony's economy would come into play. They had botched Illyria. With Stettin, it was time to walk a different path: hands-off, patient, respectful.

"I see," Al-Amin stroked his neatly trimmed beard. "I see," he repeated. "Personally, I like the challenge this may provide. Nonetheless, my colleagues in this very building may ask why I abandon my position in the Chamber of Whispers, and how their interests are best served this?"

Ah, there it was: the good old haggling and asking for, in effect, bribes. Some things never really changed, Marius thought sourly but kept a straight face. "The mercantilists will be the first to directly profit from whatever arrangement you manage to come to, given that all transport will go through yours and the other shipping cartels. But, if you need more concrete assurances, consult your friends and provide me with a list of companies willing to invest and trade with Stettin, and the throne will make them exempt from tariffs for, say, the first two years?"

"Five years," Al-Amin demanded.

Marius shook his head. "Three."

The mocha-skinned senator harrumphed, then nodded stiffly. "Done!"

He extended his arm, and Marius grasped it in a traditional forearm handshake.
"Fine then. Send Posca your list. It'll be given the Imperial seal, and you'll receive a warrant to act on my behalf. I expect you to leave for Stettin within the month!"

Soon thereafter, Marius left Malik Al-Amin to the care of his two gorgeous wives and plunged back into the social obligations being Emperor carried with it until he felt fatigue creeping up on him. Besides, if he had to pretend to be happy to drink even a single more glass of watery grape juice, he would snap.
Evading courtiers, he quietly made his way into the personal chambers reserved for whoever sat on the Hegemony's throne. Up high in the dome of the senate building, they provided the solitude and silence he desperately needed to refill his social batteries. He made himself comfortable on a long chair in the chamber's darkness, putting his feet up. A little rest wouldn't hurt. Just a little…

He woke to Octavia kissing his lips.
"Hello there," she purred a bottle of champagne and two glasses in her hands. "You wouldn't want to miss the fireworks, now would you?"
Marius leaned into the kiss, surprised at first, then eagerly so. Soon thereafter, a thousand voices outside joined in a countdown. He and Octavia found their rhythm, too – and 3011 came.


Leopard-class Dropship Hysteria
Combat Insertion Above Trasjkis
Illyrian Palatinate
January 17th, 3011

A giant hand shook the old Leopard-class like a tin can as the Hysteria hit the planet's thicker atmospheric layers at high speed. Constricted by the heavy neuro-helmet, and tightly strapped into his cockpit, Darius Oliviera still felt the ship violently tremble as it raced towards its landing zone.

"Ninety seconds until drop-off," Biff Markham's gruff voice somehow managed to sound steady despite the ship shaking him around. Strapped into his shock harness on the dropship's bridge, the aging CO of Markham's Marauders was the mercenary lance's eyes and ears in the field. "Loki's Lance will drop twelve clicks to your north. We've got reports of hostiles close to the LZ, so stay frosty, people!"

As steady as the rocky ride allowed it, Darius ran some last-minute checks on his mech. Not that he needed to; Ice Queen was ready to roll. But he found the routine comforting as it allowed him to focus his mind on things that he could control rather than on the uncertainty that awaited them.

A female voice broke through his concentration.
"In the skies above, we're flying high,
Through the clouds, chasing sunlight in the sky," Lisa 'Longshanks' soprano voice began to sing, and despite himself, he had to smile.

"Our engines roar, as we soar, through the blueeeee! Brave hearts united, the enemy in view," 'Slicks' Malfou's picked up the verse, scratchy and off key, but twice as loud as Lisa.

"Comms discipline, people!" Biff protested, only to be drowned out by all four lance mates joining for the popular song's chorus.

"Sun over Sian, we'll never back down,
For freedom and glory, we wear our crown.
With courage and honor, we take to the air, In the fight for justice, we'll always be theeeeere!"

Chuckling, but without pause, Darius continued the lance's little ritual, much to their CO's chagrin.
"Through storms and turbulence, we'll press on, defending our land until the threat is gone."
"With wings of steel and hearts of fire,
We'll never falter, we'll never tire," Dijana 'Boomer' Ramitova, the lance's Cicada pilot sang with the voice of an angel. A bit glumly, Darius thought that she was a way better singer than mech jock.

"Thirty seconds!" Markham warned. As if to emphasize his words, the Hysteria buckled as powerful retro boosters jumped into action to level off the fast-sinking craft.

"Sun over Sian, we'll never back down,
For freedom and glory, we wear our crown.
With courage and honor, we take to the air, In the fight for justice, we'll always be there!"

The final chorus echoed through Darius' cockpit as the dropship leveled out, transitioning from its turbulent descent to a smoother, more controlled glide. He felt the familiar tension building in his muscles as the adrenaline kicked in, his mind shifting from the jovial ritual to the deadly seriousness of the task ahead. He glanced at the holographic display that showed the Hysteria's trajectory, the landing zone, and the surrounding terrain—a barren, rugged landscape interspersed with jagged ridges and frozen riverbeds. Like the other worlds of the Palatinate, Trasjkis was cold, just a tiny bit too far from its star to have a nice climate.

"Gear up, Marauders. This isn't a drill." Biff's voice came through the comms again, this time with the unmistakable edge of a man preparing to send his people into the fire. Darius could imagine his CO back on the bridge, the man's bulky frame hanging over the holoplot, watching over them through the external cameras and sensor feeds, every bit as tense as they were. "We know Bella Ramirez and her Bonecutters have been active on this continent. Our last intel is they've been gorging themselves on the regional capital thirty-something clicks to the northeast. We're to scout the region and see what state the locals are in. Engage at will, people."

The landing struts extended with a mechanical whine, and a moment later, the entire dropship shuddered as it touched down. The deployment lights inside the bay turned from red to green, and the countdown on Darius' HUD hit zero.

"Marauders, you are clear to deploy. Good hunting."

With a metallic groan, the ramp began to lower, revealing a cloud of dust kicked up by their descent. Darius flexed his fingers on the control sticks, feeling the hum of his Stinger's reactor through the neuro-helmet, and stepped forward. The Ice Queen followed his commands with the nimbleness expected of a 20-ton mech, her feet hitting the ground with a surprisingly light touch given her weight. Around him, the rest of the lance followed suit.

The first to step off the ramp was 'Longshanks' Mueller in her Trebuchet, a family heirloom kept in pristine shape, the mech's long legs striding forward with an almost graceful gait. At 50 tons, her mech was the lance's heaviest machine, and its dual LRM launchers made it a formidable threat at long range. Lisa's voice came over the comms, steady and composed. "I've got eyes on the ridge to the west. No movement yet. Moving to take up a firing position."

On the other side of the creaking Leopard, Dijana 'Boomer' Ramitova stepped out into the frigid cold, her Cicada's high-pitched whine distinct even through the noise of their deployment. Jury-rigged to hell and back, Boomer didn't stop to claim her mech stemmed back to the days of the First Succession War. To Darius, it certainly looked old and roughed up enough, but beneath all the grime and rust was a fast mech, faster than most light mechs in its class. Somehow, somewhere people had managed to cram a PPC in it, and a medium laser, too. Boomer had a reputation for being aggressive, which paired well with the Cicada's speed, but her poor aim was a running joke among the Marauders. As she sprinted off the ramp, her voice crackled through the comms, tinged with excitement. "Boomer ready to rock. I'll flank around and see what these pirate scumbags are up to."

Next to her, 'Slicks' Malfou's Javelin sped up as it left the landing ramp, the light mech's jump jets flaring briefly as he checked their operational status. The Javelin was a classic scout mech, its dual SRM-6 launchers giving it a punch that belied its size. Slicks was a seasoned pilot, known for his quick thinking and agility in tight spots. He chimed in as he moved to the front, scanning the horizon with his sensors. "All clear for now. I'll scout ahead and see if we've got any company."

"Copy that, everyone stick to your roles," Markham ordered. "Persia's got point."
Four voices replied in the affirmative, and the young mechwarrior lead the group away from the dropship as it lifted off again, kicking up a storm of dust in its wake. "Loki's Lance is dropping in five. Bryker and his pals will be covering our northern flank, so we're free to focus on our sector. There's a couple of villages around. Check them out, and let's find out what these raiders are up to and put a stop to it."

"Copy that, boss," Lisa acknowledged, her Trebuchet already moving to take up a covering position. The four mechs fanned out, maintaining a loose formation as they began their advance across the uneven terrain.

Darius scanned his instruments, keeping an eye out for any signs of enemy activity. "I've got nothing on the sensors so far," he reported, his voice tense despite the attempt to sound confident. The Stinger was nimble, but lightly armed with just a medium laser and a pair of machine guns. If they ran into trouble, his role would be to scout and harass, not to engage head-on.

"Keep your eyes peeled, Persia," Boomer replied. "Just because we don't see them, doesn't mean they're not there."

"Yeah, and if you can see them doesn't mean you can hit'em, right?" Longshanks taunted

"Yeah, yeah, don't remind me," Boomer grumbled, her Cicada keeping pace, its sleek form darting through the cover provided by the sparse vegetation. "I'm good as long as I don't have to shoot at anything smaller than a building. Got it."

Darius chuckled despite himself. Despite Boomer's complaints, he trusted her to watch his back. Markham's Marauders was a new outfit like they were a dime a dozen throughout known space, but they'd fought a few missions together already and knew their strengths and weaknesses pretty well. The Stinger's sensors beeped softly as they detected faint energy readings to the northwest, towards a small village marked on the map as their first objective.
"I've got sensor traces near checkpoint alpha, scouting ahead. Boomer, Slicks, you take the center. Longshanks, check that high ground to the east; seems like a good place for your LRM-stuffed perky bottom."
Training and concentration took over as Darius sped up the light mech and drove it along a dirt road winding towards the village. Ice Queen lived up to her name, the acceleration barely adding a degree to his cockpit as he ran up the road, his mech's white and gray chassis throwing up muddy snow and gravel. Old Biff had had them all paint their mechs in totally made-up winter camo schemes. Admittedly, that had been a hoot for all of them, and a great way to spend their time in transit, but boy, did you need a lot of paint for something the size of a three-story building.

"Persia, what do you see?" the Hysteria radioed in.

"Nothing yet, Command. Moving up on the ridge," Darius replied. "Slicks, Boomer, I'll take the ridge. Form up behind me."
Slicks' Javelin, faster than Longshanks' Trebuchet but still armed with more firepower than Darius' Stinger, and equipped with decent jump capabilities, would be their first tool to blunt spot any threats. Boomer was the other anchor of the pair, nominally faster, and with a range advantage with her PPC, but without any jump jets.

Darius pushed his Stinger further ahead, using its speed and agility to dart from the road to a treeline up ahead. He kept his eyes on the HUD, scanning for any sign of movement. The village was just a few clicks away now, and he could see smoke rising in the distance. Sensor echoes were still faint.

He came to a rest between a growth of evergreens and swallowed hard.
"Boomer, I think we've found our pirates," he said quietly. He could hear Boomer's intake of breath over the comms as she came up behind him and saw the same thing.

"Damn it," she muttered. "Looks like they're torching the place."

"The locals probably had a thing or two against that whole looting and raping and slavery thing," Darius whispered as he zoomed in with his optics. Sure enough, a large plume of black smoke was rising from the far end of the village. He could see flashes of light – the telltale sign of energy weapons being discharged. His stomach twisted as he saw figures running between the buildings, some falling under the barrage of fire. He cursed under his breath. This was no mere raid; this was a slaughter. Then his sensors pinged, and suddenly that was all that mattered as Ice Queen's onboard war book spat out an identification.
"Command, we've got contact," he said into the comms, his voice tense. "Pirate forces are hitting the village. I've got movement near the village center. Heat signatures – probably multiple targets. Fuckers are torching the place. Looks like a mix of infantry – and a Thunderbolt. Advise."

There was a noticeable pause before Markham's voice came through the ether. "Acknowledged, Persia," Biff sounded grim. "Engage and neutralize. Unless you see more, you've got the bastard four to one. Together you can take him. Don't let them get away, don't get suckered into a punching match. Loki's Lance just touched down. I'll inform them." He paused again. "We also could really use the salvage a big fucker like that yields, so... do with that info what you like. Good hunting."

Darius took a deep breath, his eyes narrowing as he focused on the scene unfolding ahead. "Copy that, boss. Moving to engage. Boomer, take the left flank. Slicks, get ready to move in from the right. Longshanks, are you in position? Lay down suppressive fire if you have a shot, but wait on my mark."

"Roger that, Persia. In position in twenty," Longshanks Mueller replied, the Trebuchet taking time to catch up with the three lighter mechs.

"Alright, people," Darius whispered, pushing his throttle hard forward. "We can do this."
Ice Queen sped into a run, and the young mechwarrior watched as the range to checkpoint alpha began to drop rapidly. The village was a mix of washed-out prefab compounds and houses built from natural stones in the traditional Illyrian longhouse style, with a round, temple-like structure with a peaked roof in the center. It would have housed a couple hundred people at best.
"Boomer, I'll draw that big boy's attention so that you can get a clean shot. Slicks, curve in from the east and flank'em. Longshanks, the moment I got you a lock on that T-Bolt you let loose and don't stop until it's down, roger!?"

A chorus of 'Aye's answered him, and he caught a glimpse of them moving on his display.
Even with the frosty temperatures outside and the ubiquitous iron in the rocky ground doing its part to fool the magnetic part of the enemy mech's sensor suite, the pirate Thunderbolt finally took notice of them.
Darius knew the Thunderbolt was heavily armed, and his Stinger wouldn't stand a chance in a direct confrontation. In fact, with a Stinger that was probably the truth for 90% of the mechs he'd ever face. Luckily, he wasn't stupid enough to even try.

"Got another contact," Slicks called in. "Low profile, most likely some kind of tank."

"Roger that, Slicks. Moving in."

"Careful, Persia," Boomer's voice came through the comms. "We don't know what we're dealing with yet."

"I've got eyes, Boomer. Don't worry."

Around a kilometer ahead, the enemy heavy mech almost lazily turned its torso to finally face Ice Queen as it rushed down the long slope toward the village. Around it, a band of mercenaries moved through the ruins. They looked like something out of a history vid – scraps of mismatched armor, faces painted with crude symbols, and banners fluttering in the dry wind. There was something archaic and almost ritualistic about their movements.

Behind them, a single tank — a jury-rigged monstrosity found in no war book, with oversized tracks and a mismatched turret — rumbled forward, its barrel swinging towards a group of fleeing villagers. The pirate mech pilot watched from above, seemingly unconcerned with the slaughter below.

"Enemy footsies confirmed," Darius murmured as he zoomed in, the image sharpening on his HUD. "Looks like they're armed with... jeez, that's old tech."

"How old we talkin'?" Slicks chimed in.

"Real old. Like ballistic rifles and grenades, not much energy weaponry. Could be some of those Deep Periphery mercs they talked about back of Reykavis."

Plumes of smoke rose from the T-Bolt's left shoulder, and Ice Queen's missile warning began to scream. Training and experience took over, and he instinctively put the light mech into overdrive, ignoring the slippery ground. Ice Queen yanked to the left, hard, and he hammered down on the 20-ton machine's jump jets, taking her to the skies.

Not a second too late, as the heavy mech's large laser nailed the spot where he'd just been, leaving scorched armor along Ice Queen's leg as she moved to evade. A number of the enemy's LRMs struck true, but most lost track as he momentarily vanished from the pirate mech's field of view.

"Bit preoccupied right now, Boomer," he gritted his teeth. "Marauders, be advised, Boogey One is a good shot. On the plus side, I've got his attention."

Only somewhat cushioning him against the landing in the cramped confines of his cockpit, Ice Queen sat down in what must've been a garden patch, now brown and covered with light snow, barren beanpoles standing next to a hut. With a deep breath, he accelerated forward, weaving through the village outskirts. He needed to draw the Thunderbolt away from the infantry and that tank; too much combined firepower for them to handle head-on. The heavy just finished its turn to face him again and unleashed a barrage of fire from medium lasers and what appeared to be an SRM-4. Non-standard configuration for that mech, but that much was to be expected out here. The lasers went wide, only one grazing him, but one of the SRMs slammed directly into Ice Queen's torso, denting what little armor he had, staggering him to the side. Darius ran right through of the low longhouses before he found his bearing again. He missile alert blared again, the T-Bolt's autoloader having cycled a new salvo of LRMs into its launcher. Speed was what kept Darius alive, zig-zagging through the narrow village roads, his mech's smaller profile offering less of a target. High explosive warheads slammed into buildings behind him, setting half of them on fire. So much for saving the village, a tiny voice in his head commented sarcastically.

But Darius had no time to listen to it. Taking a hard, ninety-degree turn, he instead did what the pirate pilot least expected and closed in from the right flank, just close enough to see the pirate insignia painted on the mech's chest, a crude axe crushing a bone in half. Ice Queen's single medium laser lit up, accompanied by her two .50 cal machine guns. Metal melted on the T-Bolt's torso and sparks flew as bullets dented and ricocheted, none of them achieving any penetration. But Darius achieved what he had wanted: confirmation of whom he was facing – and undercutting the minimum range of the pirate mech's LRM launcher. On the ground beneath him, merc infantry in colorful armor adorned with dual snake heads scattered in panic as Ice Queen ran through them.

"Yeah, they're Bonecutters alright, Command. Now'd be a real nice time for you guys to join the fight!" Igniting his jump jets once more, and igniting a handful of pirates in the process, Darius leaped away from the turning enemy mech at a dangerously shallow angle. "Longshanks, lay down some cover fire!" Darius shouted.

"On it," Longshanks' calm voice came back. A moment later, a volley of LRMs arced through the air as her Trebuchet emerged from the tree line, raining down on the pirate positions. Explosions rocked the ground as the missiles struck, sending the infantry diving for cover. The Thunderbolt staggered, just a tiny bit, as several missiles impacted its front and right side, the pilot clearly caught off guard by the sudden assault.

But almost immediately the enemy tank broke through a stone wall, emerging on the edge of the village. Infantry crawled through the rubble after it, and its turret belched a line of shells and tracers that met Longshanks' machine.

"Direct hit, armor holding. Looks like it's armed with an AC/5," Mueller's voice sounded strained.

"Slicks, take on that tank, I'll give its escorts something to chew on. Now!" Darius growled.

"I'm on it, I'm on it!" Slicks responded, his Javelin darting down the hill, its jump jets flaring briefly as he accelerated toward the tank. Its turret swiveled to face the new threat. Still mid-flight, Slicks' Javelin spat out a salvo of SRMs from its two launchers. At least half of them struck true, the rest detonating against the road and the hard ground, throwing nearby soldiers around like ragdolls. Flames covered the unknown tank, but it wasn't done fighting yet.

What Slicks aim had, Boomer's lacked. Despite presenting a wide-open target, her opening PPC blast went past the Thunderbolt's bulky armored shape as the chicken-like Cicada more wobbled than ran down the hill from the west, into the cauldron at the valley's bottom.

Ice Queen sat down a fair bit away from both enemy vehicles, but the angle was good enough still for Darius to rain a hailstorm of bullets down on the tank's infantry escort. Missiles from a handful of MANPADS rose to meet his onslaught, but most were fired without proper aim. One struck his right shoulder, shearing off thin armor plating and turning his damage screen for that section deep red. A quick message popped up, informing him of reduced myomer efficiency for his right arm.
He could handle that.
Quickly moving closer from the tank's rear, he cut down some of the enemy AT teams and placed a laser beam right into the Periphery vehicle's engine section. Flames shot up, and the vehicle ground to a halt as its crew scrambled out.

They did not find the safety they sought. Slicks Javelin shook the ground as it touched down barely fifty meters away from the tank, it's loaders having cycled once more. There was barely enough time for the men on the ground to realize what was about to happen before the member of the Marauders unleashed his second volley. The tank's turret exploded in a shower of sparks. Debris and shrapnel cut down the men still in fighting shape around it.

"Booyah! That's how it's done, ya f-"
The thick beam of a large laser connected with Javelin's left flank, cutting off the scout mech's arm in an explosion that staggered the smaller machine. Trailing black smoke, Slicks did the only reasonable thing and accelerated, dodging in between the village's houses.

"I've got incoming," Longshanks informed them from her position in the rear. "Sending back some greetings, too."

The Thunderbolt's pilot was a good shot, but he had to divide his attention on four targets while the Marauders could concentrate theirs now that its infantry and armor were scattered. Beams from the T-Bolt's medium lasers raked the village, one cutting deep into Slicks' already damaged side.
"I'm getting stuck like a pig 'ere!" the mechjockey cried out, the sound of frantic alarms transmitted alongside his voice.

A quartet of SRMs erupted from the heavy mech's torso launcher, two hitting Darius hard, sending Ice Queen into a near tumble just as he fired his own laser. It melted off some of the pirate's armor, but once again failed to penetrate its thick hide.

"Shit, that was close!" he gasped, pulling the Stinger back to its feet.

"I'm on it!" Boomer called out, her Cicada charging forward, its PPC blazing. The blue bolt of energy struck the Thunderbolt's shoulder, this turning its long-range missile launcher into a sculpture of sharp-edged scrap. "Got 'im!" she yelled in triumph, only to add "Damn it, I'm running hot!"

"You've got shit heat management," Slicks growled as his damaged Javelin darted out from behind cover, unleashing a flurry of SRMs that pelted the T-Bolt's flank, sending armor-plating flying before the smaller mech sought the relative safety of the village again. "Been telling you for ages to clean those heat sinks, but you're always skipping on maintenance!"

"Yes, daddy," Boomer's voice dripped of annoyance as she drove her Cicada away from the fight in a long curve to give her machine time to cool down again.

But she wasn't the only one battling a heat buildup. On thermals, the Thunderbolt flared a bright red after having fired all its weapons in quick succession, and its pilot steered the machine backward, its torso turning left and right, trying to figure out the best way to shield the damaged parts of its armor. Its caution gave Darius and the Marauders enough time to act. Despite fighting increasing heat himself, Slicks pushed his jump jets hard, bringing the Javelin down in a wide arch right behind the pirate mech. The safety covers on twelve SRM tubes popped open and a thundering barrage slammed into the lighter-armored backside of the pirate war machine. Darius himself rushed the T-Bolt again, keeping his damaged right arm level as he fired all his meager weapons into the already damaged flank right as another of Longshanks' missile salvos landed on target. Further out, the Cicada swerved back, its PPC scoring a lucky hit on its leg. The pirate mech staggered, its armor cracked and glowing from the repeated hits.

Darius saw his chance. Acting more on impulse than on some kind of plan, he pushed the Stinger forward, his laser firing again as he closed the distance. Halfway to target, Ice Queen leaped into the air on her own jump jets. Myomer bundles stretched, and with its left fist held high, the light mech slammed like a thunderbolt high up into its namesake. With Newton's Second Law practically applied, the Stinger's fist crushed through the remains of the LRM launcher and crumpled the already damaged shoulder joints and accentuators below, and squashed the medium lasers located below. Darius' own damage screen lit up like a Christmas tree, but he disengaged as quickly as he had jumped into the fray, barely avoiding the wrath of the enemy pilot as they lurched forward, swinging the T-Bolt's remaining good arm at him.

The heavy mech fired its large laser, hitting where its arm had missed. The fluorescent beam cut through the Stinger's arm's light armor plating and myomer bundles like a hot knife through butter.

Momentarily, the heat inside Darius' cramped cockpit rose to dangerous levels, but with his veins full of adrenalin he barely noticed.
"Yes!" Darius shouted, feeling the thrill of the fight. "We've almost got him! Finish it off, guys!"

"I'm on it!" Boomer replied, her Cicada charging forward. The PPC fired, the blue-white bolt slamming into the Thunderbolt's torso. The pirate mech shuddered, smoke and sparks pouring from the wound. The pilot tried to steady the mech, firing off his SRMs defiantly at the converging threats, but it was too late. Slicks appeared out of the Cicada's slipstream and answered the Thunderbolt's four missiles with a dozen of his own, ripping its torso wide open before exploding in the mech's guts. With a final, defiant lurch, the Thunderbolt toppled over, crashing to the ground with a deafening roar.

Ice Queen slowly turned around and came to a halt.
Darius let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, his heart still pounding in his chest. "We did it," he breathed, his voice shaking with relief. "We took it down."

"Cost us enough," Slicks' breath was ragged. "I think I broke a rib or two when that bugger hit me. And my ride's got roughed up, bad."

Darius nodded, feeling the adrenaline begin to ebb and becoming astutely aware of the state Ice Queen was in. "Command, enemy is down, checkpoint alpha is secured. Slicks is out, and I'm also in no condition to fight. Queenie needs time in the bay."

"Roger that, Marauders," the Hysteria's commander replied, audibly relieved. "Just be happy that Anton Marik is footing the bill. Persia, Slicks, hold your position and secure the village. Well be setting down the Hysteria as close as possible, and the tech monkey will grab what's left of that tank and the T-Bolt. Boomer, Longshanks?"

"Shoot, Command," Lisa 'Longshanks' Mueller sounded relaxed, having avoided the worst of the battle.

"Seems the gents and ladies from Loki's Lance have run in the rest of that pirate's lance to your north. Move up and support them. They'll be the hammer to your anvil."

"Didn't think Everson's people couldn't handle their own," Boomer complained. "We getting paid for that, too, boss?"

"In this business, it never hurts to gain a few favors, kid," Biff replied gruffly. "And we'll fare way better on future missions knowing Double L is still at full strength. Gotta think ahead. Now, get moving!"

Grumbling, but acquiescent Boomer and her Cicada sped off towards the coordinates Command had provided, with Longshanks following suit.
Darius watched them vanish behind the northern ridgeline. So far, it'd been a good day. Now, they just had to make sure the pirates paid for every drop of blood they'd spilled. And get paid a whole lot of C-bills in the process.
 
Part 1 -- Boot Camp. Prologue: Road to ... Somewhere
This is something I originally wanted to weave into the main narrative but soon found it spiralling out of proportion, so I'll post it as a side story from time to time.

Part 1 – Boot Camp

Prologue: Road to... Somewhere
October 3010 C.E.

The bus rattled as it rolled along the dirt road. It was an old model, its newest pieces being the fresh coat of paint – light army blue, with the Marian crest in plain white – it had received a few weeks prior when it had been requisitioned into service.

Dust rose in its wake like a cloud of memories too heavy to dissipate, much like the thoughts swirling in Cerys' head. The landscape outside the window was typical of Adhara - endless golden steppes stretching into the horizon, broken only by clusters of imported olive trees, patches of local man-high purple blade grass that, if whipping in the occasional storm, could cut your skin, and a rocky river bed here and there. Every couple of kilometers, roads would branch off to clusters of houses further down where whole extended families – and their slaves – lived and worked on terraced farms. Above, the two moons were visible in the broad daylight: the larger one, pale and ghostly, like a second sun hanging over the sky, while the smaller one hid shyly behind it, a faint reflection of its counterpart.

The young woman still felt shaky from her trip through space, where she'd had to experience arduous periods of acceleration and deceleration, plus the first hyperspace jump of her life. A lot of new impressions, and not enough time to digest them. Cerys shifted in her seat, feeling the rough fabric of her drab tunic rub against her skin, beads of sweat running down her back. Adhara was warm and dry, warmer than what been her home even, and people had told her that had already been warm. A small upper part of her seat's window could be opened, and she leaned her head up, trying to catch the cooling wind as the bus rumpled along the road. High above, the contrails of shuttles and planetary airplanes crisscrossed the sky.

Her hands gripped her knees, her knuckles white. The uncertainty of what lay ahead gnawed at her. Bootcamp, a seven-year contract in the Legions, was the only way she could earn her freedom. Just getting here had been a journey in itself.

Freedom. The word felt foreign to her, like something from a story, something reserved for others. It wasn't just for herself, though. Withdrawing a faded photograph from a pouch, her thumb stroked softly across its surface. It was a picture of her parents' parents, back on the world they had lived, before Marian raiders had taken them, a long time ago. Even though Cerys had never known them, she felt a direct connection to the smiling men and women. Her parents hadn't really understood her decision to enlist; they did not know any better. But mom had given her the picture that she had kept behind a loose floor board in their small shack, and kissed her good-bye.

She had been born into slavery, a fate that had seemed inevitable for her entire life. Like most slaves, her life had been defined by work and invisibility. A good slave was a silent one. Unnoticed. Obedient. Now, though, the reforms brought by the Emperor meant there was an escape. Her master had been less than thrilled to let her go, but compared to his will the emperor's word was like a mountain compared to a pebble. Now, she just had to survive the next seven years. Seven years of battle, drills, and discipline, and then she could walk away with a new life. The thought both excited and terrified her.

Her dark hair, tied back in a simple short braid, hung limp against her back, and her sun-tanned skin bore the marks of a life spent outdoors, working on the estates of her master's vineyards. She wasn't used to speaking up, wasn't used to people acknowledging her presence unless it was to give her orders. She wasn't sure how she would fit in here, among these recruits. She felt like an outsider already.

The bus lurched again, and the seat next to her creaked as something shifted. She glanced to her right, catching a pair of bright, eager eyes looking her way. A set of teeth that gleamed in the dusty sunlight filtering through the window smiled at her, belonging to a broad-shouldered, somewhat chubby young man with pale skin and auburn hair.

"Hey, I'm Felix," he said, his voice loud and friendly. "Guessh we're both shtuck on thish bush together, huh?"

Cerys blinked, about as surprised about being approached as she was trying to figure out what she just had heard. She hadn't spoken to anyone yet, preferring the relative anonymity of her seat by the window, with what little she owned in a duffle bag kept overhead. But something about Felix's easy grin made her feel less invisible.

"Cerys," she murmured, her voice barely audible over the rumble of the engine. "You're from, ah, Pompey, right?"

"Ey, what gave it away? No wait, it's the hair and the skhin! We all look like thish there!"

Cerys must have looked real stupid that moment as Felix chuckled, then shook his head. "I'm just messing with ya. Nice to meet you, Cerys. Yeah, I'm from Pompey, but I can talk like a normal human. Mosht of the time, at least," he gave her a friendly wink. "So, where you from? What brings you to this, ahm, illustrious place?" he tilted his head to the rest of the bus.

She opened her mouth, then closed it again, unsure how much to reveal. Would they care? Would they look at her differently if they knew she was a slave? Not like there was much of a chance to hide it anyway. But Felix was waiting, his eyes not judging. Just curious.
"I've been on Alphard all my life. Big vineyard on Gaul, actually. Been born there, worked there." She took a deep breath. "You know, for my master."

"Your master?" Auburn brows furrowed in puzzlement before Felix's eyes lit up in understanding. "Oh. Oooh. I get it. So you're-?"

"A slave," Cerys finished for him, her voice a tad sharper than she intended. "Was a slave. Still am? Weird situation, I know. Enlisted to earn my freedom." But her cut sailed right past the Pompeyan recruit, who was all curiosity now.

"Yeah, I had heard of that new law some time ago, but I've never come across somebody who actually did what you're doing. That's brave of you," he said after a moment. "Suppose not everyone would take that chance. Jupiter's ballsack, I'm a pleb through and through. Father's a butcher, mom keeps the siblings in line," he laughed, fondly, "but they looked at me like I'd grown a second head when I told 'em I wanted to enlist. But with all that chaos swallowing up the Palatinate, and the Janos Marik's ugly mug leering our way? Someone's got to stand up to that rat-faced cunt, right?!"

Like a low rumble a murmur of approval ran through the bus.

"Yeah, leave it to us little guys to actually defend the Hegemony!" a short, black-haired man who introduced himself as Matteo exclaimed. "I've got no qualms about getting my hands dirty and getting the job done. Not like our pampered Patrician overlords, sitting things out, right?" Cheers of agreement erupted.

"Little, eh? You mean that figuratively, or literally?" a voice as smooth as silk and hard as steel cut through the clamor, with a low, sarcastic drawl. The man it belonged to looked... polished, was the best word Cerys could find. Tall, really handsome in a way that made her cheeks blush, tanned, blonde. "Feel like saying that to a Patrician with three generations of military service in the family? Like me, perhaps?" Cold eyes fixed on Matteo, and the small commoner looked away. "I'll be leading a unit in no time, and I won't even have to worry about being a slave." He turned back in his seat with his arms crossed, smiling arrogantly at Cerys, who felt her face flush, and her stomach clenched.

A murmur of conversation rippled through the bus, the other recruits exchanging glances, unsure of how to respond. The tension in the air thickened, and Cerys found herself shrinking back into her seat, wishing she could disappear. Her heart raced, and she fought the urge to look away, to make herself small and insignificant again, the way she had her entire life.

Felix's grin faded, and he straightened in his seat. "Doesn't make you better than anyone else, pretty boy," he said, his voice calm but firm. "We're all here for a reason, right?"

The blonde rolled his piercing blue eyes. "Sure, sure. And that's Ronan to you. Ronan Valerius. You lot might be here for the Emperor's reforms or because you're escaping your drab insignificant homes. Doesn't change the fact that we all have different places in society. Some of us... just have better ones."

Cerys clenched her jaw. She wanted to say something, to defend herself, but the words stuck in her throat. She wasn't used to standing up for herself. She wasn't used to being seen.

Another voice broke the silence, this time from a sinewy, slightly older woman seated across from two benches away from Ronan. Her olive skin and sharp eyes gave her a no-nonsense air. "Leave the girl alone," she snapped at the Valerius boy. "Not everyone's born with a silver spoon in their mouth. Some of us actually have to work for what we get." She turned to Cerys and gave her a small nod of encouragement. "Name's Elara. I'm from Ballalaba."

"Try saying that three times in a row when you're drunk!" someone chuckled.

"You can't," Elara didn't break a beat. "Been there, tried that. A lot. Family's been miners for generations, as long as we can think back. I enlisted because I'm tired of breaking rocks. Figured breaking bones was a better way to make a living."

Cerys managed a weak smile. "Nice to meet you," she said softly.

"Same," Elara replied, her tone gentler now.

From the back of the bus, a deep voice rumbled. "I'm Marcus Caius. From Islington." The man who spoke was nothing like his voice indicated: a tall, lanky youth with an awkward smile. His dark skin glistened with sweat from the heat, and going by his expression he was uncomfortable speaking to groups. "Family's fishermen. I'm here 'cause... well, it's either this or fishing for the rest of my life. I'd rather have a chance to do something more."

"Oh please," Valerius muttered and rolled his yes.

"You know, Ronan," Felix slowly turned to him. "Most patricians my family's ever dealt with got their children into a cockpit, regardless of whether that cockpit was attached to a 'mech or an ASF. Strange to see one of our betters down here in a rusty old bus without AC. Did someone fail their aptitude tests?"

That gained him the laughs of half the bus, and caught Ronan Valerius on the wrong foot. "It's, ah, fuck no! It's neurohelmet incompability, you pleb pissbucket!" he spat back aggressively.

"Pleb pissbucket," Felix tapped his head, refusing to take the bait. "Gotta remember that one, thanks. What about your stories, guys?" he addressed the rest, purposely ignoring Ronan.

The conversation slowly started to flow as more of the recruits shared their stories, the tension easing. Cerys found herself listening intently, her insecurities slowly ebbing as the recruits around her revealed their own reasons for enlisting. They all had their struggles, their own motivations for joining the Legions. Most of them were second sons or third daughters, barred from taking over the family trade due to elder siblings, or just stuck in the wrong place, with the Legions looking like a welcome way out. For the first time in a long while, Cerys felt like maybe she wasn't as alone as she thought.

In time everybody on the full bus shared something about them. There was enough time to do so. Camp Avernus was way out in the boonies, and the bus was struggling with the bumpy dirt road. Three times they had to stop to let military columns pass, the APCs, pickups and tanks far more comfortable with the conditions of the causeway. Each time the recruits hollered and cheered at the veiled and dust-caked men and women in uniform as they rushed by. The evening sun was already starting to set, with Cassandra, the bigger of the two moonlets creeping above the horizon, briefly glowing like a newborn star, when the bus stopped a fourth time. This time, men and women on foot, wearing tank tops, tunics and hauling large rucksacks jogged past the bus, bodies and clothes bathed in sweat, breathing heavily as they tried to maintain pace and shout back the cadence the tall woman up front, seemingly unperturbed by exhaustion and heat bellowed at them.

Cerys felt her anxiety return. It would not be long now.

She did not notice the icy stares Ronan shot her way as the bus rattled closer to their destination.
 
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Why am I seeing a slap-slap-kiss-kiss relationship between Cerys and Ronan incoming? Anybody else?
 
Why am I seeing a slap-slap-kiss-kiss relationship between Cerys and Ronan incoming? Anybody else?
There might also be the possibility that Ronan is just a giant douchebag with a chip on his shoulder.
I see the stress of starting life again and trying to do better is getting to Marius, he really needs to find a way to unwind, instead of burning the candle on both sides.



Gotta hold em
I suppose not having to worry about being crushed like a bug by the FWL could help.
 
Well, being a patrician who has to rub shoulders with stinky plebs in conventional arms (perhaps even GASP infantry) instead of being with his own in BattleMech or ASF training sure would make an asshole even more assholish. People like that tend to have trouble following orders until some sense is beaten into them, something that NCOs love doing. And I think Marians still have the corporal punishment doled out by the superiors, instead of having to rely on encouraging soldiers to throw a blanket party for the offending individual, as more forward thinking nations tend to do.
 
Part 1 -- Boot Camp. Chapter 1: Training Day
With the new chapter in the works, lets bridge some time by letting Cerys and her fellow recruits catch up a few weeks to the main narrative.

Chapter 1: Training Day

Camp Avernus, Adhara
Marian Hegemony
November 3010 C.E.

Echoing off the sheet metal roofs of the long row of barracks, the haunting croaks of the Orlesian rat bird circling high above had a certain mocking quality, Cerys thought dryly as she felt the day's heat already encroach on her. The sun hung low in Adhara's morning sky, a boiling red disc slowly baking the earth beneath it. Not yet fully vanished in the rising morning glow, a sickle and two moonlets slowly faded out of view. The training field, an expanse of dust, fresh concrete slabs, and misery, seemed to stretch forever, punctuated by obstacles that rose like twisted monuments to human suffering. Her mouth quirked at the thought, if only for a second. Quite poetic for a slave girl, and that early in the day.

The levity lasted ever so briefly. It was only six hours past midnight in Adhara's twenty-six hour day, but already the heat was unbearable, smothering the air, making every breath feel like a punishment. Pork Chops had tried his best to explain to her why that was.

Felix, she had to correct herself in her mind. Not Pork Chops, but Felix. Something about a tilted axis and elliptical orbits. He was usually very good in explaining stuff, but some concepts needed to marinate a bit longer with her. The downsides of not having a formal education.

Rigorously standing at attention, their bodies stiff, the recruits of Training Quartex A 10-4 were already sweating like pigs, their uniforms soaked through and clinging to their skin like wet rags.

Armies had a thing for codes and abbreviations, Cerys had quickly realized. A Maniple was five people, as in five fingers deriving from the ancient Terran Latin for 'hand'. A Quartex, she was given to understand, was the fourth part of a Centuria. So, twenty-five people. That's how they were divided in Camp Avernus: into training units of twenty-five people, sharing one bunk house; Quartex A, 10th Cohort, 4th Centuria.

They knew what was coming; they had been through it before twenty-three times. This was Day 24, and the obstacle course had become their daily enemy. Physical training, for hours, every day. Plus learning ranks, regulations, discipline. Hours spent on keeping their bunks and lockers pristine. That, and stomach cramps because she wasn't used to the kind of protein-rich diet they were being fed in chow hall. Felix shoveled it down like it was nothing. Ronan called it disgusting slop.

A figure stalked toward them, his boots crunching on the gravel, his presence casting a shadow over the line of young men and women. If their daily training course was their enemy, this was their judge, jury, and executioner. Drill Sergeant Hannibal 'Mad Dog' Mitchell was a lean man, tall and built like a coil of razor wire. Technically, his rank was Decurio, but everybody called him by his function, himself included. His face was a mask of controlled fury, the kind of fury that had been honed by years of service in the Marian legions and could be unleashed at will. His eyes, cold and calculating, flicked over each recruit with the precision of a sniper's scope, looking for weakness, for flaws. Usually he found some.
He halted in front of the group, his hands clasped behind his back, and let the silence hang heavy. No one dared move. No one even dared blink.
"You maggots look like you've been sleeping in a pigsty," Mad Dog growled, his voice low and gravelly, yet carrying the kind of power that could snap bones. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to piss me off. And let me tell you something, ladies, you do not want to piss me off. Not today, not ever!"

He began pacing in front of the line, his boots kicking up dust that clung to the sweat on the recruits' faces.
"Today's a special day," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Today is the day we see just how much of your sorry asses I need to kick before you can call yourselves legionaries of the Hegemony. You see that course behind me?" He gestured to the hellish landscape of wooden walls, rope climbs, barbed wire crawls, and mud pits. "That course is your only friend. And like any good friend, it's going to beat the living shit out of you until you either break or come out the other side stronger. Now let's see what kind of sorry excuses I've got to work with today."

Mad Dog stopped in front of the first recruit, a tall, lanky kid with a face full of freckles and a nose that seemed too big for his head. The kid stared straight ahead, but his eyes were wide with fear.
"Private Slowpoke," Mad Dog sneered. "You got a reason your face looks like a goddamn roadmap to nowhere?"

Cerys kept her gaze steady and still as Slowpoke – Marcus Caius – blinked and audibly swallowed. "Sir, no, sir."

"No, sir," Mad Dog mimicked, leaning in closer. "I can't hear you!"

"Sir, no, sir!" Marcus barked, his back so straight Cerys thought it might snap.

Mad Dog's lips curled in disgust. "Let me tell you something, Slowpoke. You're gonna need more than a backbone made of Jell-O and brains running on standby if you want to survive my training."

He moved on, his gaze landing on the next recruit. They'd all gotten their new names by Mitchell. Some were just a bit more obviously insulting than the others.

Elara, who had stuck up for her when they first came to bootcamp, was older than the rest of the recruits, pushing thirty, with a face prematurely lined with age and years of hard labor. Her hair, though shaved down like the rest, still showed a strand of gray here and there.

Mad Dog stopped in front of her, his lips a tight line.
"Granny. Tens of thousands lining up to enlist, and I get the oldest of them all. You know, the Legion isn't some retirement home for washed-up miners too weak to hold a pickax any longer. You sure you're not here by mistake?"

Granny's face remained impassive, her eyes locked forward. She had heard it all before, and she wasn't about to give Mad Dog the satisfaction of seeing her react. That patience, too, came with the additional years she carried on her shoulders compared to her comrades.
"Sir, no, sir," she said, her voice steady.

Mad Dog chuckled, almost friendly. "Well, Granny, let's see if you can keep up with the kids today. Wouldn't want you breaking a hip out there."
Then he faced Cerys.

"Slave Girl," Mad Dog said, almost admiringly, crossing his arms as he swirled his swagger stick with a few fingers. "I see you've been pumping iron, but let's see if all those muscles mean you've got brains to go with them. Or are you just here to flex for the boys?"

Cerys didn't flinch, her jaw tightening. Of course, her nick name had been Slave Girl. But a high protein diet and weeks of hard workouts had indeed started to add more muscles to a lean athletic frame. "Sir, no, sir!"

"Good," Mad Dog said. "Keep that attitude, and maybe you won't end up face-first in the mud."

He continued down the line, each recruit called up with their own special form of verbal abuse. Part of Cerys' mind found it impressive that the man could come up with -- and remember! – the insults for all twenty-five of them. But that was a small part.

There was Private 'Mudflat', a short, stocky kid who hailed from the southern swamps of Pompey. 'Noodles', a lanky pale girl with too long arms who, maybe more than most, struggled with the physical stress they were all constantly subjected to.

And, of course, Private 'Hollywood'. Looking like a model, or a movie star from Old Terra, 'Mad Dog' Mitchel had not taken a liking to Ronan Valerius. Whatever you could say about the Sarge, a friend of Patrician privileges he was not.

He finally turned to face the entire group, his hands once again clasped behind his back.
"Alright, ladies, listen up!" he barked. "Today, you're going to run this course over and over until I say stop. You will not quit. You will not slow down. You will not give up. And if any of you so much as think about giving me less than one hundred percent, I will personally make sure you regret it for the rest of your miserable lives. Do I make myself clear?"

"Sir, yes, sir!" the recruits shouted in unison.

"Good," Mad Dog said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Now move!"

The recruits broke into a sprint, heading for the first obstacle: a tall wooden wall that loomed over them like the side of a building. They threw themselves at it, clawing and scrambling to get over, their bodies moving in a chaotic dance of desperation and determination.

Slowpoke was the first to struggle, his lanky frame not giving him enough leverage to pull himself up. He dangled there for a moment, his legs kicking uselessly against the wall.

Mad Dog was on him in an instant, his voice a whipcrack in the air.
"Come on, Slowpoke!" he snarled. "You call that climbing? My grandma could scale this wall faster than you, and she's been dead for ten years! Get your sorry ass over that wall or I'll make sure you never walk again!"

Slowpoke gritted his teeth, his face turning red with exertion. With a final, desperate heave, he managed to throw one leg over the top and rolled down the other side, landing in a heap. He barely had time to catch his breath before Mad Dog was on him again.

"Get up!" he roared. "You think an enemy autocannon round's gonna wait until you're ready to move again? Move!"

Slowpoke scrambled to his feet, his legs shaking as he sprinted toward the next obstacle: a series of tires laid out on the ground, waiting to trip up anyone who wasn't paying attention.

Meanwhile, Cerys was tearing through the course like a machine. She cleared the wall with ease, her muscular arms pulling her up and over in one fluid motion. She landed on the other side and didn't even pause to catch her breath before charging toward the tires, her legs pumping like pistons. The first rounds were easy. The hard part began when breathing became painful and your every muscle was on fire. Part of her knew that she wasn't really better than some of her comrades at this; she was just used to take suffering in strides.

Mad Dog watched her with narrowed eyes.

Mudflat was struggling with the tires, his short legs making it difficult for him to keep his balance. He stumbled, nearly falling, but caught himself at the last second. His face was twisted in concentration, his lips moving silently as he muttered to himself, trying to stay focused.

"Pick up your feet, Mudflat!" Mad Dog shouted. "Or are you planning on tripping your way to victory?"

Mudflat didn't respond, his eyes locked on the ground as he pushed forward, sweat dripping from his brow. He was slow, but he was determined, and that seemed to be enough for now.

Hollywood – Ronan – on the other hand, almost seemed to glide through the course with an almost effortless grace. Despite the dust and sweat, any signs of strain on his face were, at best, subdued. He flashed a quick grin at the other recruits as he passed them, his confidence bordering on arrogance.

Despite the apparent aptitude at handling 'his' course, Mad Dog's eyes narrowed as he watched the offspring of House Valerius prance his way through the obstacles. He hated that kind of cockiness, the kind that came from someone who had never truly been tested.
"You think this is a joke, Hollywood?" Mad Dog called after him. "You think that pretty face of yours is gonna save you when the bullets start flying? You better start acting like a soldier or I'll personally make sure you don't leave this course in one piece."

Hollywood's grin faltered for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure, shouting a forced "Sir, yes, sir!" into Mad Dog's direction before continuing on.

As the recruits moved deeper into the course, the obstacles became more punishing. There was the barbed wire crawl, where they had to drag themselves through the mud, their bodies scraping against the sharp metal above them. The mud pits that sucked at their legs, threatening to swallow them whole if they didn't keep moving. And the wooden gallows with the knotted ropes, thirty feet high.

Cerys hated that one. She'd been not a day older than ten when one of the slaves on their vineyard had disobeyed a foreman and then committed the sin of raising his hands at them. Their master had made them all watch when they hanged the man on a contraption not too dissimilar to the one they all had to climb. The man's neck had not broken, and he had suffocated cruelly over two long, agonizing minutes. All had had to watch. Those who averted their eyes got the whip.

Noodles always failed this one, her gangly arms too long for her frame.

"Come on, Noodles!" Mad Dog barked from below. "Get up that rope or I'll make sure you spend the next two weeks scrubbing latrines! You want to be a legionary? Then overcome challenges! If you can't get up that rope now, how'll you be able to do it with sixty pounds of gear strapped to your body!? Move your ass!"

Noodles tried to pull herself up, but her grip failed to carry her weight as her legs didn't manage to grab onto the lower end of the rope. She fell back to the ground, landing hard on her back.

Mad Dog's was over her in the blink of an eye.
"You think that's good enough?" he snarled. "You think you're done? Get up, Noodles! Get up and climb that goddamn rope or I'll drag you up there myself!"

In her peripheral vision Cerys watched as Noodles groaned, but she slowly pushed herself up. She grabbed the rope again, her hands raw and bleeding, and began to climb. It was slow, agonizingly slow, but she refused to give up. Inch by inch, she made the way to the top, her entire body shaking with the effort. When she finally reached the top, she nearly collapsed from exhaustion, but she managed to hold on just long enough to slide back down the rope, her breath ragged and uneven.

Mad Dog watched her go with a critical eye, but he didn't say anything. He didn't need to. Noodles had done what was expected of her. For now, that was enough.

Cerys was already zig-zagging through a maze of walls of different height when Private Granny tackled the gallows. She grabbed the rope and began to climb, her arms straining, her muscles protesting with every pull. She wasn't as fast as the others, but she was methodical, her movements steady and deliberate. Elara knew her limits, and she knew how to push them.

Mad Dog watched her closely, his expression unreadable. He had been hard on her from the start. She understood that was his job: to weed out those who didn't have it in themselves to be a soldier in the field. Out there, one legionary failing would put all their comrades in danger.

Granny was older, slower, but she wasn't weak. She had something many of the others didn't – a kind of grit that came from years of hardship. When Elara reached the top, she paused for a moment, taking a deep breath before sliding back down. Her landing was rough, but she swiftly rolled off to the side, getting back up in one fluid motion, and hurried off to the next part of Mad Dog's course.

The drill sergeant nodded to himself, a small, almost imperceptible gesture of approval.

The day dragged on, the sun climbing higher in the sky, the heat becoming more oppressive with every passing minute. The recruits pushed themselves through the course again and again, their bodies growing weaker, their movements more sluggish. But Mad Dog didn't let up. He was relentless, driving them harder and harder, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.

By the time the sun began to set, casting long shadows over the training field, the recruits were barely standing. Their uniforms were torn, their bodies bruised and battered. They were covered in mud and blood from cuts and scrapes, their faces pale with exhaustion. But they had made it through another day.

Mad Dog stood before them, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes scanning the line of recruits.
"Alright, ladies," he said, his voice still rough, but lacking the usual venom. "Some of you did good today. Which means tomorrow we'll start doing this with your gear on! And then we do it all over again. And the day after that. And the day after that. Until you either break or become the kind of soldiers this country can be proud of. Ave Imperator, I love the Legion! Now get out of my sight and get some rest. You're gonna need it. Dismissed!"

That was something Cerys and the others didn't need to be told twice. It was as if the training platoon exhaled as one. Aching, limping, and tired with every cell of their bodies they made it to the chow hall, where twenty-five famished mouths shoveled down lukewarm dinner. After fifteen hours, nobody cared about that.

Later
The barracks were quiet except for the heavy breathing of exhausted bodies, the creaking of metal bunk beds and the occasional murmured conversation. Cerys kept thinking that after weeks of the same procedure, surely they'd all get used to the exhaustion, but after another grueling day on the obstacle course, the neither she nor her comrades were willing – or able – to do much anymore.

Cerys sat on the edge of her bunk, her hands raw and aching from training. She stared down at the worn booklet in front of her, her brows furrowed in concentration. Words were scribbled in a rough, uneven hand, and though she could make out their general meaning, putting them together into coherent sentences felt like trying to fit broken glass into a smooth pane. She hated this part. Not the physical challenges – the pain was bad enough, sure – that she could handle. But this... this was harder. This was the part that made her feel small again. Inadequate. Like a slave.

"You're doing fine, Cerys," a voice said softly from the bunk across from her.
It was Pork Chops — Felix, damn it! Despite weeks of grueling training he was still a heavyset guy, with a round face that seemed to always carry a trace of sweat no matter the temperature. His fatigues seemed perpetually tight, straining against his bulk, and he wasn't exactly fast on the obstacle course. But even the Mad Dog probably agreed – grudgingly, probably – that Felix did not lack dedication, or the will to pull others with him. He was also perceptive. That's why it hadn't taken him long to realize how she struggled with reading and writing. She didn't even have to swallow her pride and ask him for help; he had offered it freely, just as he had offered it to others.
She looked up from the paper, her dark eyes locking with his. "I don't feel like I'm doing fine, Felix," she muttered, her voice low but thick with frustration. "This is harder than anything out there. I feel stupid." She was trying. She always tried. Words, however, were foreign to her. As a child born into bondage, literacy was not a skill she had been taught. Intelligence, strength, and strategy had kept her alive, but now, in this new world where reading and writing meant everything, she struggled like a fish out of water.

"You're not stupid," Felix said firmly, pushing himself up from his bunk and waddling over to her side with a painful sigh. "You just didn't get the chance to learn like the rest of us. You're doing great. You're picking it up faster than most people would, considering... well, considering everything," he said in his soft, almost apologetic voice. "Let's take it from the top again. You're getting better, I can tell."

He was careful with his words, but Cerys could still hear the pity behind them. Her education had consisted of labor from an early age on, to follow orders, to keep her head down. Sure, she knew a word, or even a sentence or two. What good was a slave who didn't know how to read simple directions?
"Alright," she nodded and began reading. "No one would have believed in the last years of the nine...teenth century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by in... intelligences greater than man's and yet as mortal as his-" She let out a frustrated breath and shoved the paper away. "This is bullshit, Pork Chops."

"It's not bullshit. You are improving," Felix replied, calmly but firmly. "It's just practice, like the obstacle course, or cleaning and reassembling our guns. You didn't get as good as you are at the course without practice. Same with this. Just keep at it."

"I wonder when we'll get to actually shoot those guns?"

"No side tracking, Slave Girl," he reprimanded her with a smile, and she ignored her nickname. With some, it didn't sting.

"Fine. I guess with all that chaos in Illyria it'll be sooner rather than later anyway. I just need to get through this. If I can pass the tests, I can move on. I'll worry about the rest later."

Felix nodded, understanding. "One step at a time. That's all it is. Just like the course."

Across the barracks, a voice cut through the relative quiet, sharp and mocking.
"Well, isn't this just precious? Or rather, you know," Hollywood's voice cut through the barracks like a blade, "it's kind of pathetic, isn't it? You'd think they'd require basic literacy before letting someone like her into the Legion."

Cerys' head snapped toward Hollywood, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. She didn't need to ask who he meant by 'someone like her'. She could feel the heat rushing into her head, but she stayed silent, focusing on the book in front of her. This was a battle she had fought before—letting people's words roll off her like rain. But Hollywood had a way of digging under her skin. Because, aloof asshole that he was, he didn't know when to stop.

"Look at this," he said, loud enough for the rest of the barracks to hear. "The slave and the fat guy, bonding over their ABCs. Isn't that adorable?"

Felix slowly, deliberately took the book from Cerys' hands and placed it onto his bunk, taking his time to look up to Hollywood who had deigned to saunter over to them. He was always the target of jokes about his weight, but he wasn't dumb. And he wasn't blind. He knew exactly what Hollywood was doing.
"Shut up, Hollywood," Felix muttered, his usually calm voice tinged with irritation. "Not everyone had their education handed to them on a silver plate. At least I'm doing something with mine," he tilted his head to the rest of the platoon. "Can't say you've put the money your parents spent on tutors to good use, on the other hand. Still one of us."

Hollywood chuckled darkly. "Yeah, well, some people don't need their hand held through basic training, Pork Chops. And some people definitely don't need tutoring from a – what was it Mad Dog called you?—a 'walking tub of lard'? Shouldn't you be spending your time running laps, or at least trying not to sweat through your bunk?"

Cerys shot up from her bunk with a snarl. The insult wasn't just to her anymore – it was aimed at the only person who had been helping her without judgment. She took a step forward, but Felix almost leisurely grabbed her arm, holding her back with no effort.
"Don't." He didn't take his eyes off Hollywood. "He's not worth the trouble it'll get you."

Hollywood wasn't done, though. He stepped closer, his smirk twisting into something crueler.
"Tell me, Slave Girl, what's it like to be so far out of your depth? I mean, look at you. You can barely read, you can't write, and you're what – hoping to buy your freedom by playing soldier? It's almost tragic. Almost. You belong back in the fields or wherever they dug you up from. You're just here to make people like me look good when we become officers."

She turned to face him, deliberately forcing herself to act calm as she strained against the vise of Felix's hand around her arm.

"Fancy talk from someone who hasn't actually achieved anything yet," she replied evenly, but her eyes burned with cold fury. "You've got a lot to say for someone who hasn't earned a damn thing in his life," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "You think your family name is gonna save you out there? On the battlefield? When the bullets are flying and the bodies are dropping? You think any of that shit matters?"

Hollywood's smirk faltered, just for a moment, before he recovered. He took a step closer, looking down at her, his voice dripping with condescension. "Bitch, I've achieved more by being born than you'll ever achieve by being alive. You see, people like me? We don't have to worry about things like you do. We're taken care of. Always have been, always will be. That's just the way the world works, Slave Girl. You? You'll never be more than dirt. No matter how hard you try."

That was it.
Whether she truly tore her arm free from Felix' grasp, or whether he finally let her go, in two strides she was face to face with Hollywood. He was just a tad bit taller than her, something she'd never realized before, and her own green eyes burned into his blue ones. "Say that again," she growled, her voice low and dangerous. "Say it to my face."

Felix, perhaps sensing the last chance to avoid worse, called from behind, trying to diffuse the situation. "Come on, Hollywood, knock it off. We're all on the same team here."

Hollywood glanced at him, his lip curling in disdain. "Oh, please, Pork Chops. Don't tell me you're actually sticking up for her. What, are you her tutor now? Gonna help her learn her ABCs while she dreams about being a real soldier? Hoping to get into her pants or what? I said," he repeated, a little too loudly, "you'll never be anything but dirt."

Then she saw it.
The bait. The way Hollywood stood there, smug and sure of himself, waiting for her to snap. He wanted her to hit him. He wanted her to lose control because he knew that if she did, she'd most likely be out. Court-martialed. Dishonorably discharged. She would lose her chance at freedom. All of it. And he would still be here, still grinning, still on his path to becoming an officer. Still thinking he was better than all of them.

Felix opened his mouth to respond, but Cerys cut him off, her voice like steel. "You don't get it, do you, Hollywood? You've never had to fight for anything in your life. But me? I've been fighting every single day since I was born. You? You're nothing. Just a little boy pretty playing dress-up, thinking the world owes you something because of who your daddy is. And still, you're here with us, down in the gutter. What a disappointment to daddy dear you've got to be."
Two could play this game.

Hollywood's face twitched, the insult cutting deeper than he had expected. His eyes flashed with anger, and for a moment, it looked like he might lash out.

Now it was on her to lean forward. "Keep running your mouth, Hollywood. But remember this: out there, in the field, who your daddy is doesn't mean shit."

The tension between them was so thick it could be cut with a knife. But before anything could happen, the door to the barracks slammed open with a loud bang, and Mad Dog Mitchell strode in.

"What the hell is going on in here?!" the drill sergeant barked, his eyes sweeping over the room. "I leave you maggots alone for five minutes and you're already at each other's throats? You think this is some kind of goddamn playground?"

The whole barracks immediately snapped to attention.

Hollywood stepped back, carefully swallowing the venom his face still radiated, while Cerys almost lightfootedly returned to her bunk to stand at attention.

Mitchell's eyes landed on the Valerius scion, narrowing dangerously. "Hollywood, you got something to say to me?"

Stiffly, Ronan Valerius stared straight ahead. "Sir, no, sir."

Mad Dog's gaze shifted to Cerys, and for a moment, his expression softened, just a fraction.
"That's what I thought. Listen up, all of you," he said, his voice low but full of authority. "Tomorrow, you'll start out on the range, and I expect you to spend your energy and anger there. Things have been happening in Illyria, and command wants to get you sorry excuses ready as soon as possible. Which forces my hand! I'll have to up the ante to make you into soldiers, no matter where you're from or what your parents are!" He raised his voice. "Slave Girl is right on one count: Out there, none of this shit matters. Not your background, not your family name, not your past. The only thing that matters is whether you can do the job. Whether you can watch the back of the person next to you. And if any of you can't get that through your thick skulls, then you've got no place in the Legion! Understood?"

A chorus of "Sir, yes, sir!" echoed through the barracks, but the tension lingered in the air, unspoken and unresolved. Mad Dog gave them one last look before turning on his heel and marching out, leaving the recruits in uneasy silence.

Cerys slowly sat back down on her bunk, her hands still no shaking as the adrenaline rushed out of her. Hollywood retreated to his own corner of the room, casting glances over to her. It didn't take a genius to sense the anger simmering beneath the surface. She knew this wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

Felix slumped down on his bunk opposite hers. "Well, that could've ended worse. You handled yourself well enough," he shrugged.

She let out a bitter laugh. "I don't feel like I handled anything."

"Oh, but you did," the son of a butcher insisted with a small mischievous smile. "You kept your cool. That's more than a lot of people can say. More than pretty boy expected."

Looking at him, she felt a small flicker of gratitude, answering his own smile with a lopsided grin. "I guess that's something, yeah."
Better make it count then, Slave Girl, she told herself, and picked up Felix's book again.
 
11 - By The Letter
C h a p t e r 1 1: By the Letter


Mount Caelius
Nova Roma, Alphard
Marian Hegemony
January 19th, 3011

"Let's begin."
Emperor Marius O'Reilly stood at the head of the table, gazing down at the holographic projection that displayed the worlds of his realm and its near abroad. He rubbed his temples briefly before leaning forward. His eyes, sharp but weary, moved from one face to the next - each advisor, military leader, and political strategist in attendance carried with them the weight of the decisions they had been making. The rope they had been walking had grown ever more tight during the past weeks, and Marius feared the slightest misstep would send the Marian Hegemony spiraling into direct conflict with the Free Worlds League – a conflict they not a snowball's chance in hell of surviving.
"What are we looking at now, Oculus?"

Clad in an immaculate deep blue greatcoat with a high collar, wearing a brass pin displaying a lidless eye framed in laurels on his lapel as a sign of his newly christened office, Victor Blackwood's sharp eyes flickered as he activated a small console. The holographic map zoomed in, showing the latest positions of suspected League supply drops and troop deployments. Marked in red were key nodes along the border, where regular League forces were building up.
"As you can see, sire," Blackwood began, his voice cool and measured, "our latest reports confirm that the League has reinforced their border presence in Hazeldean and Landfall. We believe they've reached their expected strength now, reinforced battlemech battalions supported by companies of infantry and light armor. Dropship and jumpship activity is unabatedly high in star systems bordering the Palatinate. Reliability of reports about an unbroken flow of supplies as well as small mercenaries into Reykavis also is high."

"It's a mystery to me how you always get access to all that knowledge," Alina Volkova, sitting next to the Emperor, frowned.

Blackwood allowed himself a thin smile. "You'd be surprised at how much a man stuck in a crumbling state, surrounded by chaos, is willing to share over a couple drinks and a few c-bills. What my people do isn't witchcraft. Most the time it's just ordinary talking. Gossip, you know? It's impressive how much people like to talk, especially if you show interest. Which is how we got to know this," the image switched to an Illyrian news broadcast, the audio muted. "Herod Gundermann has pretty much outmaneuvered the remaining trade houses and is now fully in charge. The woman next to him is supposed to be the League's humanitarian ambassador to the Palatinate, but I'm certain she's actually also his SAFE liaison, too."

"Well, it's no big stretch of the imagination that Atreus not only supplies the Illyrians with war materials, but also with intel. I don't see how else the mercs in their employ have continuously been able to check the Chalice's forays into Trasjkis and Trondheimal with that much precision," Volkova said.

"I'm inclined to agree with that assessment, General," Blackwood nodded curtly. "And on that point, I've received conformation via HPG that our dear friend Isabella Ramirez, head of the Bonecutters, has lost hers just two days ago. She apparently thought it prudent to saunter around in her mech with only minimal backup and her own lance a few kilometers away, taking part in some good old-fashioned pillage and plunder, only to get shot to hell by a mercenary lance." He pressed a button, and an image of a short-haired woman wearing a makeshift uniform with a shoulder pad I the shape of a skull appeared. "Then the rest of her lance got caught in a pincer movement between her killers and another outfit."

"A full lance? That's cost the Bonecutters how much of their strength?" Marius inquired, an eyebrow raised.

"It's cut them in half," Volkova answered after flipping through some papers, then looked up. "That's going to create a power vacuum for sure."

"A question for another day," Marius shrugged. "What a shame that the thirteen are one pirate down, especially as 'Bones' had been such a beautiful soul and addition to this illustrious menagerie. She will be dearly missed." Marius' tone and expression made it clear that she would be none of that, and the subtly smiling faces around him were in agreement. Then his face turned serious again. "Having that ambassador there, plus the likelihood that she is SAFE and the League has added that kind of support to their portfolio? That is another step towards escalation on the ladder that we could very well have done without."

"We're preparing as best as we can, Your Majesty, but the conditions have not changed significantly over the past month. There is a shortage of everything but people," Anna Volkova sounded apologetic, almost resigned.

Across the table, Corvinus O'Reilly, Marius's uncle and the mastermind behind the Hegemony's military reforms, spoke up. His deep voice was rough, like gravel, but always commanded attention. "The 1st Infantry Legion is almost up the strength, as are the infantry cohorts attached to Legio I. At least on paper, Legio I has reached eighty-five percent readiness across the board, though we're lagging with the acquisition of anti-ASF assets and artillery for the supporting formations, and tanks are also hard to come by. On that side, I'd tentatively give General Volkova a thumbs up that the full reformed legion will be available to her around April."

"And we only had to pull out all the stops for it to be done in two years," Marius muttered, shaking his head, once more painfully reminded that all his 'new' ideas were subject to the limitations of the reall world. He cleared his throat. "Which I understand is still extremely impressive, given our situation, but won't really help that much if push comes to shove, correct?" He pushed himself back from the holographic display and straightened. "Alina, in total terms, what are we facing right now?"

Volkova did not need to check her papers for that one. "Two, possibly three regiments, made up from the Marik Militia and smaller detachments of others, plus armored and infantry formations, as well as ASF detachments. A minor fraction of the League's overall forces, but still almost double our initial estimate."

"Still more than we could handle if they chose to make a push, even on a good day," Corvinus grunted.

"I do have one source, a disgruntled former member of Gundermann's entourage, who claimed that the Illyrian leader was not really convinced of the League's commitment. He called it 'foreign policy posturing'. But that was a few months ago, and said person is no longer privy to useful information, I have been given to understand," Blackwood shrugged. "The tenor back then was that Gundermann believed the League only acted as a display of strength to its enemies, and not as a means to actually help him."

On the other end of the table, Corvinus frowned. "I suppose that's one way to look at it, but how believable an outlook is that, in your opinion? I'd hate to make national policy decisions based on the grievances of an out-of-the-loop foreign sycophant."

"I'm afraid that is as close as we have been able to get the actual movers and shakers. I have had barely a year to cultivate the existing network of sources, which largely is street-level information. At current, it would need a monumental stroke of luck to get access to someone right in the ears of Gundermann, or better, the inner circles of the League's military and government," Blackwood shrugged apologetically. "My own personal expertise with political analysis is also limited, ladies and gentlemen, as my forte has been industrial espionage and extortion. And creating an internal apparatus within the Ordo Oculus to provide for such deep political data is an ongoing process. Could their move be for, let's call it 'external consumption'? I suppose it's possible they would want to send a message to the Lyrans and Capellans that they are more than capable of handling not only them, but additional crisis as well."

Someone cleared their throat behind Marius, and the Emperor looked over his shoulder. "You've been League-born and raised, old friend, and you've always been a man of history and politics. If you have something to say, you can do so here, freely." He motioned at a chair next to him.

Hesitantly, Posca stepped out of the twilight behind the Emperor and took a seat, breaking protocol. Marius' old tutor stroked his whiskers, weighing his words carefully. "There is an element of posturing involved, but not in the way you might think, dominus. Neither the Lyran Commonwealth nor the Capellan Confederation will pay this much heed aside from noting the movement of federal troops and making their calculations how favorable this shifts dispositions in theaters along the border. I do not believe, even for a minute, that the Free Worlds League would gain even an ounce of respite from the other Successor States by taking us, or maybe the Circinians, out. They know they can. They also know that we must know they can. There is no message to be sent here." He raised his hands, palms forward. "No, this whole operation? It is, first and foremost a domestic move. The Duke of Procyon has been overtly critical of the Captain-General for years now, at least since his personal friend, General," he frowned shortly, "Willis – I believe was his first name – Crawford was made the scapegoat for a failed attack on some Lyran world. Janos Marik had him shot. Anton Marik probably has never forgiven his brother for that. The two have been at odds ever since."

Volkova shook her head. "So what? Even if he's his brother, he's still just some regional noble, right?"

"I believe this is an issue of the vastly different nature of our nations and societies, General," Posca addressed her. "My home nation is a lot more decentralized – splintered even, some might say – then the Hegemony. Whereas here, at the end of the day dominus rules supreme, with appointed planetary magistrates, the League is characterized by a patchwork of semi-independent polities, with sometimes vastly different cultures, completely opposite modes of home rule, locally raised troops, and privileges that those who have them are fiercely defensive of. As such, everything is a political maneuver between competing factions."

Knowing what he did about the events to unfold in the coming years, Marius motioned Posca to continue. Even in his old time, he had gained a decent understanding of the League over the years, despite his relative isolationism. That was, as much as one could grasp chaos itself.

"The Captain-General has been put on the spot by his brother, which has forced his hand, dominus. He dares not look weak against his domestic political opponents, so he jumps to support the Illyrians to create an image of decisiveness. Which, in turn, does create another quandary for him. If he does not make a move, he is seen as weak, which undermines his position as Captain-General. Depending on the volatility of his environment, disobedience by the member states, and even a coup may be in the cards in that case. It is not much better if he moves too much, either. For one, public sentiment in the League has always been a fickle thing. The same forces that have lambasted him for his inaction may very soon scold him for his vast spending and diversion of funds for the actions he is taking. Other factions wills protest that deploying federal troops leaves their parts of the borders unprotected, or vulnerable. Forces like, say, Dame Humphreys of Andurien will – with some justification – argue that spending time and effort and changing the strategic landscape for something that has befallen a relatively unimportant neighbor while at the same time neglecting the needs of the member states, is irresponsible, treasonous even. Worse still, the Rim Commonality and all those Periphery-facing border systems may soon raise the – again, valid – point why it is that troops suddenly can be marshalled if its in the interest of the Captain-General's public image, but not during the decades, really, that our buccaneers, and the Circinians, and all those other pirates and marauders have preyed on them, not just a neighboring nation."

"Damned if you do, damned if you don't?" Corvinus asked, his girth pressing against the table.

"Essentially, yes," Posca nodded.

An oppressive silence descended on the members of the Hegemony's innermost circle as everybody sought to process the picture Posca had painted. After the silence had begun to stretch for what felt like minutes, Marius quietly spoke up.
"We cannot keep doing this," he muttered, looking up at his advisers and confidantes. "Every day we keep on a path of open confrontation is one more day the risk of things spiraling out of control rises. We need only one misjump, one round fired in panic, and we'll be in a war we have no hope of winning, or even surviving."

"Then what can we do?" his uncle asked.

Marius shot a glance at Posca. "What we should have done from the start. We'll offer Janos Marik a way out."


Nova Roma, Alphard
Marian Hegemony
March 6th, 3011

Looking out one of the painted windows of the Chamber of Whispers, Marius imagined he could still see the massive Overlord-class dropship boasting a Marik eagle the size of a small house, standing on Alphard's main spaceport. It had touched down with pinpoint accuracy, an escort of Marian ASF soaring back into the sky, followed by a welcoming ceremony with full military honors, hymns, flags.
Given it had been the first ceremony of the sort in Hegemony history, Marius felt they had made a good effort, though there was undeniably room for improvement.

"I was surprised when you contacted me to ask for the Blessed Order to act as a neutral arbiter," Laura Trin, Precentor Alphard stood a few paces behind him, her hands vanished in the long sleeves of her robes, her neatly braided white hair creating a stark contrast to her almost ebony skin. "Positively so, I might add. Terra was also delighted. ComStar has always seen itself as a force for peace, but sadly the instances where people in a position like yours have been amendable to our offers have been few and far between, Your Majesty."

It had taken weeks of a delicate back and forth via HPG, facilitated by the ComStar Precentor, to arrange this meeting.
"I've been told you used to be a mercenary in your youth," Marius commented quietly. "Undoubtedly, you've seen first hand what happens when people stop talking."

"Yes," Trin's gravelly voice was somber, "though that was a long time ago, in a different life."

The doors to the chamber swung open, and the League's delegates entered, flanked by an honor guard.

General Davinder Goodwin was a tall, broad-shouldered man in his late fifties, with salt and pepper hair cropped short in a military fashion and an immaculately groomed black mustache. A spiderweb of faded scars on parts of his face made it clear that he had not always fought his conflicts from behind a desk, and as he shook hands with the Emperor, his grip was hard and unforgiving. Having trained hard himself, he responded in kind, the two men locking eyes in a silent contest. The moment passed as fast as it had come, both men withdrawing their hands as if on cue, still mustering one another.
With him was a young aide-de-champs as his adjutant.
"Once more, welcome to Alphard, General Goodwin."

"Your Majesty," Goodwin greeted, his tone smooth but edged with a hint of formality that betrayed the underlying tension. He inclined his head slightly, a gesture of respect but not submission. "It is a... rare pleasure to be here in the heart of the Marian Hegemony. I hope the journey was worth the opportunity for dialogue."

Marius nodded curtly. "I'm glad we were able to arrange this meeting. Please, be seated." The interior of the Chamber of Whispers had been rearranged for the occasion. Instead of the large oval table, there were now three individual ones, formed in a loose U-shape, with Goodwin and Mercurial opposite of Marius and Posca, and Precentor Trin with an acolyte serving as a bridge – or moat – between them.

As they settled, the ComStar representative stepped forward. "I am Precentor Laura Trin. It is my privilege to serve as mediator for this meeting today, on behalf of ComStar and our interests in maintaining stability between the Marian Hegemony and the Free Worlds League. My acolyte will also keep a record of the words spoken here." Though his voice was gravelly, his speech was smooth, practiced. "As arbiters of communication between the stars, we appreciate your willingness to come to the table."

Marius inclined his head. "If it avoids unnecessary bloodshed, then it's a small price to pay," he replied evenly, though his gaze flickered to Goodwin, trying to gauge his expressions. "I'm certain Captain-General Marik feels the same."

"Of course," the FWL officer responded, his smile tight. "The Captain-General is a man of peace at heart. But he is also a protector of the League's interests. The recent... events in the Illyrian Palatinate have caused considerable turmoil and casualties among the innocent. There are concerns that these destabilizing activities, carried out by elements we know are supported by your government, are a prelude to something far more dangerous."

"And by 'dangerous,' you mean the threat of League regulars entering the conflict?" Marius interjected softly, his voice calm but firm.

Godwin's eyes narrowed slightly. "I mean the threat of a regional conflict spiraling into a wider war," he corrected. "A conflict, I might say, that your nation has instigated. If left unchecked, the continued support for pirates and rogue elements destabilizes not just the Palatinate, but this entire region of the Periphery – and our border. The League cannot and will not tolerate such actions."

Posca leaned over to Marius and whispered something. The young Emperor nodded, then steepled his fingers, his gaze never leaving Goodwin's face.
"There is no denying that we have caused the current conundrum, and I accept full responsibility for this. But in the interest of peace, I'll be frank, General Goodwin. The Hegemony has no interest in any kind of open conflict with the Free Worlds League. After we were chased off Illyria, it suited our interests to see the Palatinate punished in return and destabilized – not conquered, not annexed. But with League troops arriving on the border and League mercenaries bolstering the Illyrian forces, the situation is on the verge of escalating beyond control."

"An interesting interpretation of the situation, You Majesty," the officer interjected, his voice a rumbling bass. "A more truthful account of events would surely say that it was the pirates backed by your government who escalated, if we forego the idea that your initial military strikes were not the true escalation to begin with. Pirates who have by now raided longer than every before, and some of whom have aspirations of statehood."
Goodwin leaned back slightly, nodding curtly to himself. "If you want to deescalate so badly, then why not pull your support entirely? Withdraw your forces, sever ties with your Crimson Chalice, and allow the Palatinate to restore order, with the help of the League."

Marius shifted uncomfortably, his expression darkening. "At current, my government is not actively involved in the operations of the Chalice. Even though they carry letters of marque issued by the Hegemony, they are free agents. I cannot command them anymore than I can command the ocean out in Landing Bight. Besides, even if I we were to do that, the vacuum left behind would be filled by what are essentially League forces in everything but name. You'd have a Palatinate puppet state, completely under Atreus' influence."

Goodwin's smile turned thin. "You speak of influence as if it were a dirty word, Your Majesty. The League merely wishes to see peace restored. Is this not what you want?"

"A peace that one-sidedly favors the League," Marius countered smoothly. "You must see the dilemma we face. If we withdraw, we concede the Palatinate to your control. If we continue, we risk a war neither side truly wants. And so," Marius continued, his voice firm, "I am prepared to offer concessions, if in return the League will withdraw its regular army formations from the Palatinate-Hegemony-League border and return to a pre-conflict stance in the region."

Goodwin raised an eyebrow. "What concessions would that be?"

"What concessions might Atreus want?" Marius replied almost immediately. "General, it is my foremost duty to reduce threats to the safety of my nation. We will draw down our readiness levels, pull back the bulk of our forces, including any direct support – which I do not concede we are lending – for Fletcher's and the Crimson Chalice's operations, and in return, you halt your own reinforcements. And we allow Fletcher to consolidate his hold over Illyria without further interference. That would be a first step to take pressure off the cooking pot, General."

Goodwin's eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering across his face. "That sounds a great deal like allowing your puppet to control the Illyrian capital world by default."

"No," Marius replied, his tone sharp. "It's allowing Fletcher to control what he already holds. Illyria is his right now, and Gundermann knows it. I know. You know it. We're not asking you to withdraw your," he smiled thinly, "humanitarian support completely, and it is not our place to tell you which mercenaries to fund. Just to recognize the status quo. Let him keep Illyria, or rather, let Gundermann figure this out, with the help of your money and guns, and in exchange, the Hegemony will discourage those forces operating with an official letter of marque from any further incursions into League space. Which, let's drop protocol for a moment, is what you really want. None present here truly care about the Palatinate. Fletcher remains as a buffer—a neutral party, independent of us and the League. Should he get out of line by, say, raiding Free Worlds border systems? Well, who are we to condemn a punitive action by the aggrieved party?"

Davinder Goodwin exchanged a quick glance with his aide which made Marius reevaluate their relationship.
"You may underestimate people's capacity for empathy," he said quietly, a tang of disgust in his voice. "But, I believe reducing tensions? Yes, that is a position we can essentially agree on. Of course, the League will not officially recognize Fletcher's control over Illyria." He cleared his throat. "But we can live with it, for now. As for concessions, Your Majesty? The Captain-General will most certainly be amenable to a binding non-aggression agreement between the Hegemony and the League, but we will require guarantees."

Marius and Posca exchanged a quick glance. Here it comes, Marius thought. The real meat of the deal.

Goodwin's aide slipped him a sheet of paper. The officer produced a set of black-rimmed glasses from his uniform jacket and briefly skimmed the text.
"One. The Marian Hegemony will immediately cease its military buildup and refrain from raising further regiments. Two. The Marian Hegemony will abstain from any military operations against the Illyrian Palatinate from hereon, whether direct or indirect through third parties. Three. The Marian Hegemony will cease any material or logistical support for the illegal pirate forces operating on the worlds of the Illyrian Palatinate and seize their assets. And Four. The Hegemony is to pay reparations for damages incurred by your pirate allies in the amount of 50 million C-bills to the legitimate Illyrian Government."

Placing his hands flat on the polished table, Marius exhaled, trying to maintain his composure. Agreeing to that would mean nothing short of being crippled in the face of danger, especially since the actual conflict around the four Illyrian worlds would not be resolved.

He felt a tug at his tunic, and Posca leaned in, murmuring at the edge of audibility.
"Remember our lessons about rhetoric. Do it by the letter. Use their words against them." Another tug. "You can do this, boy."

Well, he had to. Making concessions was no monarch's most developed trait. On the other hand, he could draw from more than four decades of having to makes deals with senators who would have sold their mothers' souls for favors. Thinking hurriedly, he raised his hand, playing for time to formulate a counter to the League's proposal – nay, demand.
"Precentor Alphard," he looked over to ComStar's representative. "Since we are talking about military matters, I propose to simplify matters and use the League's own unit structure as a base for discussion, rather than having to jump back and forth between ours and there nomenclature. Is this acceptable to you, General Goodwin?"

The opposite table once again exchanged looks, then Goodwin nodded in agreement. "That is acceptable."

"Good." 'Let's play', Marius thought. "The Hegemony is amenable to a limitation of its battlemech forces. We currently field three regiments in various stages of mobilization. Given that we have recently added new worlds to our realm through our colonization program, these forces are vital to guarantee national defensive capabilities. However, for the sake of de-escalation, the Marian Hegemony will agree that its battlemech force shall not exceed these three regiments."

Goodwin and his aide - or was it handler? - stuck their head together for a moment, whispering, before the battle-hardened veteran spoke up again. "Add 'The Hegemony will not circumvent this limitation by hiring mercenaries', and we can agree."

Marius nodded. Reluctantly.
"As for your second point, the Hegemony acquiesces to abstain from any offensive military actions by the MHAF's battlemech forces – or third parties – against the Illyrian rump state."

"Acceptable," this time Goodwin answered directly.

"Thank you. Unfortunately, point we cannot abide by your demands raised in the next point, General. While I consent to an immediate stop of the flow of any material or logistical support to those pirates embroiled on worlds of the Illyrian rump, a seizure of their assets within the Hegemony is illegal," despite himself, he had to smile at the irony. "By our laws, they have not committed any crimes, not within the limits of our jurisdiction, that is, and a seizure of property or funds without a legal basis... That is a legal precedent I am not willing to create," he shook his head in earnest. The irony being that he would have loved to follow this demand. But he was the head of state of a spiritual successor or the Rome of old. The city of lawyers. "I would rather risk your wrath than that of billions of Marians who suddenly will no longer be sure if their property rights are still intact. So, no. That half of your demand I cannot accede to. Of course, if Illyrian regulars or mercenaries in their employ were to kill a pirate leader with no next of kin, well..." he shrugged with an innocent smile. "There are laws about the public seizure of ownerless assets, part of which could then potentially be used to ameliorate conditions in the Illyrian rump?"

"It's not perfect, but it seems a reasonable enough compromise," Goodwin commented gruffly with a curt nod, clearly disappointed. "And our fourth demand?"

Fifty million C-bills was a substantial sum, and it was far more substantial now than it had been two years ago, before everything had been set in motion. The Hegemony was burning through cash right now, with the burden of two massive colonization projects ongoing, the crash expansion of the legions, and the cost of mobilization. "Thirty million. And the money will be handled by Comstar and go directly to civilians in need of aid on Trondheimal and Trasjkis."

"Forty million."

"Thirty-five."

"Fine, deal," Goodwin agreed.

"Then we are in agreement, General?" Marius waited a moment, steeling himself against the possibility of objection.

"Broadly so, I believe, Your Majesty," the high-ranking League officer said.

"Then I would like to add a fifth point. The duration of this treaty will be limited to ten years." Marius held up a hand to stifle Goodwin's retort. "Hear me out, please. A lot can happen in ten years. Maybe Herod Gundermann, with your backing, reconquers the Illyrian worlds. Maybe the Palatinate splinters completely. Maybe the Succession Wars enter a new round. Come to think of it, maybe one of our nations descends into civil war, who knows?" he grinned mirthlessly. "Our defensive needs may drastically change over the span of a decade. So, in ten years we may reconvene again, and sign a new treaty, if so desired?"

Goodwin's aid agitatedly spoke to him, but he brushed her off, annoyance creeping into his expression for the first time. "It's not what we set out to achieve, but it's nonetheless a reasonable stipulation. On behalf of the League, I agree."

Marius felt a weight slip off his shoulders he had not even noticed had been there. "Precentor Trin?"

Comstar's highest representative on Alphard looked at the acolyte next to her, who had been transcribing their negotiations. The younger man nodded.
"If it's acceptable to both factions, we shall adjourn this meeting so that the Blessed Order may finalize the treaty documents for both delegations to ratify." He rose and opened his arms, smiling broadly. "To peace, my friends, Blake's blessing be with you!"


Nova Roma, Alphard
Marian Hegemony
March 9th, 3011

Marius stared into the sky, his face still, listening to the fading roar of the Free Worlds League dropship as it vanished into Alphard's sky.

"You did well today, boy," Posca, standing a customary step behind and to his side, said in a low voice, his lips barely moving. "I'm proud of you."

"I had a good teacher, old friend," Marius replied, his lips' movements as subdued as Posca's, a trick they had perfected a long time ago to hide their words when cameras were in the vicinity. He allowed himself the flash of a tight smile. "'By the letter'. When do you think they'll fully grasp what they've signed?"

"Not sure, dominus. Goodwin did not strike me as a trained diplomat."

"Most likely he was the most senior official they had in the vicinity. Another lesson of governance to be taught early: make do." He sighed, the sound inaudible in the commotion of the space port. "I suppose the likelihood of someone on Atreus combing through it right now as we speak is very high. Doesn't matter, though. It's ratified, and notarised by Comstar."

"Janos Marik will run with it, spinning it as a great success," Posca agreed. "He will not risk to lose face." His eyes turned towards the capital. "I reckon I should go and explain what it truly means to dear General Volkova, lest she suffers from an aneurysm."

"No," Marius subtly shook his head. "I'll handle dear Anna. For you, I've got a special task, old friend.


Illyria, Central Region
Fmr. Capital of the Illyrian Palatinate
April 2nd, 3011

A brisk wind tugged at Posca's brown cloak. Framed by a local species of pine trees he stood on a low ridge overlooking a sprawling site, a wide river bed down below, and rugged hills with rocky peaks in the back. His face was impassive as he took in the scene.

The massive structure of the Nywinter Gorge Dam loomed over the construction site like a scarred monument to past destruction. Great concrete slabs lay shattered where Marian demo teams and artillery had blasted through its walls and turned its turbines into slag during the Hegemony's punitive expedition. Now, Fletcher's forces were rebuilding it. Cranes and scaffolding dotted the structure, swarming with slaves under the watchful eyes of armed guards. It was a project of immense scale, and it told Posca everything he needed to know about Fletcher's ambitions.

And then there were the slaves. Posca's gaze flicked toward the lines of broken men and women toiling in the cold mud, their backs bent under the weight of massive steel beams or laboring under the watchful eyes of overseers. They were a mix of ages, races, and backgrounds—plucked from all corners of the Periphery and beyond. It was clear that Fletcher had invested heavily in acquiring them, probably at a significant cost. But Posca knew enough about the economics of power to recognize the logic behind the cruelty. Slaves built what soldiers couldn't. They worked tirelessly, died easily, and could be replaced cheaply.

Above them, perched like vultures on the ledges of the canyon walls, was the real muscle: a lance of battlemechs painted in a garish red-and-black scheme. Posca didn't really know much about mechs other than these looked to be in good condition, and there was a really big one among them. He could see a few of pilots moving within their cockpits, alert and ready, scanning the perimeter as if daring any threat to show itself.

"Quite the sight, isn't it?"
The voice was smooth and confident, with a hint of a drawl that Posca had found instantly irritating when they had met the first time, back on Alphard. Middle-aged and sturdy built, the pirate lord had a clean suntanned shaven head and face, contrasted by a pair of angry red scars running diagonally across his head. Wearing a plain gray greatcoat padded with kevlar fibers and protective plating, he walked up the ridge to meet Marius' envoy without breaking a sweat.

But it was Fletcher's eyes that caught Posca's attention. They were a sharp, calculating blue, the eyes of a man who had clawed his way to the top through blood and betrayal and wasn't afraid to do it again if needed.

"It is something," Posca allowed, his gaze drifting back to the dam. "You have certainly got them working hard."

"Here, and on dozens of other sites, though this one's on a tighter schedule. Has to be ready before the first frost." Fletcher pointed towards the vast, rocky riverbed. "The region needs the power, and if the dam's not up and running the spring floods will ruin the crops. Drown them, then dry them out." He shrugged. "Spring's a weird beast on Illyria."

"How very considerate of the people of you," Posca remarked, his voice flat and dry.

Fletcher's look made it very clear how little he was amused. "Starving people pay no taxes. And industry and commerce need electricity. Conducting a war is expensive."

Posca nodded slowly, watching as a group of slaves struggled to maneuver a massive steel girder into position. A guard cracked a whip across one man's back, sending him sprawling, and the others redoubled their efforts, fear driving them onward. "Then it is lucky you have been able to swell your ranks from unusual sources."

Fletcher didn't react for a few seconds, long enough that Posca thought no answer would be forthcoming. When the self-styled ruler of Illyria eventually spoke up, his gaze was fixed on something out of sight, and his voice was pensive.
"Curiosity is a virtue. I've traveled far in my life, farther than most. People here have no idea of the wonders the Deep Periphery holds." He shot Posca a glance. "And of the horrors. I've made friends. Enemies. And gathered a lot of favors I now have decided to call in."

A ripple of movement caught his eye. From behind Fletcher, emerging with silent, measured steps, came a trio of female figures cloaked in flowing, dark robes and charcoal-gray armor that covered every part of their bodies. Their appearance had something distantly nun-like to it. They moved with a grace that was almost unnatural, their faces hidden behind smooth, black visors. Even the brisk wind did not seem to disturb them, as if they were somehow separate from the world around them. They held what Posca assumed to be laser carbines with practiced ease.

Noticing Posca's expression, the pirate lord chuckled softly. "You must forgive them for the lack of greeting. The Still Sisters have sworn an oath of silence."

"I see," Posca replied, his voice carefully neutral. "But I did not come here to admire your collection of cutthroats, Commander Fletcher. I have a message from my master."

Fletcher's expression hardened. "And what does Marius O'Reilly want from me, now that he has thrown me under the bus?"

Despite himself, Posca had to smile. Given all that had happened to him, all that had brought him to this juncture in his life, to say his relationship with pirates was a complicated one would have been a moon-sized understatement. "It is not my master's fault that you have been hoisted by your own petard. The plan was simple enough that we thought a man of your intellect could grasp it. Go in, pillage until you are gorged, then leave. You painted a giant bullseye on your back by deciding to play king. Not us."

Fletcher's lips tightened into a thin line, and he stared down at the construction site, silent for a moment. "Well, spit it out then. What does the Emperor want?"

"'Fletcher, be a good boy'." Seeing the avalanche of different emotions race across the pirate' scarred face almost compensated for the moths Posca had spent in a slave cage. Almost. He leaned closer. "Well, I am paraphrasing, of course," his smile broadened.

"I don't like your tone, slave," Fletcher growled, the three assassins stirring behind him.

"Tough. But you will just have to indulge me." The sudden steel in the older man's voice took the pirate captain aback. "Because if you do not, you might well not be alive anymore in a year or so. Your less-gifted pirate colleagues are trying to emulate your land grab by getting little fiefdoms all over Trasjkis and Trondheimal. That has bought you some time. But when the Illyrian mercs grind them down – and they will grind them down – Marik money will make sure of that – your head will be on the chopping block. Make no mistake, Fletcher: you are hanging on by a thread. What you need is time. Time my master is willing to provide you with, by twisting an agreement he has just signed into a pretzel. Not because he likes you, Fletcher. Your little excursion has been a constant source of annoyance. No. Dominus is willing to have your back because he does not like being told what to do. You are a liability to us, Fletcher. We are an asset to you. I suggest you think long and very hard about the implications of that fact."

Fletcher's face was a fight between icy composure and a rolling tide of anger. But only for a moment. When he spoke up again, his voice was level. "I am aware of the treaty stipulations. You can't support me, can't supply me."

"Not directly, no. The Marian Hegemony cannot send you weapons, cannot send you money, cannot hire mercenaries for you. Not directly. That much us true." Posca's smile turned from schadenfreude to mischief. "But we absolutely can lower taxes on your vast estates and corporate interests. Hire them exclusively for state contracts. Subsidize them in their operations. After that? Who are we to determine what you do with these legally acquired gains? If you manage to hold on, the throne is prepared to eventually recognize you as the rightful ruler of this planet. After that…," the white-haired tutor and advisor shrugged.

Fletcher's face lit up in surprise, but the emotion was a brief flash. "Where's the catch?"

The smile of Posca's face dropped, and the steel was back. "Get your house in order. No more wanton butchery and rape. Reign your people in. We don't care how."

Fletcher's mouth worked silently. He looked back at the great work that was done below, and at the forces he had assembled. A cold breeze from the rugged highlands north washed over him. He knew what to do.


Illyria, Southern Continent
Fmr. Capital of the Illyrian Palatinate
April 4th, 3011

"Fletch! Ya cornhole-faced cunt, what bring you here?!"
Leo 'Blaze' Mercer, a man consisting of four hundred pounds of meat and muscle hid beneath countless layers of fat, and a heart so black it ate light, rolled off the king-sized diwan and waltzed over to embrace Jason Fletcher in a bear hug. He wore nothing but a silk robe and boxers, and Fletcher couldn't help but notice that his already considerable girth had increased since they had last spoken to one another in person. "Should've called ahead, ya sneaky bastard!" Mercer laughed. He smelled of booze and sweet smoke and sex – and not having bathed in a few days.

"Oof! And where'd be the fun in that, you big, fat ogre?" Mercer let go of him, and Fletcher had a chance to study the room. Music blared from half a dozen speakers, and a video of half-naked dancers ran on a large screen in the background, not that Blaze would have needed the encouragement. A couple of naked, empty-faced women lounged on the big sofa and on other spots throughout the room. Booze and carelessly discarded riches occupied much of the rest of the humungous pirate's inner sanctum. "Seems like you're enjoying yourself."

"Yuuurp!" Mercer belched and slumped back onto his diwan. "Man, I live like a king here. I do what I want, I fuck who I want, and if I feel like it I kill whoever I want. Can't get rusty – you gotta get creative, Fletch!" he laughed.
Jason Fletcher's smile was non-committal, but Mercer didn't notice.

"So, what brings you here, Fletch?"

"Can't I check up on my longest-serving partner in crime, Blaze?" he smiled innocently, and the massive man laughed.

"Yeah, right." Mercer took a puff from a hookah. "Always sentimental, that's how I know ya."

Both men burst into laughter. Fletcher let himself sink into a mountain of cushions opposite Mercer. "Well, half-true. I just happened to have a visitor from Alphard two days ago, bringing word from our most hallowed Marius O'Reilly," he explained.

"Fuck that cunt," Mercer growled. "What does he want? I'm not his lap dog that he can tell jump, and I jump?!"

"He wants us to play nice. No more random killing, raping, looting; just being responsible, respectable adults," he threw Blaze a lopsided grin, sure of the big man's reaction. They were two opposite poles of the spectrum. Fletcher had raped, killed, and looted. But he drew no particularly lasting pleasure from it: only from the wealth and power that came with it. Meanwhile, Blaze was one with his vices.

The big man rolled his eyes, absentmindedly fondling one of the women beside him. "I s'ppose he wants us to swear an oath and start paying income taxes next."

"Something like that. He's offered to recognize us once the worst has blown over and things have settled. Planetary magistrate for life, plus legal recognition of all the plunder and lands we've taken. Plus being ennobled. That means becoming a Patrician," he smirked.

"Oh, so that I can grovel in the dust before him and kiss his pinky finger?" Blaze snorted. "We're kings, Fletch. Kings! We can do whatever the fuck we want! Start living life to the fullest, ya miserable cunt. And fuck that O'Reilly kid!"

"Ah, you big, dumb, fuck. Never one to mince words. I had a hunch that'd be your response. Well," he slapped his thighs. "Been a long flight. Hey Blaze, why don't you fix me a drink while I step out and take a piss? I'll be back in a minute."

"See, that's the spirit! I'll be quick about it," Mercer promised as Fletcher slipped through the two-winged door.

The Still Sister held a man's body, one hand firmly over his mouth, the other twisting a knife in his neck as he bled out.

The de facto ruler of Illyria frowned. "You were right, you know."

A last twitch, and the lifeless body slumped to the floor, the knife wiped clean in one stroke.

"No need to gloat about it." Fletcher shook his head. "The mansion is secure?"

The black visor tilted a fraction to the side.

"His mechwarriors are in the annex, you say? Keep them alive; they'll fall in line, Reverend Mother. You can call your-"

A trio of the strange, faceless killers, carrying autoshotguns, ascended the stairwell in front of him, soundless like snakes. He shook his head. "I see, you already have." He looked at the door behind which Leo 'Blaze' Mercer obliviously waited for him, and sighed. "Let's get this over with."


Edit: Corrected a word here and there. Also changed the Precentor to Laura Trin. I wasn't aware we had canon data on that particular aspect.
 
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Loving the story so far and just got to the end of the CB arc and I know it’s been said already but that seemed…quick? I mean the whole affair seemed rushed and shoddily put together from the Marian’s just basically going ‘trust us bro we’re just mining shit’ to Comstar dropping a mechtrick ‘heh’ fuckton of hyper competent and super up killers on their heads seemingly overnight.

Some small changes that I feel could make it all flow a bit better and be a bit more easily digestible is to

1: have the Marian’s putting up a better smoke screen. Have them make an entire fake refinery/ ore processing plant that they keep locked up tight because it’s a precious metal mine or even germanium that they are ripping out of the ground. Carting in 5-20 tons of germanium in various stages of refinement and just essentially cycling it through the plant to give a semblance of processing and actually pulling ore out of the ground would help make it actually feel like the Marian’s are trying to hide what they are doing and not just crossing their fingers and hoping the people that they have raided for decades now don’t get suspicious about why the Marian’s are trying to set up an dead zone of info on their planet.

2: have more of the tunnels collapsed/ that first room full of clutter be something that sets off demo charges that collapse a lot of the connecting tunnels for the base. It would lengthen the amount of time between the Marian’s getting in and getting to the good stuff and help explain why they couldn’t just ride out in a bunch of supped up mechs or refit a bunch of their mechs with star league gear to then crush any force C* or the yokels send at them. After all if they only got the mech bay access way clear say a week before C* mercs arrived in system and they decided to try and repair the damaged mechs before the mercenaries jumped into system at which point they decided to break it all down and get it on a dropship then it’s a lot more reasonable why it’s not lost tech mechs sallying out to face the enemy. And why the amount of gear they pulled out is a lot lower since they had to dig through metric fuck tons of collapsed earth and stone to get to what they could.

3: have C* figure out what’s going on months after they initially set up on planet. Give the Marian’s time and an ever growing suspicion from the Illyrians to increase tension and really hammer home the race against the clock that the Marian’s are under. Have a C* adept suspicious of the scenario after a Illyrian scout he overheard saying something like ‘they must be real desperate for germanium if they’re sifting through that much rock and dirt for what they’re pulling out! I thought they were supposed to have the motherload of all deposits on they’re slave holding ass planet but all i see day in and day out is the same 3 dump trucks dropping off a bunch of rock with a few good clumps of ore on top!’ Gives a more a hah moment when the C* adept finally gets permission to do an over fly of the base, or even does it un-sanctioned, and manages to find say one dump truck with a loose canvas on top which shows that under all that rock is a Cameron star stamped crate.

Just some ideas for things that could be added to those chapters without changing the over all flow or anything just some gripes.
I love the story and just had that stick out to me as weird. After all even if they had found all the gear in the little Brian as I’ve taken to calling it, it wouldn’t make that big a difference. Say they found a regiment of mechs able to be put into service immediately, 3-5 wings of aerospace in same conditions, a couple months of heavy use worth of replacement parts for it all, some light naval replacement parts, blueprints, the depot level repair facilities and medical wing, etc. It is still no where near enough for the size of their realm and the forces arrayed against them. The FWL could eat all that for lunch if they wanted to and spread out as it would be over their entire territory even if it was all brought out at once and not mainly kept in reserve and drip dropped into service it not draw attention the main problem for the next 10-20 years realistically is manpower. They could scoop all that gear and goodies up but without the infrastructure, supply base and industry to make use of it all it’s going is sitting there mocking them which is I feel more ironic than only getting part of it and loosing the rest. And getting it all but knowing you can’t make use out of 90% of it because you don’t have the manpower or industry to maintain it reverse engineer any of it would be a great way to push him into charging ahead with reforms even harder as he has this mocking treasure trove of tech and material he can’t use because of his country’s lack of educated people at every sector of his economy or military
 
I think your points are very good, and they do reveal a slight problem I had with this, which is that the whole Illyrian arc, CB and everything that follows, was not part of my original layout for the story, but only something I pounced on once I got presented with the info about the CB and the memory core. That, structurally, is the background why it feels so rushed. It presents an interesting conundrum for the protagonists, including strategic challenges, but it brings with it the disadvantage of really cluttering up the narrative that I had more or less set in stone. To illustrate it: without Illyria, we'd probably be in 3014 by now, story wise.

That being said (and you're right with your points, and offer constructive changes which I truly appreciate), there's also one interpretation which I am kinda sympathetic to is to see the whole affair as one counterpoint to the idea of infallible foreknowledge that fics like this often, consciously or not, carry with them. Yes, Marius knew what was were, but even with all his foreknowledge about events and players he still misjudged the possible butterflies, and the resolve and speed with which C*, for example, would answer.

But C*'s answer has him rattled, and now he's pre-occupied with the looming threat of escalation into open war with the FWL, something which eats up all his time, and also all his nation's available resources at the moment. Once there's less pressure on that cooker, he can start drip-feeding memory core info to parties that he sees fit. Right now, he has engineers trying to figure out the tech they have salvaged, and the Marians are canonically almost supernaturally good at getting damaged stuff back up and running again. Which, for the Marians really can make a do-or-die difference in force size and disposition. But the core data, that's a bit of a two-edged sword. Given the reaction just unearthing the CB provoked, he's very keen to not paint another target on his back and let things rest for a while. Once the immediate danger is contained, he'll make more moves, but all in all the downside of trying to do all this in at least a semi-plausible manner is that it'll take time for things to come to fruition.
 
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