Battletech I, Caesar (Battletech)

[Culsu]

​

Disclaimer:
Fair word of warning: the Marian Hegemony in which the majority of this fic will take place is a society in which slavery is a normal fact of life, with all the ugliness that entails. It is also a society that has, for the most part of its existence, heavily sponsored, taken part in and profited from piracy. For the most part, this fic will not make moral judgements about these issues and merely accept them as a given.

 

[Culsu]

Looking back on his life and accomplishments, one cannot help but wonder how inconsequential Marius O'Reilly's reign actually was in the grand scheme of things. As far as Periphery despots in general, and Marian heads of state in particular go, I suppose the most complimentary thing one could say is that he staid in his lane? His policies? Mostly in line with general public and elite sentiment of his nation. He always strode to emulate the image of the 'reliable Patrician nobleman', aloof but ultimately boring, and in doing so, a facsimile of the sort of ancient Terran Roman nobility the Hegemony so blatantly copies. No great reforms. The colonization of four news planets early on in his reign, which admittedly was very competently done, especially for a small Periphery nation. A public building spree that dotted his planets with lavish representative – many would say pretentious – buildings like theaters, arenas, temples, and admittedly additional infrastructure. No strategic industrial expansion of note. No military accomplishments either. A ridiculously fumbled punitive expedition to Astrokaszy, and the Marian legions were... well, one legion strong when he ascended to the throne, and still one legion strong when he was buried forty years later. His wife? Boring, docile, of 'good' patrician stock. No individual accomplishments to her name. Not one public statement of substance from her on file, so you won't even get marked down if her name doesn't appear in your final papers. So, Marius O'Reilly? At the end of the day his contribution to history isn't what he did – precious little of consequence as we've discussed – but who he sired. It's with Sean O'Reilly that Marian history becomes interesting... – Professor Minerva Crenshaw, Introductory Lecture on Contemporary Periphery Politics, Princeton University, Terra. 3122

P r o l o g u e: Coup d'État​

Alphard
Capital of the Marian Hegemony
June 16th 3048

"Alright lads, places to be!"
Sean O'Reilly's voice echoed like thunder through the domed halls and passageways of the place. He clapped his bear-paw like hands, adding whip-crack lighting to the thunder as he hurried down a wide set of stairs, a spring in his step from adrenaline. All around him people dashed to and fro, some in uniform, some in plain fatigues, but all of them armed. It wasn't the sort of chaotic bustle associated with panic, but one of concerted activity following a plan. His plan.

Halfway down the wide marble stairs that had a pair on the other side of he mosaic-floored and painted-glass domed entry hall he came face to face with his father's larger than life portray, and even though he had every intention to hurry on he stopped.

He didn't look a lot like his father.
The thought came unbidden to him, but not unexpected. It was a real painting, oil of canvas, life-sized. The artist had taken great pains to do it in the sort of subdued-yet-pompous neo-realist Lyran style of the late 28th century that people with more money than taste liked to spend money on. His father hadn't cared. He'd only cared that it was something the patricians in the senate could relate to and make him look good in the never-ending squabble for political support from one faction or another.

Which it did, Sean conceded sourly. Where Caesar Marius O'Reilly, third ruler of the Marian Hegemony, was polished marble, Sean was rough-hewn granite. His face was broader, his jaws square, his nose flatter, his hair darker. Only his eyes, and the part of his skull surrounding them, came after his father. That, and his smile.

Maybe the lack of similarity had played whatever tiny part in their alienation. Maybe it was because he came more after his mother. Maybe they could have both walked a different path, not opposite but side by side. He exhaled deeply and his shoulders sagged. Maybe pigs could fly, too. One way or another, when the day was over none of that would matter any longer.

Leading his steps back down the towards the grand mosaic of the hall he spotted one soldier ascending the stairwell towards him, his laser carbine shouldered, going against the flow of the majority. He recognized the man's face and quickly put a name to it: Optio Tibbins. The soldier, his senior by maybe two decades and a grizzled veteran of plenty of missions and raids, some of which the heir to Caesar himself had commanded, stopped at a respectful distance and came to attention. If the twenty plus kilograms of gear slowed him down or burdened him he hid it well.
"What is it?"
"The palash groundsh are shecured, sir. Leaving behind the 4th to keep it that way. VTOLs are ready," Tibbins pointed towards the brass-plated fifteen feet high doors leadings outside.
"Resistance?" Unwanted his eyes flashed back to his father's painting. In his mind he had played through this whole day hundreds, thousands of times. And still, to him his voice sounded almost too casual for the occasion.

Tibbins glanced a look back down the hallways leading perpendicular to the entry hall and gave Sean a slight shrug. "Had to shubdue some overzhealous membersh of the Praétorian Guard, but mosht have fallen in line. Minimal cash-ualties. A few wounded on our shide, a few deaid on theirs." The Pompey-born man's native drawl was as close as humanly possible as talking with your mouth full of soggy oatmeal.

Nigh a quarter of the troops Sean had gathered today hailed from that core world of the Hegemony, and he had commanded them personally after his father had replaced him as head of the colonization efforts in lieu of his uncovered embezzlement and corruption. He understood Tibbins perfectly well.
"Before the day's over, they'll all be on our side, Optio," he gently corrected the man. "Some of them just don't know it yet. Some may need a bit more convincing then others," he flashed a sharkish smile.
Much of the 1st Legion had his back, and the Praetorian Guard had always been more for show than for actual combat. That some of them had actually tried to resist? Credit where credit was due. Noticing Tibbins still stood at his side he raised an eyebrow. "Anything else?"

"Aye sir. Tribune Calestes is on line two," the veteran produced a rugged black rubber coated radio from on of his uniform's many pockets and handed it to Sean who grabbed it eagerly.
"Talk to me, Jeannie!"
"Whenever I do that you try to hit on me," came the sardonic answer in a voice that spoke of too many cigarettes and a decent helping of Bourbon. Janina 'Jeannie' Calestes commanded three armored regiments and had secured him the loyalties of the Patrician voting block her father headed. That in turn had given him access to House levies and mercenaries, both which came in extremely useful right now. She was also one of only a handful of women who had never fallen to his charms – or the temptations of a man with his influence – despite his repeated efforts. For that he respected her even more than for her combat expertise and political connections. She was one of his very few true friends, and as such she got a certain degree of leeway in how she could address him.
"I'm not much for flirting on the radio. Believe it or not, but right now I'd be completely satisfied with a short SitRep on your side," he chuckled.

"Can do, boss. CentCom's secure, communications to and from the orbitals as well as every major broadcast system is under our control. The stage's set for the main event. You're good to go."

Sean closed his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling tension falling off his shoulders that he hadn't even known to be there. "Thanks, Jeannie. I owe you one," he said quietly.

"Oh, don't worry, I'll remind you of that," there was a chuckle on the other end of the line. "Now go and make history. We've got your back. Callestes out."

For a moment he just stared at the now silent radio before handing it back to Tibbins.
"The VTOLs are waiting, shir. Are you ready?"

Sean O'Reilly gave one parting glance to his father's portrait. Alea iacta est. The dice had fallen. A small voice in the back of his head wondered how his father really thought about him. If there was still the love of a father for a son. He'd never know now. Not after today.

Tearing his eyes loose he motioned Tibbins to lead the way.
"Yeah, I'm ready. Get the troops airborne. Time to show the Senate their new Caesar." And that for them, fealty would not be optional.


Herculaneum
Marian Hegemony
June 16th 3048

It was a world of stark and savage beauty, with sheer cliffs and jagged peaks that rose towards the sky like jagged teeth, forming a jawline that ran half a thousand miles from start to end. One of them stuck out into the wilderness below, a grey wedge nearly ten thousand feet high topped in snow that had never molten and crevasses of blue ice that sunlight had never touched.

It was here that two men dared to climb.
One was older, but still in great shape, with a body honed by years of hard training and nigh ascetic exercise, his hair grey but still full, his face eagle-like and patrician. Dark rings under his eyes, sweat beading his chiseled face he nonetheless kept his fully concentrated gaze on the task at hand. Which, by now, was trying to keep up with his younger companion.

Stout and unflinching in both, tackling the seemingly infinite cliff face of Mount Callisto as well as in his duty as a bodyguard, the younger man's limbs bulged with muscles under the UV-protected skintight climbing suit. A shock of sandy blonde hair dangled in the cold mountain breeze, sticking out from his rock-climber's helmet. With trained ease his hands and feet found the cracks and ledges to hold onto. Every twenty feet or so he stopped, grabbed a tiny hammer that was fastened to his utility belt, and drove a hook into the solid rock, creating an anchor point for the climbing rope that connected him and his charge.

A blue sun, too large and too bright for comfort, beat down upon them, casting sharp shadows upon the rocky face of the mountain. Down below the atmosphere was thick enough to filter down much of the UV radiation to acceptable levels. But up here the air was thick with the scent of ozone, and the sparse plants that clung to the mountainside were like nothing they had ever seen before.

Far below them, a forest of bioluminescent mushrooms stretched as far as the eye could see, their tops a sea of pastel colors, of pink and white and purple that would erupt into an eerie glow casting an otherworldly light upon the landscape once the sun did set.

Strange, otherworldly creatures flitted through the air below, their calls echoing across the rugged terrain. The two climbers paid them no mind. They moved with a fluid grace born of long practice and hard-won skill, their muscles straining as they made their way up the unforgiving slope.

Marius arms burned like fire, and he risked a jealous look up to Cobb Sextus. The younger man hung on one arm, his fingers dug into a tiny indentation in the increasingly smooth rock face, all while carrying all the climbing gear. The rock was dark here, almost obsidian black, and staring too long at it made his vision swim…

He was slammed into his shock harness, his head ringing momentarily. IMPERATOR buckled under the impact of the enemy's fire as the flagship of his fleet burned towards their formation at just above two gees.
"That's the last one. Enemy now too close for effective engagement with capital missiles," TAC reported. "Kill on three droppers confirmed. Reliability is high for hits on seven additional bogeys."
Marius watched the two flotillas slowly converge on the bridge's central holoplot. Sitting on an elevated dais behind the captain's chair he was nominally in charge of Marian forces. In truth, Captain Hannah Ishawa ran the battle, and he was glad for it.
"Switch to laser batteries. Concentrated firing clusters. I see too many enemy droppers in that plot. Weapons, I want them gone!"
The young officer's hands at TAC darted over their console, plotting firing solutions. Even with the distant rumble of the massive ship's engines Marius could hear the massive servos of gun turrets carrying subcapital mounts moving to face the enemy.
"TAC?"
"Tracing is good. Scopes showing solid hits on forward inbound bogeys." The blurry image of a Union class dropship trailing atmosphere and debris briefly appeared in the main plot, curtesy of IMPERATOR's bow sensor grid.
"Maintain firing pattern. Scopes, where are their escorts?"
"Unknown. Sensors lost tracking when they threw up the ECM. We've been unable to regain lock since, Captain. Our CI3 has its hands full trying to burn away the fog around enemy capitals."
Ishawa turned in her harness. "Sire, your orders?"
Taking in the tactical plot, Marius hesitated only for a second. "Order our ASF to engage. We have to punch through their naval screen to stop the main force."
"Understood. Comms, order Alpha to Gamma to attack the enemy. Delta is to engage any vampires they may find."
With a delay, Marius saw their own ASF squadrons surge ahead, accelerating to torturous five gees or more to quickly bridge the slowly closing gap between the two forces. Two more enemy dropship symbols faded from red to black as IMPERATOR's guns continued their deadly sonata. Marian ASF raced ever closer to their own engagement range while the calm before the storm soothed the flagship's bridge crew.
"Vampire! Vampire! Vampire!" Three red globes appeared right in front of their position as Scopes' hoarse voice yelled in alarm. "Massive enemy ASF, bearing down two-two-zero to alpha three!" His head snapped to the captain. "El-Ar-Ems inbound!"
"Helm, evasive maneuvers!" Ishawa barked. "Weapons free on all secondaries! Continuous fire from all our PD! Where the hell did they come from?"
"Must've run cold once their ECM went up," Scopes responded through gritted teeth, fighting the ship's sudden acceleration. "Vampires are concentrating fire on CLAUDIUS!"
"All ships, close the formation! TAC, slave their fire control into ours, overlap—"
"Radiological alert! They've got nukes!"
"Concentrate fire to—"
"We've got inbound! Three vampires on direct approach!"
"Put all our point defense on them!"
"They're too fast. Breaking through. Impact in—"
"Sire! Get out! Get out!! Sire?!"

"…sire? Sire?!"
Marius' eyes snapped open, trying to shake off the mental haze. What the hell had that been? He'd never had a dream, a day-dream as vivid as that! It was as if he could still feel the strain the high-G space maneuvers had put on his body. The sounds, the images. The stale air of his vacsuit, it's lingering aftertaste in his mouth. He'd been about to die. In a battle in space. A shiver ran down his spine. What was going on?

Instinctively he thought to push himself away from the looming black wall of the cliff face before a voice finally caught his attention.

"Sire, is everything alright!?"
Cobb Sextus had stopped his climb and was worriedly calling out to him from a few meters higher up.

"Yes. Yes," Marius tried to sound calm and nonchalant and still immediately realized he was everything but. "Just lost my thought there for a second." He balled his fists one after the other, hoping the feeling would somehow anchor himself in reality again. "I'm coming up. Still got a long way to go, eh?"
The words sounded hollow, but he let actions follow.
With a strained grunt Marius pulled one leg upwards, parallel to the rock and reached out for a tiny ledge to use as a handle to pull himself a few feet further up the mountain. A gust of wind beat at him, pushing beads of sweat from his face into his eyes. The salty excretion burned, forcing him to blink and to relinquish his other hand's hold. He realized too late that the change in balance pushed him too far away from the rock face. Strained fingers futily tried to hold on the small ledge and found it far too smooth for comfort. Unable to compensate with his legs he lost his grip, and his footing.

Before he knew it he was falling. A toneless curse was cut short as he slammed into the safety provided by the climbing rope tied to his companion and fastened to a number of hooks above. Pain stabbed at him as the sudden drop clashed his jaws shut with force while trying to push all air from his lungs at the same time. His arm and fingers scraped across the rock, bringing with it a burning sensation immediately doused by the a generous helping of adrenalin his body saw fit to release.

Above, Cobb Sextus grunted, more in surprise than in hurt as the rope suddenly and harshly pulled him against the mountain and two feet down. Pebbles and small rocks came loose and joined the brash of debris Marius' accident had caused to tumble down. Momentarily dazed and hurting, Marius slowly turned on his rope.

Down below a massive shadow flung itself into the air, bellowing hoarse cries of disapproval. Leathery yellow wings twenty feet across shielded a pair of arm-like chitinous claws. Two pairs of milky eyes stared from a triangular skull ending in a two feet long hooked beak lined with blackish teeth that looked as if they could bite a grown man in half. Rows of bioluminiscent tendrils sprouted from the creatures back, floating in the wind like reeds.

A voice called his name through the haze of his agony. His mouth tasted of copper. Shaking himself he spat out a fine red mist. Again he heard his name.
"Sir?! Are you hurt, sir?" If Cobb had been injured from his charge's sudden mishap his voice gave no indication of it. But the concern he had shown before was back on full display.

„Mostly in my pride, Cobb," he winced, his tongue not quite following his commands as readily as usual. „I could use a little rest, I guess." Grabbing the rope with his good hand to steady himself he stared into the wide open air beneath him. "As long as that big fellow doesn't chose me for his next lunch I'll be fine." He eyed the creature circling a hundred feet below warily, suddenly all too aware that he hung freely in the air with nothing to defend him but an ice pick.

Tearing his eyes off the beast he met Cobb's look. His bodyguard already had his short-barreled needlegun out, tracing the creature's path, and the handle of the almost machete-like monofilamen-bladed knife he carried on his left leg was within his reach, if need be.

But Cobb just shrugged. "That thing's called an anglerbird. The brief said they are nocturnal hunters, mostly in the mushroom forests below. And they're picky eaters, supposedly."

"Are you going to shoot it?"

Cobb looked past him and followed the beast. "Eh, not unless I have to, sire. Chances are it's just grumpy we disturbed its sleep. Unless we've really hurt it we should be safe. Besides," he warily eyed the nigh vertical cliff face, "you never know if he's not going to call some friends if I try to take it down."

As if to prove Cobb's point the anglerbird flapped its wings a few times, then sailed away from them and further down the mountain on the crossing winds. Maybe two hundred meters down from the, two more yellow pairs of wings joined it.

Marius felt a cold chill. The universe had lots of predators to offer, and to far too many of them humans came just in the right sizes for quick snacks in between.

"Are you certain don't need help, sire? You look mighty pale." Cobb's voice pulled him back.

The Marian leader frowned. Showing weakness was one of the things Marius had been trained from an early age on not to do. But here he was, sixty-two years old, hanging a couple thousand feet above ground on an alien planet, banged up and weary. This wasn't the snake pit of Alphard. Just Marius, the man, and someone charged with making sure he staid whole and healthy. As much as Marius let him. He sighed and held up his injured arm. It looked worse now than he had initially thought, and with the adrenalin waning the pain was making itself felt. "If the rope's good a couple minutes to recuperate don't sound too bad right about now."

Cobb shot a glance to the hooks he had driven into the rock. "That rope's not going to tear anytime soon, sir. Now let me take a look at that arm or yours, sir." With trained movements he lowered himself down to Marius. Before Caesar could say anything, his bodyguard had a small first aid kit out, coating the wounds on the arms with an antiseptic medigel. Far more gently than the older man expected he placed flexible tissue meshes over the larger injuries. "Open your mouth," he commanded, then peered into it when Marius obeyed. "Hold still. This'll burn, then it'll get really cold. You're still bleeding from where you bit on your cheeks." He shook a tiny spray can. "It'll freeze the wound and congeal the blood in sixty seconds."

Cobb hadn't lied. The little cloud of aerosol found every pore in his mouth like a far too hot chili. New pain shot through his head, only to almost immediately subside again and turn into an unnatural cold. Cobb watched him motionlessly go through the stages, then nodded to himself and pulled himself a few feet up the rope again, tying his part to another hook further up. He met Marius' questioning gaze and shrugged. "Can't really look after you when you're blocking half the view. Somehow I doubt the commander of the guard would be too thrilled to hear that you got eaten by a big bird because I didn't get a good shot off."

Despite the situation Marius had to smile. "No, I doubt she'd be too happy about that." He looked at his arm, then up again. "Thanks, Cobb."

The man just nodded and kept watch. Slowly, Marius' cramped muscles and aching limbs lost some of their tension and, trusting in his rope, he let himself hang, held only by his harness. Pulling in a straw tucked into his shoulder straps he began sipping on the custom-made mix of proteins, minerals and soda he carried in a fluid bag in his own little backpack. The first few sips washed down most of the blood from his gums, then the taste of strawberries replaced that of iron and copper.
Hanging freely from the rock shelter, the alien scented breeze slowly cooling the sweat off his face, with nothing but air beneath him and a mushroom forest reaching to the horizon and beyond, he felt strangely at peace. Away from the demands of court, of senate, of politics, he was not Caesar. Just Marius, the man, the father. The father. And what a great job he'd done at that, he thought with bitter sarcasm. A wave of regret washed over him, colder than any gust of wind that could reach him up here.
Damn it, Sean! Why did you have to betray my trust, again? He wished he didn't have to do what he had to do!
'For the good of the Hegemony'. Somehow that left an even more bitter taste in his mouth than his earlier thought.

He wished … well, what did he actually wish for? Something, anything different. Gods, where had it all gone so wrong, pitting father against son?

Above him, Cobb sat more in his rope harness than hanging in it, one hand on the handle of his blade, the other casually stroking the butt of his rifle. Marius found himself looking directly at the man. With a start he realized he had been holding his breath and exhaled with a deep sigh.
"Do you have children, Cobb?" Marius was startled to find he even had posed the question aloud. And even more aghast at how resigned and weak his voice sounded.

"Me?" Sextus' puzzlement at being asked just that could not have been more apparent. He pondered the question for a brief moment, his brows furrowed. "Nah. None that I know of, anyway. Haven't found the right person yet. Besides," he gestured vaguely at everything and nothing at the same time, "I'd have to be pretty damn irresponsible to keep a family waiting at home, doing all this here. Always on the move on short notice, never sure if I'll be coming back home alive or in one piece. Who'd do that to a kid, a partner?" Sensing that wasn't the answer Marius had hoped for he continued. "But my sister has three. Two girls, one boy, all below the age of ten. Bloody little rascals. They keep you on your feet, I can tell you that!" he chuckled and took a hefty bite out of a protein bar he'd unwrapped with just one hand.

Marius leaned back in his harness again and closed his eyes. "I don't know what I've done wrong, Cobb," he confessed. "Was there some fork in the road that I should've rather taken? Did I expect too much too soon? What could I've done differently?" He opened his eyes again and found Cobb Sextus looking at him without any of the superficial ease or joviality the man had worn on his sleeve the whole day so far. "I don't even know why I'm telling you that," he smiled wearily, not really expecting an answer. But Cobb surprised him.

"We're two men hanging on a tiny piece of rope thousands of feet in the air, sudden and guaranteed death just one misstep away. I'd say there's no place in the whole universe you can find a more impartial listener, sir," the square-jawed bodyguard told him quietly.

Marius let the words linger before he looked away, suddenly feeling both ashamed and vulnerable. "I don't know what to do about my son, Cobb," he admitted after a moment's silence. "I mean, I know what I have to do, but he's still my son. Demotion, charges, exile even maybe. The blood suckers in the Senate will be calling for their pound of flesh, too. Damn it, I know he's lied to me for years, stolen, bribed, gambled. But he's still my son!" He shook his head, ignoring the sudden bout of dizziness the harsh motion brought with it. "Where the hell did it all go wrong, Cobb? Bloody hell," his voice rose, "the boy had everything. Since he was little he was given the best tutors. My wife hand-picked caregivers from all over the nation. Nannies with tons of experience and the best résumés. Famed thinkers, the best-suited slaves to guide and teach him. Hell, I even dragged my good old Posca out of retirement," he chuckled mirthlessly. "What the hell could I've done better? Better than that! Different than that? Tell me, Cobb: what was it that my son's upbringing lacked?"

The bodyguard's face was a mask betraying none of his thoughts. When he finally spoke it was calm and deliberate.
"My brother in law owns a bakery. My sisters helps him, selling the goods, running a small café in their narrow house, right in front of the big stone oven. Both have long days, and him even short nights, but they always make time for my three nephews and nieces. They've got no slaves, no nannies, no tutors. Just the two of them, and all the support and love that parents can have for their children. Sitting down with them to go over their homework for school. Taking a little time to play ball. Comforting them when they're hurt." He tilted his head. "You said you did everything to make sure your son was taken care of, sir. But what if what he really needed was you to care, personally? Not someone you paid to do so. Not some loyal slave you trusted. But you. For the things, the knowledge, the morals only a father could know?"

"Bold words for someone without any children of their own," Marius replied bitterly, surprised at how much Cobb's statement stung, at how much he felt the need to justify himself to this pleb.

The bodyguard simply shrugged. "You asked, I answered, sir. All I know is that nothing may be more important than a mother or father simply proving to their kid that they do care. Family's something we take for granted, until it isn't, I s'ppose. Tutors, nannies, advisors – you think you've won all the battles, but that doesn't mean you also won the war. Your son needed you to be present – and seems you weren't."

Like a needle pricking a balloon Cobb's words deflated his rising ire. He wasn't wrong. Admitting as much felt like mentally climbing a mountain, arduous and unforgiving. But he wasn't wrong. With sudden dread he realized that he couldn't really remember a single time when he had played with his son, or feasted on Saturnalia, or simply been a father on Christmas. To both his children, really. "Keeping the senate in line, setting myself up as the perfect representation of a Marian patrician, as the pater patriae, kept me occupied, Cobb. I always told myself that if I did that it'd be the right thing, not just for me, but for Sean as well. Setting a solid foundation so that when the time was right he could take over," he explained himself wearily. Instead his solitary focus on matters of state had seen him alienated from his close family, including his sister. He shook his head. "And look where that has left us now. When we're back on Alphard I'll be naming his son heir," he looked back up at Cobb. "I wish I could do something, anything to close the gap between my son and I, Sextus. Things should've gone differently, it should never have come to this. Maybe I should've listened more to his ideas. Drawn him closer to me, treated him more as an heir than just an appendix to my rule, my values." He shook his head. "The boy's mother died too soon."

"The curse of the O'Reilly women?" Cobb offered. Caesar's wife had died years ago, and his own mother had not lived to see her son reach adulthood. And even his grandmother had left them before her time.

"Certainly feels like a curse sometimes," Marius conceded.

"Sean… Maybe just treating him more like your son would've been enough."
Cobb's voice held no accusation, only a certain finality, but Marius still looked away.

"I don't know. Maybe yes. I'd always hoped that there was a moment to explain to him, not just as a ruler but as his father, to explain to him what I hoped he would do. And tell him that I didn't want things to end the way they are now bound to play out. To do things differently. But I'm afraid it's too late for this," Caesar frowned.

"Yes, sir. It is too late." Cobb sounded strangely sad, but before he could ponder that the bodyguard continued. "You should know that your son also wishes there was another way. And that he's truly sorry. As am I, sir."

Puzzled, Marius looked up at his bodyguard again – and plunged. To shocked to even cry out, all he saw of Cobb Sextus was the razor-sharp blade of his monofilament knife reflecting the midday sunlight, then the man already shrunk to the size of a dot. Howling air rushed by. Flailing ineffectually, he started to tumble. His heart beat so loud it drowned the whistling air. Stretches of cliff face raced by. Panic gripped his mind, preventing him from thinking clearly. He fumbled for his radio – and found it dead.
Think, Marius! He tried to force himself to calm down. With conscious effort he heaved his body around, facing downwards. The wind whipped at his face. Flocks of birds passed him by, protesting his trespassing in alien chants. Focus! Slowly, with mechanical deliberation he reached for a cord tucked under the shoulders of his bagpack. After a moment of fumbling he found the round pin and triumphantly pulled it.
Nothing happened. And despite himself he laughed. Of course, his emergency chute didn't work. Sean had chosen competent killers. Weirdly enough, that was a soothing thought.

He let go of the cord and spread his arms. It'd slow his fall a bit, steady it. He felt his heartbeat normalize and the panicked fog in his mind clear. Oh Sean. His mind quickly jumped back to the conversation with Cobb. How he wished he could've done something different. So many things.

Falling ever faster he broke through the whispy cloud layer. Down below the rocky slopes and giant fungi grew larger and larger. Blood pounded in his ears, the wind cut into his eyes. Tears streamed down his cheeks. If they were from the wind, or from the deep sorrow he felt in his blank mind he could not say. Above all, he felt a strange peace. Warmer, more earthen smelling wind beat at his face now, and the world rushed in. A single last thought flashed through his head before he closed his eyes.
'Different'.
Then blackness encompassed him.

 

[Culsu]

C h a p t e r 1: Rebirth​

He floated. There was no body. There was no water here. He wasn't even sure if he had eyes, or where 'here' was. But the feeling was that of floating, gently, safely. The darkness was soft as silk, warm as a fur coat in deep winter, caressing, safe. He didn't know how, but he was convinced that all was as it should be. He was content. At peace.

A bell chimed, its sound clean and bright, resting, barely fading in his hearing. There was a flash of light, barely longer than the blink of an eye. Did he have eyes?

"…don't know what happened… suddenly collapsed…"
Muffled voices echoed through the solace, and were gone a just as quick again.
He felt a tug. There was a tiny spot of light in the infinite blackness, immeasurably far away, yet so bright it pierced his sight. The fall. He remembered falling.

Again the bell rang. It was as if its sound drew him closer to the light. But the light felt wrong. Cold. Unnatural.

"…hemorrhagic fever, maybe? …burning him up! Need to cool…"
The voices made no sense. What fever? He was dead. He knew he was dead. Ten thousand feet, free fall, body-meeting-solid-ground dead.

The bell's sound had barely faded when it chimed again, louder now, more insistent. It was as if he was falling through a void, a never-ending abyss, towards the light. A tiny voice whispered that he should have felt a sense of relief, that the darkness was finally giving way to something bright and beautiful. But as he drew closer to the light, he felt a growing sense of unease and fear. This was not how it should be. This was all wrong! It was as if something inside him was warning him, telling him that he should not go towards the light. That he should turn back and retreat into the darkness, where it was warm and comforting.

Once more the bell chimed, and then again, and again, its chime now a rhythm, increasing in speed, its sound no longer a song but a clamor.

"…what are you doing, boy?" His old tutor sat by his bed, looking worried.
The image was gone as fast as it had appeared, but it left a palpable taste of wrongness in him. Posca. He'd been dead for a decade, last he'd heard before… Before what? His mind whirled. He never had told the man farewell, despite their close relation. Once Marius had ascended to the throne, they had barely interacted anymore. He wished he'd told him how much he had meant to him, that there had been a different end to their path. But why had he looked so young?

Unable to hold on the thought he continued to whirl through the darkness, cold fingers pulling at his mind like an oncoming headache. Try as he might, he could not resist the pull of the light.

"…keeps needing a lot of fluid…can't lose the Emperor and his heir in a fortnight!... doing everything we can, nobilis heres…"

Unseen forces pulled at him like a maelstrom, which grew stronger as the light grew brighter and brighter, until it was almost blinding. He felt like he was falling faster and faster, hurtling towards the light at a breakneck speed. He felt trapped, caught in a nightmare from which there was no escape. Unseen tendrils pulled at him as if to tear him apart, every inch of his being screaming in agony. He wanted to scream, but he had no mouth, no voice to express his pain. Around him, the ringing of the bell had turned into a clamoring staccato.

"…been more than a week for my brother, and yet you don't know…credentials won't save you from…" Sylvana? No doubt that had been his sister's voice. But she had sounded angry, louder, full of energy. Why could he hear her? Gods, was she dead, too?

He tried to get away from the light, to retreat back into the comforting darkness that had enveloped him before. Instead of feeling relieved at the prospect of reaching the light, he felt more and more anxious. But no matter how hard he tried, he kept falling, the light growing brighter and brighter with every passing second. Ice gripped his mind. The thunder of the bell made it impossible to think. If he was dead, was he going to hell?

"…stable…wait…"
The light was now so close that he could feel it, not hot, but unnaturally cold. It was like an icy furnace, freezing and burning him from the inside out. He needed to get away! Get away from the light! Instead, the darkness, and with it the warmth and safety receded, flowing away like seawater at low tide. The brightness consumed him.

And then suddenly, he opened his eyes. On a nearby monitor his heart rate beeped incessantly. Fast, almost merging.
Like the bell! Vague memories of a fever came flooding back to him. He knew they were his, but they felt…off. More like something he had been told than something he had experienced: the delirium, the pain, the feeling of being lost in a void.

Marius blinked a few times, trying to adjust to his surroundings. His sight was blurry. As tried to move his hand to rub his eyes, but he found wires running from his chest, arms, and legs, all connected to a battery of instruments surrounding his bed in a crescent. Blinking again, some of his sight began to return.

The room was spacious and luxurious, with high ceilings, ornate columns, and marble floors. The style was classical Roman, but with modern technology subtly integrated throughout. Colorful mosaics covered the floor. The walls were adorned with paintings of landscapes, and the windows looked out onto a lush garden, where birds sang and fountains splashed. Something tugged at the edge of his mind. Yes. He knew this room. Very well, in fact. It had been his chambers as a young man! But why was he here? It couldn't be. He knew, with certainty etched in stone – quite literally – that he had fallen off a mountain, almost ninety lightyears away. He ought to be dead. He had to be dead.

He felt his heart racing, and his raspy breath quickening, his throat feeling drier than the great northern desert. Gods, he was thirsty! Pulling himself up proved easier thought than done. His body felt heavy, as if every muscle had been stretched beyond its limit. He groaned, the pain radiating from his chest, down his arms, and into his legs. He tried to call out for help, but his voice was hoarse and weak, barely audible above the hum of the machines. His muscles ached, and his head throbbed with a pounding headache.

Something stirred at the foot of his bed. A head covered in ruffled auburn hair rocked up, and his sister let out a squeal of surprise, almost stumbling over her own feet as she raced to grab his hand. She looked as if she had cried. She looked so young. He frowned. No, not looked. She was young!

"You're awake! Oh my god, finally!" She squeezed his hand, hard, pressing a button probably equally as hard with her other one. "Fucking nurses, where are they?!" she yelled, far too loud for Marius' ears, only to drop her voice back to a hushed whisper. "You're back, oh thank you, thank you! I thought I'd lost you, too." Grabbing a piece of cloth to clean the sweat off his forehead, she broke into a relieved laughter. "Gods, big bro, you look bad. And you smell worse," she sniffed and poked his nose. "C'mon, where are those doctors?!"

"Water," Marius managed to croak. "Please."

Sylvana nearly jumped to hand him a plain glass. The water was cool and fresh. His throat was so dry it almost hurt to drink. He emptied it in one go and held his hand out, trembling, for an encore. "How?" he managed to ask, his voice still sounding off. "What's going on?"

Her face darkened, if that was possible for such a young face. Sylvana was three years younger than him, which meant she ought to be in her late fifties. The young woman in front of him was undeniably her – and looked not a day older than twenty.

"The doctors said you caught a fever. Burned through you like wildfire through dry grass. They thought we'd lose you. I thought we'd lose you," she almost whispered with a husky voice. Her eyes glistened and she took a deep breath before Marius could speak. "Father's dead, big bro." She'd always called him that when they were young. "Rode through the park like any other day. His horse must've shied, and he fell, badly. Broke his neck. The doctors say he was dead on the spot. Thirteen days ago now. And you've been out of it for far too long, big bro," she sighed heavily and her shoulders slumped.

Nothing here made sense. His father had been dead for forty years. But her hand holding his own felt oddly comforting, calming. He tried to push himself onto his elbows, and failed, breathing heavily. "Where… am I… Sylvana? What's… the date?"

"Home, Marius," she smiled and stroked his greasy hair, sensing his confusion, her voice soothing despite her obvious concern. "In your room, on Mount Caelius. Don't you recognize it? I'll tell the servants to push your bed closer to windows and pull back the shades so you can look over Nova Roma and the bay, all to the horizon of the Stella Maris. And for the date? It's April 19th. Not quite christmas yet," she chuckled.

"The… year!" he croaked, more forcefully and angry than intended.

This time, his sister did frown. Sylvana reached around and picked up a small mirror from his nightstand, shoving it in his face. "You were out for three weeks, Marius, not three years," she scolded him. "There's no need to snap at me when I'm all cried out and almost mad with anxiety for you! It's the same year as when you got sick. It's 3009!"

He heard her voice, but the words made no sense. Neither did the mirror. A young face, marked by sickness and certainly needing a shave, looked back at him. It was his face. But forty years younger.

A voice cackled with laughter in the back of his mind. Different!


Nova Roma, Alphard
Marian Hegemony
April 21st 3009
If it was some kind of hoax or conspiracy, it was a really good one, he had to give it to them. Walking slowly along the meticulously kept hard gravel path while pulling a drip feed behind him on wobbly wheels he savored the cool morning air on his skin. Small steps, deep breaths, he kept reminding himself. Despite a hefty diet of what supposedly were vitamin supplements and a ravenous hunger the palace kitchen struggled to keep pace with, his body felt incredibly weak. A fever that could've killed an aurochs and three weeks of coma wandering between life and death did that to even the strongest body, doctors, nurses, and his own sister kept reminding him. As if on cue, he felt is knees weaken and he stopped on a sandstone balcony shaded by a nearby grove of olive trees. Not moving was enough to steady him for the moment. By now he was more annoyed than concerned about the full ache permeating his head and body. The feeling carried the aftertaste of a massive hangover. He definitely had lost too much fluid.

The scent of blooming flowers filled his nostrils, and the sound of birdsong filled his ears. The lush greenery and sparkling fountains ordinarily would have been a soothing balm to his senses. But he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off, that this was all too perfect.

He glanced around, searching for any signs of danger or deception. There were guards all around, just enough out of sight to not be intrusive. The same was true for nurses and doctors. Again, none of this was in any way out of the ordinary, but there was nothing ordinary about his situation. You didn't just plunge to your death ninety light years away, forty years in the future, just to wake up and be told 'Oh hey, aren't we glad you're awake again, you were really sick and had us worried. By the way, your father's dead.'

Long decades of dealing with the Senate's subterfuge and intrigues had kept him holding his tongue, holding it all together when first faced with that claim. Whatever was really going on, more sedatives and an extended stay in a psychiatric care unit most certainly would not aid him in finding out. So he had been quiet and pretended to accept things at face value. For now.

He always prided himself to be a logical man. This was the palace as he remembered it from his youth. His sister looked the part, acted the part, felt the part. Servants and employees, as much as he could remember them also seemed to check out. The curse of an almost eidetic memory. But he had been witness to too many doppelgänger plots big and small during his time on the throne to quickly let that dissuade his doubts.

Picking up a piece of gravel he weighed it in his hand, calculating, as his look wandered across the panorama in front of him. Alphard was a warm, dry world, and his ancestors had seen fit to build their capital on the shores of one of the few larger bodies of water on the planet. A wide bay stretched from north to south, with Mount Caelius and the ancestral O'Reilly palace forming the southern anchor sticking out into the green-blue sea like an ochre shark tooth. The bay below was bustling with shipping, from small fisher boats and commuter ferries to large container freighters three hundred or more meters long. Behind them, to the north and east, Nova Roma spread out into the hinterlands and steppes like a kraken.

On first glance it looked like the last time he had seen it from this very view, a few days before he had lifted off to his trip to Herculaneum. But it didn't need a trained eye to quickly spot the differences. In '42 the harbor terminals had been expanded to twice their size. Behind that, the skyline lacked many of the distinct skyscrapers the stability and wealth of his reign had seen rise. The large dome of the national opera was nowhere to be seen, and neither was the bowl of the colosseum, in case opera was too high brow for you. Further north the industrial districts looked off, smaller and less busy. In general, the city simply looked less grand, less expansive than he remembered it. It looked like Nova Roma had looked around the turn of the century.

In one swift motion he threw the stone in his hand as far as he could, tracing its trajectory like a hawk tracked a far-away mouse. It plummeted into the shrubbery on the slopes of the outer courtyard with an inaudible and anticlimactic thud. No vast holographic array had been disturbed. No automated lasers had buzzed and shot it down. No guards came streaming. Just a small stone falling in the dirt. Somehow that felt more unnerving than the alternatives.

What was more likely? That he'd fallen and been saved in the last moment by some kind of hidden or pre-placed airbag system, carried away to some secure location and now was subject to a perfect replica of his palace turned prison, populated by doubles? Meanwhile someone had seen fit to surgically alter him to look like his younger self, and kept him drugged up to avoid him finding out that, yes, his body still was and felt like that of a sixty-two years old. All of that individually was probably somewhat in the realm of the technically feasible – but to what end?

At what point did the deception become too grand, to complex? If it was a deception, this was something the Capellans might one day have tried on Hanse Davion. But Hanse Davion he was not. Marius had been saddled with his portion of vanity, but he knew his place in the grand scheme of things. And even with the Maskirovka pulling the strings…cold analytics told him that there were just too many fault lines in this plan. One misstep, on slip of the tongue, and for what? To confuse a minor periphery leader? It made no sense.

He looked up to the blue sky where Alphard's sun was rising towards its daily zenith.
"Well, if this is some kind of purgatory I sure could've gotten it worse," he chuckled sardonically.

A warm breeze blew in from the slopes below, and Marius took that as a cue to return to his chambers. As if to push him on, his stomach raised a complaint in form of a loud rumble. Luckily he found a large sandwich with slices of turkey, roastbeef, cheese, pickles and mayonnaise and a pitcher of orange juice waiting for him. The way he devoured it in record time put another dent into his prison deception scheme; for it was the ravenous appetite of a young man.

But he needed something else to ground him. Something more personal. Something…darker.
He stepped out of his chambers, startling the guard standing next to them.
"Sir, I-"
"Take me to my father," Marius cut him off. "I want to see him."
"But sir—"
"Now." The word wasn't spoken loudly, but it carried enough force with it to shut the man up right then and there. Marius glanced at his drip and, finding it empty, decided to leave it behind. His doctors had laid a port on his arm so luckily that didn't create a mess. "Lead the way."
The palace on Mount Caelius had been built atop and into the mountain, a sprawling complex of buildings ranging from living quarters, kitchens, offices, command and communications centers, swimming pools, and warehouses. The guard, a middle-aged man in purple livery and a bullet-proof vest lead him through the labyrinthine bowels of the complex, down flights of stairs and elevators, criss-crossing corridors. More than once Marius had to stop to steady himself. When they finally arrived at the mausoleum it was almost noon. While it was April on the calendar it was early autumn for Alphard, and the planet's midday sun brought with it an oppressive heat.

Looking out from the western slope of the mountain the round, domed building surrounded by a colonnade covered the entrance to the family crypt. An honor guard kept watch, coming to crisp attention with the old Roman salute as he left his guide behind and entered the chambers. It was cold inside, too cold after the brief flash of midday heat, and it got colder with every step he further entered the outer crypts.

His father awaited him.
Gaius Mercer O'Reilly was laid out on a long marble table, surrounded by wreaths and flower bouquets from all planets of the Hegemony, creating a wall of colors around his corpse. Paying the gifts no heed Marius stepped closer, his breath drawing small clouds in the cold of the chamber.

His father laid there just as he remembered him. The morticians had done a good job, repairing the damage to his head, embalming him, propping him up in ceremonial robes and armor. Somehow, he appeared larger in death, more regal. His thick brows and pronounced nose gave him something of an owlish look, especially as he had been so carefully groomed, but he looked at peace. He looked like his father.
Gently, he reached out to touch his face, trying to recall the memory of this very moment when he had done it the first time. Cold fingers touched cold, waxen skin, and he shivered. Was there something? He didn't know.
"What now, father?" he asked the silent figure quietly, sighing. "Do you really want me to do it all again? Forty years of navigating those snakes in the Senate. Having a plain wife. Siring a patricidal son. Being a 'good Marian'?" He looked down on his father's body, anger suddenly swelling in him. "I've played that role all my life, and now I'm supposed to do it all over again?"
But what choice did he have?
For now, all he could do was play the role he had always played. And use it to watch for clues very closely. He'd get to the bottom of this – whatever 'this' was.


Nova Roma, Alphard
Marian Hegemony
April 25th 3009
It didn't rain. It poured. The past four days had rushed by in a blur, filled with an increasing load of administrative tasks and a schedule filling with what seemed every minute, getting himself ready for his father's state funeral. And just as he remembered it: torrential rain had started to fall the very morning of the ceremony despite all forecasts to the contrary. As expected, this chipped another part off the idea of this being some kind of elaborate ruse. There had been little time just to himself, and even his sister who had been so concerned all the time had been burdened with her part of preparing for the ceremony – and with her grief. Marius felt bad for her, as he himself only felt an echo of the grief he had felt when he had mourned his father the first time. He had buried his father forty years ago. Time did heal not all wounds, but many. This was just a repeat performance. But it did have its uses as a means to prove – or disprove – his theory.

Under the massive marble pillars of the Temple of Jupiter, before the wings of the brass-and-copper hammered doors, Gaius Mercer O'Reilly lay in repose. Alphard's high society and political movers and shakers had turned out in droves in their best mourning dresses and now stood in the pouring rain, most drenched from head to toe already as their personal slaves hurried to and fro to organize umbrellas. The first time around he had felt with them. Knowing how much many of them had gotten on his nerves after, he watched the spectacle with well-hidden but all the more viciously felt glee.

Old senator Chato climbed up the broad stairs to pay his respects. Marius counted down in his head. Three…two…one, and Chato slipped on the wet ground, tumbling down two steps before his personal slaves caught him.

All was as it had been. Clad in an ornate suit of black and grey with a purple cape draped over his shoulders, he stood alone besides his father's body, resting on a simple wooden cane, awaiting the mourners as was proper as the new head of the family.

But was it good the way it was? a voice whispered in his head.
He risked a glance over his shoulders. Sylvana stood between the pillars, her dress black and dark green, surrounded by their closest relatives. The past days had been too hectic for all of them, despite his foreknowledge. But the stress did nothing to sooth the feeling of regret on his part.

As he had thrown himself into the position and duties of Emperor and what he believed to be the correct actions her and him had slowly drifted apart. It'd been the same way with most of his family, he suddenly and quite painfully realized. Uncles, aunts, cousins; people who he had enjoyed being around, had slowly faded into the background as he strove more and more to become the pater patriae, the Father of the Fatherland and the primus inter pares rather than undisputed leader. All in his drive to be the proper, the better Marian. And he'd forgotten his family over this. That he and Sean had ended the way they had, how much of that was owed to this?

The desire to look for similarities and clues evaporated on a bout of anger and regret. Ignoring the looks of bystanders and the murmur of the passing mourners he turned around and walked over to his younger sister. She looked no less surprised, but he just held out his left hand.
"I don't care what the people say, Sylvie. Mom's gone. And now dad's gone, too. It's just the two of us now. So, let's do this together, little sis."
Uncertain, she almost stumbled with him back to their father. Gently, he put his arm around her.
"You're my sister. I'll always be there for you, no matter what," he whispered with a soft reassuring smile. "I promise."
There was a warmth and sincerity in his voice that she had not heard in a long time. Tears were streaming down her face now, smearing her makeup. Part of him screamed that this wasn't proper, but the far louder voice in his mind made it crystal clear that there was no shame in this. Indeed, being there, just being a brother felt good, and that feeling surprised him maybe the most. He hadn't felt it in a long time.

The feeling staid with him during the whole rite of mourning, and Sylvana did not leave his side even when the procession carrying his father's body had returned to the palace's mausoleum after a slow drive through Nova Roma's main boulevards where plebs and patricians of lesser status had their chance to catch a glimpse of them and pay their respects. Only when he had to return to the city did the feeling fade.

It was customary to address the Senate after the prior emperor had been laid to rest. It had already been a long and tiring day when he took the dais, resting more on his walking cane than he was comfortable with. Marius's speech was about remembrance, honor, duty, family; all 'traditional' Marian values, as far as an eighty years old nation had anything like that, and all of them carrying rather different weights for the assorted dignitaries in the crescent marble chambers, given by what he had learned of them in his decades as emperor. The speech wasn't long, and he thought he held it well. Better, indeed, than the first time around. The words had come back to him naturally when he had picked up the manuscript again, and he gave them more emotion than had been the case when he first ascended the throne. Still, the reception was subtly different than he remembered it. Not sure whether it was due to the cane, his pale complexion and obvious fatigue, or because he had chosen to break protocol, but there was a restless undercurrent running through the chamber.

Once he had finished, the speaker of the Senate – old Chato, but with fresh pants – moved up the steps to the dais, one after another, and presented Marius with a thin crown of laurels made from silver.
"The Emperor is dead!" he proclaimed with a booming voice belying his old frail body. "Long live the Emperor!"
Marius knelt down with some effort and soon felt the cold silver pressing against his head. Applause rose in acclamation of his ascendance, though not as thunderous as he remembered it. All of them had had their ideas of who he was. Healthy, youthful, trained in his father's image. And now, with a small gesture, had he added that much uncertainty to the mix?

But then, how much could he trust his memories? Common sense dictated that this was real, even if it couldn't be. If it had been just the palace, maybe that would have been doable, if insanely complicated and expensive. But the city, the Senate, the Temple of Jupiter, let alone the people? Chato, his Chato, had died in 3015. Marius remembered it well; he had held his eulogy. But the man who crowned him was his spitting image, not only in looks but voice and mannerisms. As were many in the crowd of assembled senators, as best as he could tell. No, it made no sense, even though the consequence of that line of thought was to accept an even greater madness. A smile crept on his face. If it all was a fake, what did it matter if they cheered a little less? And if it wasn't? Well, in his mind he could draw in four decades of experience in how to deal with them.

Slowly rising with a white-knuckled grip on his walking cane he came to face the senators, finishing the ritual with as much vigor as his tired body could muster.
"Long live the Senate! Long live the Marian Hegemony!"
This time the cheers were genuine.

Later…
Night had already fallen when he finally slumped down on his bed in his chambers. Half undressed, famished and feeling as tired as never before in his life he devoured a bowl of ramen noodles, vegetables and marinated shrimps with a side dish of garlic bread, not caring for the crumbs that landed between his sheets. His eyes felt heavy, almost as leaden as his limbs, and the dull ache was back, even though not as bad as the prior days.

There was a soft knock on his door.
"Not now," Marius groaned. "I'm eating, and I'm tired. Go away!"

Wood scraped on stone as the red-painted door swung open. Marius tensed, getting ready to throw insults, objects, or call for the guard, but stopped in his track.
"Posca!" involuntarily his heart skipped a beat.

A middle-aged man with whispy grey-white hair and sideburns, wearing a simple light brown slave's tunic, his face tanned and full of laughter lines running all the way up to his bushy eye brows and high forehead slipped through the crack that had opened and pushed the door shut behind him. A polished steel bracelet dangled around his arm and marked him as a slave, the laser-etched marking on it showed his owner. He bowed slightly.
"My sincerest apologies for disturbing you, dominus, but I wanted to see how you are doing," Posca's voice carried his clipped Stewart-born accent. "I wasn't allowed to visit when you fell sick, and when you finally woke up every soul in the palace seemed to wanted a piece of your time."

"More like every soul in the Hegemony, but my sister and her army of nurses somehow managed to keep them at bay," Marius smiled warmly. "Had I known I would've made sure you could visit."
With the first surprise of the visit waning, Marius felt a wave of emotions rushing over him. Posca. Slave. Tutor. Father-figure. Friend?
A sudden gust of weariness and mistrust smothered the comforting warmth, and he eyed the slave wearily. He intended to put him to the test.
"Posca, do you remember, back when I was ten years old and hid in the outer gardens the whole day, driving my parents insane with worry?"

The older man frowned, pushing his bushy grey eyebrows against each other.
"Which part of that do you mean, dominus? The one we agreed to tell the world? Or the truth?"

"And what would that be?" Marius asked quietly, his hands folded in his lap.

"That you slipped through the kitchen gate, spent the day wandering through the Perfumed Alleys and the grand bazaar, and were back home in time for dinner as I found you outside the Gardeners' Gate. We both swore to keep this our secret, for your sake, dominus and mine. Your father would've seen me crucified had he ever found out, or worse, had something happened to you." He shook himself. "Anyway, you were eleven, not ten, if my senses haven't completely abandoned me. Why are you bringing these old stories up?" he asked, more curious than irritated.

"It's a secret only the two of us shared, Posca." Strange as it was, this childhood memory did more to settle his mind than all the prior events of the day. Even if they had somehow surgically altered himself, put him in some kind of grand play for whatever screwed up reason: in 3048 C.E. Posca had been dead for more than fifteen years. Nobody could have gotten to this intimate detail they shared. He had heard an old saying once: If you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. Which left only one conclusion.
This was really 3009 C.E. He was in the body of a twenty-three year old. And the man standing in front of him truly was his old mentor.

Acceptance sent shivers down his spine and gave him goosebumps all over his body. Marius wished he could tell him, hug him. His head felt light.
Instead, he tried to remain outwardly calm. "I've had a lot on in my mind as of late, Posca. My father's sudden death. My own brush with death, and feeling that kind of mortality? It's left my anxious, given me much to ponder." Almost as an afterthought he added: "But thank you for your concern, old friend."

"That much I do owe to the boy that once sat on my lap and who now will sit the throne," Posca shrugged awkwardly. "Besides, what a waste of my talents it would've been had you died to some common fever before receiving the silver laurel wreath."
That was Posca.

"A tragedy, truly. And what would've old Chato done, robbed of this once in a lifetime chance."

"You're doing the man a disservice, dominus. Chato surely is old enough to have been present during your father's coronation, and his father's before him."

"Ah, possibly," Marius chuckled, stifling a yawn. "But it's been a hard day."

Posca's face darkened.
"More hard and tiresome days will come, dominus. I'm afraid rulership always finds a way to take its toll."

Oh, if only you knew, Marius thought.
"Wish if it were different. Think I can still pick a different career path?"

"I'm afraid if you have it on your mind to run away with your 'mech to live a mercenary life of adventure and debauchery all of the Hegemony would have to stage an intervention, dominus."

"Who said I wouldn't drag you into it? Mad Marius in his Marauder, traveling the Periphery to fight evil with the help of his terminally sarcastic man-servant. I like the ring of that!" he laughed before his voice took on a more somber tone. "Don't believe I haven't thought of that over the years more than just once, Posca."

"You'd never earn enough money to compensate me for keeping you out of trouble, dominus."

"Today more than ever I think maybe we should give it a try," he smiled. "Thank you, Posca. For your concern, and for looking after me. I know you didn't have to, not after your dismissal."

Tilting his white head in acknowledgment, Posca took a step back. "It's good to see you up and about again. Thank you for having a few minutes with this old man. You must be tired, and the coming days surely will be taxing, so I'll leave you be, dominus."

Gaius O'Reilly had dismissed his own tutor once he had been crowned with the silver laurels, and supposedly the founder of the Hegemony had done the same. Custom therefore demanded Marius followed suit, nothing to the contrary had been stated, and Posca had settled into this expectation.
The snarky League-born slave had never failed him, had always counseled him honestly – brutally so, in private. When everybody tried to be his friend for their own benefit the middle-aged man had been the closest to a true confidante. Was following tradition, following the expectations of others for the sake of optics really the right choice then?

What if he did things different, a voice in his head hummed, and the feeling of falling threatened to overwhelm him, drawing him down as he almost physically felt the pull on his body. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead, white knuckles grabbed the bowl so hard he feared the pottery would break into a thousand pieces. Posca was almost out the door when he called after him.

"Posca, wait!" his voice croaked, his mind racing.

With a start the man stopped in his tracks and turned around.
"Yes, dominus?"

"Can I ask you something? Not as dominus, or emperor, but as the man you've tutored and raised since he was a boy? And I need you to be truthful about it to me."

Wordlessly Posca pushed the door shut and stepped back into the room. "Go on, ask."

"What do you think of my father?" Marius leaned forward.

Posca gave him a look he could not quite decipher, stroking his sideburns before he hesitantly began to speak. "That… is a strange question to ask of the man who was abducted and abused by the pirates your father sponsored, made a slave on the markets your father allows, and then bought like a tool by him." His voice was detached, as if he spoke about the weather rather than something that had shaped his fate. "But I suppose that's not what you're asking about. I know you loved your father, dominus, and it is bad form to speak ill of the dead, especially those so very recently buried. But you want the truth, and truthful I shall be," he sighed.

Marius nodded, gulping down the unease he felt about his tutor's first sentences, motioning him to take a seat on the stool next to the bed.

"Truth is, the Hegemony would've run just as well for the past forty years had they put a broom with a hat on your father's throne." Seeing Marius' raised eyebrows and uncomfortable look Posca simply shrugged. "That is the truth, dominus," he emphasized his words. "I believe I taught you your history well enough. Name one great initiative your father's spearheaded? A set of laws that brought social growth or change? Economic programs? Infrastructure projects? Military campaigns? No?" he leaned back on the stool, studying Marius' face. "Your father was very keen to keep the peace in the Senate. He's played up the example of your grandfather's mannerisms and solidified social norms and traditions. Helped to further establish Marian society as we know it now, with the patricians here, the plebs there, and the slaves down there. All the things your grandfather started, he took on and reinforced them, kept them running," Posca sighed. "People out there liked him. Not because he was a good ruler, or because he did great things, no." He looked into Marius' eyes. "They liked your father because he did nothing. Because he's never stepped on the toes of those with influence. Because by doing nothing he's never had to drag people out of their comfort zones. People don't like change, dominus. Oh, sure, by not doing anything he also ended up not doing anything wrong," he waved one hand dismissively. "And because he's kept himself out of the hair of the senators and patricians, letting them do as they please for the most time, he's ended up being lauded as a good and proper Marian: doing the right moves at the right time, always in line with what your grandfather did, but without any of Johann O'Reilly's vigor or drive to create something."

Posca's words were hard to swallow. But with all the foreknowledge and experience he himself had he had to admit that they were objectively true. "Not exactly what a son wants to hear about the man he just had to burry, Posca," he quietly told the slave.

"You asked, dominus." Posca's voice was level, but he had crossed his arms and eyed Marius carefully.

His mind raced, trying not only to process Posca's words but the reality of his situation. He had been given a chance to correct whatever mistakes he might have made! Not only that, but he was also free to try out all the things his old self never would have done because he had always tried to please all sides. Especially the senate. The aloof father of the fatherland, the mediator. Not the mover and shaker.
But now? Gods, he had a near eidetic memory of events of the next four decades! That gave him, and him alone a forty-year head start on the rest of the known universe as a whole and events in the Hegemony in particular! Suddenly he saw things very clearly, calmly smoothing the storm that wrecked his mind.
With new-found purpose he abruptly rose from his bed.
"That I did. But if my father achieved nothing, Posca, then why should I do things just the way he did!?" he growled before turning to Posca with a wolfish grin. "No. I'm turning your retirement into a promotion, old friend. I think it's time to do things my way. And you're going to help me do it. We're going to do things differently."


I promise I won't ride this dead 'different' horse any further, 'kay?

 

[Culsu]

C h a p t e r 2: Charting a New Course​

Alphard
Marian Hegemony
April 26th 3009
Posca held on to his seat as the large VTOL lurched up and down, fighting the queasy feeling in his stomach. He had never been much of a fan of flying, and even though the aircraft was stupendously luxurious by most standards it largely failed at counteracting the treacherous wind currents and air pockets over the Stella Maris.

Contrary to that, if 'unfazed' had a face, it would have been that of Emperor Marius. The younger man sat across him in a soft-cushioned bright leather seat, devouring the second of two large toasted sandwiches with pastrami, turkey, avocado, mango chutney, tomatoes and lots of cheese with one hand while the other deftly balanced a large cup of steaming coffee without a care in the world.

From a nearby window Posca caught a glimpse of two smaller VTOL aircrafts, autocannons and missile pods glistening in the morning sun, flying as their escort.

"You sure you don't want anything to eat? It's going to be a long day!" Marius called out, but Posca shook his head and held up his hands, just in time for the aircraft to shudder softly once more.

"I am sure the flight crew would petition to see me whipped if I defiled all that leather and hardwood, dominus."

Marius shrugged. "Get some chamomile tea then, for your belly. Or something stronger, for your anxiety. Casually having a drink on the job is one of the perks of your new position," he smirked.

Despite not feeling it Posca humored the younger man with a smile. "I would rather not on an empty stomach. Not right now. Where are we going again, dominus?"

"Gaul," the young emperor replied briefly, finishing the last bite of his meal. "I'm visiting family, and I need you along for the ride. My great-uncle and aunt, to be specific."

Posca furrowed his brows, trying to quickly run a tally of the O'Reilly family in his mind. "Corvinus O'Reilly?"

"That's the one," Marius took a sip of his coffee. "Him and auntie Neeva. Haven't seen them in a while, and they weren't present at father's burial."

"I seem to remember your late father and his cousin did not part ways on the best terms, dominus. What has caused this sudden urge to reconnect with distant family?"

"Isn't visiting family a good reason in and by itself?" Marius smiled.

"Just so. But I reckon you would not have had me dragged to the helipad at dawn if craving your aunt's company was all there was to it," Posca shot back sardonically. "Why am I here anyway?"

"You're here because as my personal slave it would raise eyebrows if you were not," Marius flatly stated. "But the bigger issue is, uncle Corv's falling out with my father stemmed from his ideas and proposals for how to expand and structure our military. Do more with less. Or, at least, with the same. Father was against it. Maybe he was too set in his ways. Either way, they had a falling out, and Corvinus left the capital in disgrace. However," he put the now empty cup down, "I reckon if I want to do things in another way than I had originally intended, one way to get a start is to do it with the help of different people."

"That is going to ruffle some feathers," Posca warned. "There certainly are some back in Nova Roma who were all but sure that they would move up into your inner circle."

Marius snorted. "Well, they better get used to it." Because that was just the start, he added in his mind. But he would have to throw them a bone every once in a while. The Senate and its patricians sadly were not impotent, and as much as forty years of accumulated disdain grated on his patience he knew he would have to play ball with them. For a time, at least.

Outside, the sound of the VTOL's engines suddenly changed to a lower whine, and Posca could feel the craft slowing.
"Approaching LZ, sir," the pilot announced via the cabin's intercom.

Drawing his attention to a nearby window, Posca saw the large VTOL sink through a layer of wispy clouds. Down below, a rolling steppe of thigh-high grass broken by rocky arroyos and copper-colored tower-like buttes spread from east to west. As they kept losing altitude the image became clearer, with a set of low grey concrete bunkers and white prefab buildings sitting clustered around a communications array between two low hills.
"Where are we, dominus?"

"The Merovian Plains, Posca. That down there should be a training ground for Alphard Trading Company's corporate security. Corvinus is on contract as a security consultant," Marius had to shout as the engines roared, the pilot holding the craft in place a few hundred feet above the ground, waiting for permission to land from ground control.

Posca could see it now.
A few hundred meters to their north a force of six militarized industrial mechs painted yellow ran towards the compound in a wedge formation, lasers firing and tracer rounds crossing the distance. A lance of apparently lighter mechs in green strode out to meet them, trading fire. The battle seemed a foregone conclusion, until about halfway towards the base two light green tanks emerged from behind a hill to the north, attacking the yellow force's left flank, easing the pressure on the defenders. Two yellow mechs moved to face them, in turn exposing their own flanks to harrying shots from the green team. As if on cue, two APCs burst from the cover of the compound at full speed, zigzagging their way across the rock-strewn plains towards the yellow's right flank, pelting them with machinegun fire. As they came closer they launched smoke grenades to obfuscate their maneuvers, hiding what the dust clouds had no already hidden. Fascinated, Posca watched as once again two of the attacking mechs broke off to face this new threat, only to be dumbstruck as the APCs raced out of cover again, now in the back of the yellow force. Out of the white smoke and brown dust infantry erupted like a swarm of ants, scrambling to cover between some of the bigger rocks. Muzzle flashes, small laser beams, and the smoke trails of shoulder-launched missiles added to the turmoil.
The center of the yellow formation suddenly found itself under the concentrated fire of the four green mechs. Then the view changed as the VTOL turned, preparing to land.

Marius had also followed the mock battle below with an equal amount of fascination, though his motivation had been a different one. Hanse Davion and the planners of the AFFS had championed the revival of combined arms tactics in the 31st century on a broad scale. When the 4th Succession War had erupted and lead to the near destruction of the Capellan Confederation everybody had scrambled to copy the model, with varying degrees of vigor and success. But that did not mean the idea had been dead and forgotten before the First Prince embraced it.

Corvinus 'Corv' O'Reilly had spent a lot of time outside the confines of the Hegemony as a mercenary out in the Periphery, and when he returned, foreign wife in tow, his ideas for the Marian armed forces had mirrored those of traditional combined arms thinkers. Over the years Marius had gained the theoretical knowledge as well; if anything, he was a relentless student of events. The second half of his reign had seen him start the Collegium Bellorum Imperium, the Imperial War College. But at the end of the day, he was the theorist. Corvinus O'Reilly, however? He had the practical chops, and the knack for organization.

The four engine VTOL touched the ground, and without waiting for the cabin crew Marius opened the hatch and stepped outside. Posca fumbled to open his seat belt and hurried after him, cursing the youth's élan. A wave of hot, dry air welcomed him as he left the aircraft.

Outside, a man about Posca's age strode to meet them, flanked by two officers. He was a short, stocky fellow with a beer belly stretching his light blue corporate security uniform, held in place by a military leather belt. White-blonde burnsides framed a hard face topped by a fringe of blonde hair, and mirrored aviator's sunglasses hid his eyes from both the glaring sunlight and the whirled-up dust.

"Uncle Corvinus," Marius greeted the man, extending his hand for a handshake rather than the more formal Marian salute. "It's been a while. You've met Posca?"

"You ruined the last stage of the exercise!" Corvinus yelled over the sound of the idling engines but took the extended hand anyway, giving it a solid shake. To Posca's - and Marius' – surprise the patrician turned to him and offered him his hand as well. With a start the older slave took it, shaking the bear-paw like hand firmly. "Yeah, it's been a while. Too long, to be honest. Shall we go inside?" he motioned towards the nearby bunker. "It's boiling out here in the sun."

"If it's not too much of a hassle I'd rather do this in private," Marius pointed back at the VTOL and its running engines. "Might take a while, so I'm offering you a ride home where we can talk."

The older O'Reilly tilted his head, his sideburns touching the epaulets of his uniform. "Well, who am I to deny such a request from the newly- crowned emperor? I want a full report on today's raining exercise on my desk tomorrow morning," he told one of his escorts. "Tell the men to call it a day for today. Training will continue on schedule in twenty-four hours. Lead the way," he nodded towards Marius.

The three men slipped back into the VTOL, and before Posca knew it they were airborne again. Corvinus O'Reilly gulped down a large glass of cool water and wiped the sweat of his brows with his shirt sleeves, all the while mustering his grand nephew closely. When he finally spoke his voice sounded no less gravelly than it had outside.
"You look terrible, if you don't mind myself saying so. Didn't you get any sleep?"

"I can sleep plenty when I die, uncle, and I almost did that for three weeks already," Marius told him sardonically. "But no, not much, I suppose? My doctors were less than thrilled, and Sylvana threw a fit when she found out, but I've got too much to think about and too little time to act on it," he shrugged nonchalantly.

Corvinus nodded, more to himself than the two of them. "I'd heard you fell sick. For what it's worth I'm glad that you're back on your feet again. And my sincere condolences to your father's death."

"Thank you. Sylvie and I, we missed you at the funeral. You and father, you used to be close," Marius remarked.

Corvinus shook his head with a sad smile. "That we were, back in the day. But we had a falling out about matters of policy, and while your father was indecisive on about ninety-nine percent of everything, the one percent he had an actual opinion on he was as stubborn as a goddamn mountain." He sighed. "You were too young back then. But when all was done there was too much bad blood, and too many angry words were attached to my departure. And I didn't want to bring that into focus by attending."

Sensing that this was all the man was willing to reveal on the matter for the time being, Marius changed the topic. "What did we witness back there? I wasn't aware the company needed that much gear to operate on Alphard and our other worlds."

"It doesn't," Corvinus conceded. "But Alphard Trading's active on a lot of worlds that don't really register on the maps. Prospecting, research, industrial testing in places where it won't hurt too many people if things go south. Most the time knowing who they're dealing with is enough to keep the locals and, ah, 'enterprising outsiders' in check. But every once a while they need more than a smile and a bribe to leave use alone. That's where my guys come in. And if you know one thing about corporate security, it's always spread too thin. So, I've tried to make a virtue out of necessity. A well-coordinated and motivated force of tanks, infantry and mechs is far more than the sum of its parts," he explained. "It's also got a lot more mission flexibility. Tanks and infantry can reach places mechs can't."
He turned to Posca, smiling jovially. "I suppose combined arms doctrine wasn't on the curriculum you taught that youngster?"

"What can I say. I am more of a generalist, dominus."

"You've done a fine job all around, old friend," Marius was quick to reassure him.

"And you're hardly an objective source for that!" Corvinus guffawed, his hard face showing laughter lines for the first time since they had met. "But I'll take your word for that, nephew. Besides, why should you know something that a thousand settled worlds all but have forgotten in their drive to bomb each other back into the stone age? Then again, better for me, eh?"

"Just so," Marius reaffirmed his great-uncle soberly. "And it's why I came to talk to you. But that can wait until we're settled in at your place."

"Alright, fair enough. Besides, Neeva will be thrilled to see you again. How old were you the last time? You had a crush on her, right?" Corvinus chuckled.

Despite decades of trained self-control Marius felt his cheeks blush. "I was fifteen, uncle Corv. And having a crush on a relative would be rather improper, right?"

"Boy, there hasn't been a man who has met Neeva who did not develop some crush," he told him warmly with a wink. "But your secret's safe with me. Now if you excuse me, I'll tell the pilot to call ahead."

They silently settled back into their seats for the rest of the flight.
Posca was surprised at how much the landscape outside began to change with how comparably little distance they passed. Steppe, mesas and lonely buttes slowly gave way to rocky hills and terraced fields, carefully hedge by orchards and olive groves to prevent soil erosion. Reservoirs, either in form of small ponds or squat white towers built from natural rock dotted the landscape, supplying precious water via an intricate network of stone-flagged trenches.

Corvinus' estate covered thousands of acres. At its center sat a long-drawn valley basin, filled with irrigation trenches, orchards of peach, orange, and olive trees, and terraced wheat and vegetable fields, neatly divided by a wide, paved road. At the far end the basin widened, and the road ended at a large, white neo-Roman mansion with a low-angled, red-tiled roof, built into the sides of the hill in two offset levels. Solar panels covered the south-facing parts, and a pair of wind turbines on a nearby hilltop provided the power for the villa and its many adjacent outbuildings.

Slowing down in a wide circling approach Marius' VTOL and its two escorts touched down on a wide ferroconcrete pad on the estate's north-eastern edge. Roads and foot paths shaded by palms and fruit trees led away from it like the rays of a star.

As they exited the craft, a Hunchback leisurely made its way towards them, its massive form never touching the nearby trees despite the narrow alleys. Its torso casually swung from left to right, giving the pilot a good overview of the newcomers – and Marius' security detail a near aneurysm, given the massive AC/20 could go through everything on the pad like tissue paper.

The hulking medium mech came to a halt at the edge of the pad, and Neeva Lee-O'Reilly skidded down the ladder leading to its cockpit.

Corvinus rushed to meet her. "Can't you keep that damn thing in the garage just for one day?" he called out in greeting his wife.

"'t was just a few steps!" she yelled back, pointing at her decidedly non-mechjockey attire in defense. "Besides, if you don't use it, you lose it." She leaned down to him and sniffed. "You smell of sweat."

Corvinus smiled like a cat faced with a pot of cream, planting a kiss on his wife. "You look great, too."

She did.
Neeva Lee-O`Reilly was of indo-korean heritage, tall and athletic and looking not a day older than a very well maintained forty years. The right side of her head was shaved, revealing an intricate pattern of tattoos. She wore the rest of her dark hair combed over with purple and white-colored strains hanging down to her chin. Instead of the customary cooling vest an asymmetric gold-embroidered purple linen dang'ui jacket covered to upper part of her hourglass figure, with the right sleeve reaching down over her hand and the left sleeve ending at her elbow. Reversed left to right a white silk skirt went down to her ankles on her left side, but was cut open to only cover part of her right thigh.

Introductions were made, and she led them down a shaded foot path to the villa. Marius noticed that only few people were out and about in the orchards and fields and chalked it up to the heat. Gaul was one of the few continents on Alphard where agriculture was possible, but even this far north of the equator the middays did get scorching hot.

Neeva held the door open for them.
"Come, let's get inside. I'll have refreshments and a light meal served, and we can catch up." Marian society had adopted the old Roman custom where the woman of the house usually ran the estate. It was no different here, even though Neeva had not been born in the Hegemony. "What brings you here? I thought you were neck deep in government business?"

Marius let the mansion's cool air wash over him. "It's more like up to my ears than my neck. And I felt I needed some change of scenery after the events of the past month."

Neeva gave him a sympathetic smile and hugged him.

"But they placed those silver laurels on my head, so honestly, nowhere I go is just for myself. There are some ideas I've been juggling with in my head. Ideas that I need feedback on that's not tainted by what the Senate or courtiers think," he explained with just a touch of remorse.

"Oh, Nova Roma follows you around where ever you go," she gave him an understanding nod and led them through rooms painted in soft yellows and whites, with dark red tiled floors divided by playful mosaics. "Getting rid of that feeling was among the best things happening to us when we closed that chapter a few years ago. Place is riddled with a bunch of pricks."

They took seats in the shade of a terrace built into the mansion's inner colonnade, where colorful flowerbeds, green plants and garden ponds created a naturally cooled down climate. After servants had supplied them with drinks and finger food, Marius decided it was time to get down to business.
"Thank you for your hospitality, especially on such short notice," he began. "You must wonder why I'm here, so let's not beat around the bush any longer than necessary. For most of my life I've tried to follow in my father's footsteps. But my recent brush with mortality's shown me that maybe my time would be better spent trying to build something rather than simply to preserve it. The Hegemony needs change, needs growth to weather the coming decades if we don't want to stay just another pirate kingdom that can be wiped off the map in a stormy afternoon, uncle. Now I'm faced with the task of setting up my government, and for that I need people who can think out of the box."
Marius reached into his jacket and produced a leather-bound notebook.
"I've been neck deep in memos and proposals ever since waking up again, and browsing the archives I came across your paper from seven years ago about building a new model army for the Hegemony," he shrugged. "And I saw part of your training exercise today, Corv. That's exactly the kind of force I have in mind. Neeva, I'm here to steal your husband," he smiled at her apologetically.

"I thought I made it clear how I feel about Nova Roma and the halls of power just a minute ago," Neeva voice was clipped.

"I'm on contract with Alphard Trading, nephew," Corvinus reminded Marius, his face sunken in thoughts. "Besides, it's not like I made many friends when I left Nova Roma behind. Besides, doesn't have Legate Smith his eyes on the position of Magister Militum?"

"Smith is a good officer, and I'd rather keep him were he's now. He's probably better suited to active command than the desk job of Secretary of Defense. In any case, he can either deal with my decision or hand in his resignation," Marius said sternly. "I'm going to expand the legions, Corv, turn them into a combined arms force, and I want you to be the man to do it. Your talents are going to waste trying to train corporate security to deal with riled up stone age yokels. Here," he slid another paper across the table, this one not typed but in stenciled handwriting. "Can it be done?"

Posca watched the older O'Reilly's eyes race across the paper. His face lit up and he whistled softly.
"Four full combined arms legions within fifteen years?"

"More, if we can manage," Marius added quietly. "Money really isn't an issue. The treasury's bursting at the seams," he quickly continued, almost defensively, "and germanium exports remain steady. So," he leaned forward, "can you do it?"

Corvinus picked up a pair of glasses from his pocket and re-read the paper carefully. "Your three maniple unit structure plus combined elements simply isn't workable with existing dropships. Fifteen mechs, five vehicles, and the equivalent of two platoons of ground-pounders won't fit in any Union class known to man. And your legions are too mech-heavy compared to their other elements," he picked up a pen and started to cross out some sections while adding to others. "However, if we cut down the basic centuria to ten 'mechs plus armored and infantry elements we should be able to remodel our dropships to that effect. Yeah, converting two mech cubicles…," his voice trailed off as he nodded to himself.
Neeva cleared her throat. Corvinus blinked with a start, then looked at them apologetically like a child caught with their hands in the cookie jar. "Where was I? Ah, right. Here, that's how your legion should roughly look," he placed the paper back in the middle of the table. "Three battlemech cohorts, joined by six armored cohorts and another six infantry cohorts. They should have independent air defense and fire support elements, too; at least a few centuriae worth of them. That's not a small order," he skeptically shook his head, then sighed.
"So, can it be done? In principle? Sure. But I need you to understand the scope of what you're asking me to do here. This isn't just buying some mechs and tanks and raising the necessary manpower for them, Marius." He raised one fist and extended his arm, tilting his head towards it. "The legions' rank structure is wholly inadequate to organize a modern armed force of that magnitude, so that'll need to change. Recruitment will need to be organized. Seasoned NCOs and officers will have to be drawn from the existing ranks or hired abroad to get such a vast expansion under way. Which, at least temporarily, will leave the standing formations less combat capable. Unit integration already gives me a headache as well," he rolled his eyes. "We'll have to quickly and decisively get a force that's been solely comprised of patricians for the past eight decades to not only work together with newly raised troops that'll overwhelmingly be plebs, but actually reach a point where they see them as their equals. And that's only one side of the equation, Marius," he shook his head, then raised his other hand to parallel the first one.
"The other is material. Not just battlemechs and tanks, but guns, spares, uniforms, gear, munitions. Building the bases for the new troops. Setting up depots. Establishing logistics chains. I know our privateers have made stealing everything that's not bolted down into an art form, but we're talking about hundreds, if not thousands of vehicles, and tens of thousands of weapons, ideally standardized, the lion's share of which we don't produce domestically."

"I didn't consider the logistical details when I sketched out this plan," Marius admitted sheepishly.

"Eh, I've seen worse proposals into which more time and effort were put," Corvinus shrugged and gave him a reassuring smile. It looked odd to Marius, if only in his mind he was actually the older of the two men. "You've come to me because you want to get a fresh perspective, because you want to run those ideas you've got in your head past people to check if they aren't full of shit," his uncle continued with the bluntness of a hammer. "So, lets be real here. You're a smart boy, Marius. Always have been. What you're actually asking me here is to build you not just an army, but a tool for political leverage. No more, but no less," he rumbled. "Now, if you want to have serious armed forces the first thing to do is to take stock of the situation as it is, and let me tell you something, it's a clusterfuck."
He held up one finger. "Right now, excluding your Praetorian Guard, at the top of the pyramid you've got the equivalent of a single great house battlemech regiment. One that's mostly comprised of second and third children from patrician families, who occasionally dip their spears in blood by commerce raiding or pirate raids on our neighbor with the serial numbers filed off. Quite literally so, sometimes."
Another finger popped up. "Then, for a very long time, there's nothing. And once we've gone down long enough, there's patrician levies, which range from anywhere between ten people with guns to the equivalent of a combined arms company, complete with battlemechs. And of course, ad-hoc pleb militias."
Finger number three came up. "As if that wasn't complicated enough, you've got thirteen pirate bands of at least company size and countless smaller ones running around that are just eager enough to drag you into whatever hornets' nest they decide to poke, but whom you can't rely on for territorial defense, at all." Corvinus closed his fist. "I can't do anything about the latter. Honestly, the less I have to deal with our esteemed privateers the better," his voice dripped with disdain as he exchanged a look with Neeva that Marius didn't miss. "I can unfuck the rest. Bring order to chaos, set up an organized militia controlled by the Hegemony rather than individual patricians. Build a standing mechanized infantry division for home defense. Probably all at the same time, too. But if you want me to do this, we're going to do it my way. I'll want your word, both as my relative and as a Marian man of honor, that you'll have my back and keep the senate out of my portfolio."

"You have my word, both as Emperor and as you relative by blood," Marius nodded. "But prying the militia from the hands of the patricians will probably the biggest hurdle in that whole plan of yours."

"Ahem?! I feel like you guys are purposely ignoring me!" Neeva growled. "Corv, you were the one who couldn't yell 'Go to hell!' loud enough the last time you left the capital. And now you're ready to go back, just willy-nilly-like-that?"

The stout man looked back and forth between her and Marius. "I know what I said, my love. But that was then, with my cousin on the throne and me fighting an uphill battle and failing in the opening moves of it. Now this?" he pointed at the sheet of paper. "This can make a difference, Neeva. That's a proper army for a true nation, not just noble arseholes in renfair togas and 'mechs raiding people."

"Sure, and because you and him," she shot a finger at Marius, "are both O'Reillys and share your family's brick-wall stubbornness it'll all be a breeze, right?!" Neeva angrily replied, her green eyes flashing.

"If your husband can make it work, I'll always have his back. I promise, auntie." Marius tilted his head and placed the palms of his hands flat on the table.

"Oh, don't 'auntie' me like I'm some old spinster!" she snapped, but the flash in her eyes carried some humor this time.

"Well, I could always try and drag you back with me," Corv purred, giving him the look and sound of a fat and very pleased cat.

"Over my dead body. And yours, Corvinus O'Reilly." She angrily stabbed a finger into her husband's wide belly.

Corvinus just calmly took her hands into his and smiled gently at her.
"Aw hell, Neev. I'm gone half the time anyway, trying to put some sense into people too stupid for real soldiers on the one hand and corporate execs who can't find their heads up their asses on the other. And you're running such a tight ship with the estate that when I'm home I feel like I'm in the way more often than not." He gently caressed her cheek with his thumb, giving the scene the look of a high fantasy dwarf looking up to an elven lady. A grumpy one at that.

"You've always been better at setting things up than at actually running them, Corvinus," she sighed, her anger deflating. "And you make it sound as if I'm chasing you away!"

"You're not, stupid," he jovially scolded her. "But as you said, we're both good at different things. And this is my chance to be good at mine. Besides, it's just a three hour flight from here to the capital."

"And I'll make sure he takes his weekends off," Marius piped up. "Even if it means Posca will have to wheel him to the flight pad on a dolly!"

"Oh please, leave me out of this, dominus!" the slave held up his hands in mock defense.

Neeva's shoulders slumped and she sunk down on a chair.
"Fine. Fine. Now that you've all managed to ruin the mood, can we break out the wine, please?" She clapped her hands, and moments later servant in a simple long white dress arrived, carrying a tray of wine glasses, a pitcher, and a selection of snacks. She helped herself to a selection of all of it. "Just so you know, Corv: it's your fault when I get drunk and fat!"

"I'm married. Being at fault is the default setting I've gotten used to," the older O'Reilly replied without missing a beat.

"You know, I've got a lot more sheets of paper to ruin the mood," Marius deadpanned.

"I was afraid you'd say that," Neeva flicked an olive into the air and caught it with her mouth. "Well, bring it on?!"

"If you insist…," he unfolded a map from the notebook and placed it next to a stack of notes. "Posca has already seen this. I came up with it as part of my college thesis."

"A Plan for Peaceful Expansion Through Colonization, by Marius O'Reilly. And a public building program?" Neeva read the abstracts with a questioning look. "Three new systems?"

"Two now," Marius corrected her. "Just New Venice and Horatius."

"What about Herculaneum?"

"At three jumps it's too far away," he explained in an almost too flat tone. "And I think for now the money can be better spent on your husband's new task, among others." He wouldn't go back to Herculaneum. Among the things he could do to avoid repeating his fate, this was one of the simpler ones. "Anyway, the plans are rather solid, I think, but in going over them another question popped up in my head. I don't want the Hegemony just to grow in size, Neeva. I want it to grow in capabilities, too. Grow tall and grow wide, if you know what I mean?"

"Let me have a look. And have something to eat in the meantime. You look like you're starving!"

As if on cue Marius' stomach growled, and he helped himself to a smattering nuts, olives, pickled vegetables and sandwiches with tuna and smoked salmon. Halfway through his second sandwich she looked up from his notes.
"A lot of your building program can be done on a budget, nephew. In its current form it's just grandstanding, a lot of excess fat than can be cut. I'm sure the people would love it, and contractors would make a killing of it, but if I were you, I'd go for substance over form. Polished concrete instead of marble, painted tiles instead of mosaics, opulent fronts and functional interiors rather than neo-Roman pomp all over, fewer theaters and collisseums."

"Sounds fair. Now where would you put the money then?" he gulped down a bite.

"Infrastructure, on one hand. Roads, space ports, orbitals, communications, you name it. That's roughly one side of the coin. Now, I ran a mercenary company before I ran a ten thousand acre estate with half a thousand people on it. And whether it's a mech tech, an irrigation engineer or a gardener: you need people that are well trained and educated, and willing to work for a fair wage. That's the other one," she explained.


"We can't compete with colleges and universities in the successor states," Marius shook his head. Even around the time of his death establishing something doing groundbreaking research like NAIS on Alphard would have been a pipe dream.

"That's the neat thing: you don't have to. Some mandatory system of education for the general pleb population will already go a long way. Right now everybody's just somehow muddling through. Setting up a basic national school system isn't quite as glorious as colonizing new worlds or raising armies, but the dividends it'll pay will be worth it. Then add another layer on top of it. Call it vocational schools, or third level courses. Train and educate people on basic science and engineering. Set something up that'll allow you to draw deep from the plebeian masses. That eighty percent is where the true unpolished gems can be found, not in the ten percent that make up, well, us patricians. Get the people, and our industries will be able to grow organically."

Marian plebeians could apply for higher education if their grades in high school were good enough. So far only the children of patricians had almost guaranteed access. Following Neeva's idea would add an intermediate path to higher education, undermining the patricians priorisation. "It's hard to argue against the obvious merits here," Marius conceded. "But there'll be resistance from the senate."

"I suppose that's what you have to expect if you want to change the game," she shrugged. "Remember: you want this. So the real trick will be playing them against each other. I'm getting the idea that you've got a rather solid take on how the senate and my fellow patricians will react to change, any change that threatens to disrupt the cozy status quo. Play the industrialists against the traditionalists. Use the plebs to balance the patricians. Cut slices off their power, just small enough that they don't mind in the moment. Bait them with short term profits while you reap long-term rewards. If you can play them for this plan, you can play them for any other idea as well."

If only you knew, Marius thought, half darkly, half amused.

"But that'll just be the basic knowledge to repeat what others have done before them. For anything really at the technological edge, though? Fat chance," she shook her head. "You'll want foreign specialists to help out with that. But you're not going to get many. Probably none, for that matter."

"Why not?" Marius gave her a puzzled look. "Decent standard of living, especially for someone that looked after, good pay, safe streets…"

"So what?" Neeva rolled her eyes. "That's no better than the standard of living most candidates will be used to anyway. But, nephew: the Hegemony's a slave state." She could see the lack of understanding on Marius' face an let out an exasperated sigh. "Nobody's going to move here if they don't have to," she explained. "People with more than two brain cells – you know, the people you want – will take a look at Marian society and nope the fuck out," she rolled her eyes. "Here, he gets it!" she pointed a finger at Posca.

The slave-turned-advisor cleared his throat, nodding in agreement. "There is no great riddle to this, dominus. Why would, say, a Lyran aerotech engineer or graduate uproot themselves and probably their family, too, move possibly hundreds of light years – only to always be faced with the risk that if they screw up or fall on hard times there's more than just a small chance to end up as slave? For generations even, potentially?"

"Despite the common misconception we're not enslaving everything that's not climbed a tree in less than three seconds," Marius frowned. "And the things we do enslave people for are very well codified, mostly criminal offenses. Doesn't sound like much of a reason to never set foot in the Hegemony to me."

"It's a pretty damn good reason for most people outside the Hegemony," she shot back. "And the fact that it's a 'common misconception' should tell you a thing or two, too!"

"Well, I can hardly put one of the core tenets of Marian society in question just because some foreigners might get their pants in a twist because of the concept," he countered her outburst with an equal part of annoyance. "How do you imagine I do that? Ban slavery? The senate would have my head on a spike before I could finish reading them my proposal!"

"There's a reason slavery is outlawed in ninety percent of human civilization! It goes against every human right known to man, it's archaic and barbaric!"

"And yet, here you are, sitting comfortably in your giant estate run by slaves, among the slavers you despise," Marius mocked her.

Neeva looked about to explode when Corvinus spoke up, his voice bereft of his normal joviality. "Maybe we should all take a breather now, calm our tempers."

His wife rose abruptly from her chair. "If you excuse me, I'll be outside," she stated coolly and left, her dress fluttering behind her.

Corvinus' eyes followed her before he looked back at Marius, shaking his head. "Well done," he told him, disappointment dripping from his voice. "Give her a moment."

The young emperor nibbled at the rest of his sandwich, but the ravenous hunger was gone. Still, the three men continued their meal in silence before he excused himself.

Neeva Lee-O'Reilly stood outside on a wide balcony overlooking her lands. Evening had fallen and doused the valley in golden sunlight.

"That got pretty heated in there," Marius picked up two glasses from a nearby tray and filled them with wine, handing his great-aunt one with a reparative smile.

Neeva took it and emptied half of it in one go, shaking her head as she stared out across the terraces of the mansion and its orchards and fields bathed in the last glows of the evening sun. "I swear to god, sometimes I wonder how I could ever marry a Marian. You lot are as narrow-minded as medieval inquisitors!" she growled. "Yeah, yeah, I know," she held up her glass and cut him off before he could answer. "Marian traditions, part of your society, it's always been like this – I get it, trust me, I do. Never going to like it, but I can live with it, even if it's only for that pot-bellied buffoon in there who carries my heart in his hands," her face and voice softened.

"I'm glad this isn't standing between us," Marius took a sip of wine. "You know, I truly meant it that I wanted a different perspective on things. Not going to lie and pretend I agree with everything you and Corv say, but… it's good to get a different take once a while." He took a deep breath. "So, no chance on running the great Marian vacuum cleaner of oh-nine across the Inner Sphere to steal their specialists?"

Neeva gave him a mirthless chuckle, emptying the rest of her glass. "Marius, I think you're a good man. Or trying to be a good man, for what it's worth. Look at it this way: I've been a mercenary most of my life. For thirty years all I did was put my life on the line. More than once I got really close calls with the grim reaper. And the only reason I'm here today is because the man I love introduced me into national nobility." She put the glass away and looked him right in the eyes. "Now tell me, how likely do you think is it that some normal run-of-the-mill risk averse civilian specialist comes here?"

Marius had no answer to that. At least none that he liked. He turned his look back to the orchards and fields, just in time to catch the last rays of sunshine before Alphard's central star sunk behind the horizon. "You've got it beautiful here. Serene, almost. Whenever I look out of the palace's windows all I see is either the sea and its steady cavalcade of freight ships or Nova Roma's sprawl."

Now it was her turn to not react on what had been said.
"You said I was here, comfortable in my slave-run estate. What would you say if I told you there are barely any slaves here?" she looked at him.

He turned to her in surprise. "The orchards, the fields, all of that must be extremely labor intensive?!"

"It is, and don't get me wrong, we do have slaves. More than I like – which would be none –," she muttered, "but far fewer than comparable patrician households. Look, I understand you're Marian, and I'm not. Not truly, at least. So, I'm not going to make this a moral argument. Might just as well argue against breathing. Anyway," she shook her head, then pointed at her land. "Most tasks are handled by plebeians; paid employees and worker. Trained gardeners, trained irrigation techs, horse handlers, farm workers, cooks, you name it. That, or by machines."

"That sounds excessively expensive," he remarked doubtfully.

"That's the thought most patricians immediately have. Do you have more of that wine?"

He reached for the pitcher and refilled her glass.

"Thanks," she took another sip. "Already feeling it. The safest sign that, in fact, I am getting old," she sighed. "Where was I? Ah yes: all this. Would you believe me if I told you these estates generate a twenty percent higher profit than comparable patrician lands? And that our productivity is up even higher, nearly 25%? Ah, I know that look: you don't." She giggled, then sobered almost immediately. "Free people work because they want to. For themselves, for their families, some even because they think they've found their calling in a profession. They work faster, harder, better than slaves, which means we need fewer of them. Do I need to pay them a decent wage? Sure. But I don't have to house them. Feed them. Clothe them. School them. Employ a medicus for them. One free man does the work of two slaves on these fields, your majesty. And when the work is done, they go home to their family – and eventually pay taxes." She looked at her half-filled glass and put it away. "Maybe that is an angle you ought to consider? Now, lets get back inside, shall we? I'd like to enjoy the last evening with my guests and my husband before you drag him back into your pit of vipers," she smiled wryly.

Marius mirrored her smile and offered her his arm, leading her back to soft warm glow of the villa, where they left politics behind for the remainder of the evening, reminiscing about shared memories of the past.

He knew that when he returned back to the capital in the morning, it would not just be a new day.
It would be the first day of the new Marian Hegemony.


[]...early days of Marian education were symptomatic of a general disregard for the lower classes persisting on many less-developed worlds, especially in the known Periphery. For the Hegemony, Patricians ran their own system of private schools, which even today are the academic equals of privileged schools in the larger Periphery states; slaves still receive whatever education their owners see fit to give them, depending on the skills needed for the positions they're expected to fill. Education for the broad masses, however, personified by the lower and middle class plebeians, had no public funding until the reforms enacted by Imperator Marius O'Reilly early in his reign, and were fully dependent on local will, ability and finances to provide for teachers and infrastructure. This sort of official neglect led to widely fluctuating levels educational achievement and even basic literacy. While this sort of non-education is unthinkable on Terra, it is indeed widespread in much of human-settled space, including even parts of some successor states.
Imperator Marius' reforms established a two-tiered public school system, requiring all students to pass seven years of primary school and four years of high school, ending in a standardized yet rigorous Leaving Exam. Those who pass their exams within a certain percentile gain permission to enroll with the state's renowned Polytechnic Colleges, which provide a mix of vocational training and higher courses geared towards studies in the practical sciences like engineering, business degrees, and architecture, for example. Some of these may also include specialized programs like that of the Gaius Mercer Polytechnic of Nova Roma, which among others offers zero-g welding courses in one of Alphard's many orbitals...[]. – Handbook of Periphery Studies, Shanghai University Press, 3083, 6th Edition.

 

[Culsu]

Today: The Senate -- Grievances -- Politics by Other Means

"Laws are like sausages. It is best not to see them being made." – Quote attributed to German Chancellor Otto von Bismarck

"Dealing with the Senate is like playing a game of chess, on multiple boards, against leeches. No matter how careful you are, one of the damn things will end up trying to suck you dry." – Quote from The Diaries of Emperor Johann Sebastian O'Reilly, authenticity not verified

C h a p t e r 0 3: Chamber of Whispers ​

Nova Roma, Alphard
Marian Hegemony
May 2nd, 3009
"It's quite an ambitious program."
Senator Olivia Patel leaned her back against one of the thirteen crimson pillars holding the domed chamber, her face turned towards the nearby window overlooking the plaza far below, bustling with people scurrying from the shadow of one palm tree to the next under Alphard's glaring midday sun. The air shimmered over the pavement, turning the capital's skyline into a hazy fog in stark contrast to her comfortably cool surroundings. Rising more than twenty feet to hold a dome once again as high, the columns were smooth as ice, and veined with gold and silver inlets, their bases and capitals carved in the form of vines with a gild-plated finish. Smooth slabs of the same material covered the chamber's floor, vanishing under a polished round table made from fine wood around which more than a dozen people found place in comfortable chairs with room to spare. In contrast, the high dome above was alabaster white, brightened by the glow of carefully hidden lights, providing the illusion of an open sky, accentuated by a holographic projection that, if need be, could be used to present more mundane images if the people convening there needed it to.

The Marian Senate convened twice a year, usually at the beginning of March and September for one month each to discuss the state of the nation, petition the emperor, embark on legislative initiatives, and act as a forum to voice its members' grievances. Even at the Hegemony's comparably small size the lack of faster than light communications aside from a Type-B complex on Alphard itself made a permanent sitting representation impossible to maintain. To circumvent the issue, Johann Sebastian O'Reilly and the founding families had agreed that each of the senate's relatively loose factions appointed one member, traditionally from Alphard, to represent their interests. Thus reduced to less than a dozen people, they regularly convened in an annex of the Senate's cathedral like dome.

Those that met there called it the small senate, but in common parlance its name was the Chamber of Whispers. For what the mighty whispered here between blood-red marble columns more often than not would end up being shouted from the ranks of the assembly and fill the headlines of the press soon thereafter.

"I've been given to understand that, per capita, it would represent an unprecedented scale of militarization, right?" The result of a long Indian and southern European lineage, Olivia Patel had long, flowing hair that she kept in a loose braid, accentuating the amethyst-laden tiara she wore. She wore a vibrant orange toga over a deep blue tunic, and a gold bangle on her wrist. Her sparkling deep drawn eyes betrayed the disinterested tone with which she maintained the conversation.

A relative moderate on most issues, Marius knew her closet to be full of skeletons, some of them not just figuratively present. He ought to be able to work with her if he managed to sell his points right.

Technically, he did not need the support of the people that had gathered together with him in this room: he could rule by decree. But technically, as long years of dealing with the same institution he now once again had to handle, did not always translate to real life. Disagreement could lead to institutional blockades, administrative resistance, patrician funded public opposition if they called upon their patronage. If an emperor antagonized too much of the senate too often, chances rose they would fall victim to some scheming. That much history had proven. Sean also would not have moved against him without at least some backing from senators. That thought left a sour taste in his mouth. Hence his need to at least uphold appearances and clue them in. For now, at least.

"Not per capita, no." Marius leaned back in his high-backed chair – the only such one and the only outward sign representing his position – turning to face Patel. "The Taurians have conscription, as have others, so this would actually still put us very much down on the list. But it is a very steep increase in capabilities, both offensive and defensive, especially seen in relation to our nations comparably small size."

"More like you mean the costs are insanely prohibitive," Marcos Kimura shook his head. Kimura, representing what could reasonably be called the traditionalist block, was a tall, athletic man with dark, almond-shaped eyes and jet-black hair only graying at the temples that he kept trimmed short. His mixed Japanese and south American heritage gave his skin is a warm olive tone, and he had a well-defined jawline and high cheekbones. Sitting on the opposite side of the table and nervously pushing a silver-framed goblet back and forth, he wore a traditional Roman toga in vibrant shades of green and gold, embroidered with intricate traditional Japanese designs. He was also, in Marius personal opinion, a mouth-breathing moron ready to initially oppose anything that did not follow the founding generation's example to a T. "A massive financial boondoggle for little apparent use or need."

"It's your prerogative to view it that way, senator. I suppose it's my lucky day that the expenses fall under the government's discretionary spending then," Marius retorted flatly. The man hadn't batted an eye at the costs of the proposed public school system but only demanded reassurances it would not impede on the patricians' private schools.

"That still doesn't make it a wise decision," the older man growled, and Marius had to count to three in his head to calm himself before he answered.
"The universe isn't standing still. Every report from the Inner Sphere suggests that the great house are well on their way to recovery from the turmoil of the succession wars. What do you think it'll mean for our way of life, for our security, if the Free Worlds League rebuilds enough to garrison the border worlds properly? If they decide to turn the table eventually once they can spare a regiment of mechs or three?" He rose from his seat, both hands firmly planted on the table. "None of you can possibly claim that one mech legion is enough to defend what's soon to be eleven star systems. Even a military layman like yourself ought to understand that much," he shot Kimura a hard glance. "Besides, more legions mean more officer commissions for those pesky second and third children. Gives them something to aspire to, and keeps the line of succession clear."

"God knows I could use that," Senator Malik Al-Amin's chuckle was a low rumble, like a grinding avalanche. A tall, imposing man with a shaved head and bright green eyes, mocha skin, high cheekbones and a broad nose offset by a strong jawline and a neatly trimmed beard, Al-Amin was the head of the Meridian Alliance, a loose cartel of trading houses. Lounging in his seat with a steaming cup of tea standing on table just in front of him he wore a white thobe cut to resemble a tunic and a golden torque set with a single emerald, a symbol of his house's wealth and power.

"Now don't tell you wife's pregnant again!" Kimura rolled his eyes.

"With my sixth child," the trader shrugged. "Getting their commissions probably would do my two oldest good. Besides," his face turned serious again. "The way I see it most of the spending on those new troops will flow back into the Hegemony's economy. That means us, ladies and gentlemen."

"You're not getting taxed one extra denarius for this, Marcos," Olivia Patel's voice held just a tiny edge of annoyance.

"There's that, too. Also, consider this, senator: what little standing forces we've had have been use to harass and raid our neighbors. Now, I do agree with you that, in interstellar politics, might does make right," at least, it usually did, "but appearances do also matter. Everybody – at least everybody who matters – considers us a pirate kingdom. As far as diplomatic leverage goes, it gives us none. A standing army, a true army of several legions, will go a long way to provide the sort of legitimacy we need if we want to survive in the interstellar game of houses," Marius explained, far more patiently than he actually felt.

"Fine!" Kimura threw up his hands in annoyed surrender. "Have it your way for the standing forces. I still think most of it could've found better used, like with that third star system you cut from your plans."

Marius shook his head. "I've gone over this too often to repeat myself again, senator. Horatius and New Venice are without a single jump of our current territory. They are easier to colonize, closer to the Terran standard, and if problems should arise we'd know of them immediately. The distance of ninety plus lightyears alone makes Herculaneum an expense I found easy to cut." He turned his attention to the rest of the room. "Can I expect you to be present at the first launch two weeks from now?"

The question was largely rhetoric in nature. None of them would open themselves to talk and ridicule by missing one of the most important events for the Hegemony in a decade, if not a generation. The Horatius and New Venice star systems had been catalogued and prospected for years already. Unregistered mining outposts and settlements already existed, but with the start of the first jumpship carrying colonists it would become official. Originally, he had waited with his plans until a few years of his reign had passed, but he knew the ins and outs. If anything, his knowledge of events propelled him to start as soon as possible. With everything, really.

"Of course, your majesty," Senator Isabella Osei's bright soprano voice was the first to answer. She was the last remaining current member of the Chamber of Whispers. A petite woman in her early forties, her deep blue eyes were the focal point of her face which otherwise was dominated by full lips and a strong nose that gave her a distinctive look. Her curly, jet-black hair was kept styled in an elegant updo. Her skin had a warm, golden undertone that pleasantly contrasted with the deep purple toga trimmed with gold that she wore, adorned with a brooch that bore the emblem of her house.
"It's a monumental occasion and should be honored accordingly," she eyed her colleagues sharply.

"My family was among the first settlers on Alphard," Senator Kimura opined, "and always supported our founding father's drive to expand the Hegemony. Naturally I will attend, and I think the majority of the Senate will see it the same way."

"Indeed," Malik Al-Amin scratched his chin, "it would be rather unwise not to attend. The funding is secure, and if preliminary reports can be trusted both worlds will be worthwhile additions to the Hegemony. I suppose it's a good thing that much of the shipping used for the last colonies still exists in some form."

Olivia Patel merely nodded in acquiescence.
Marius was glad for it. The people in this room liked the sounds of their own voices too much as it was. He would very much have preferred to revisit the details of the first colonial missions once more in the privacy of his solar, but he knew how to take a victory when it occurred. At least he had been able to slide in clear instructions to protect the Horatian magnalizard from extinction on the last minute. Keeping the towering six-legged herbivores alive would hopefully prove to be a longtime boon for the colony's development.

On to the meat of the discussion. Internally, he steeled himself.
The four senators had begun to talk among themselves about the coming ceremony. Would there be fireworks? Parades? Fly-bys?
He cleared his throat and steepled his fingers.
"We need to address one more issue, amici. Slavery." His voice had been calm, but the words cut right through their conversation, drawing all attention back to him.

"What about it?" Kimura's tone was already defensive, bordering on angry.

"I take it as my mandate to increase the welfare of this nation and its people, Marcos," he chose to address the man by his first name, leaning forward a bit. "That includes you, your esteemed three colleagues here, and all the other patrician families that have lent you their support. But it also includes the people who constitute the vast majority of our population. The plebs."
He raised one hand to stop Kimura's reply in its tracks.
"Two points, really. One is a suggestion, backed by data collected across our worlds. Empiric data is clear on the fact that productivity and profit margins increase dramatically if pleb workers and machinery replace mass forced labor, and also those positions filled in our households and corporations that fill special niches. My servant Posca has already prepared dossiers and provided your attendants with copies to that effect. I assure you they are quite exhaustive, and I would welcome it if you were to relay them to those on whose behalf you are speaking. Since this concerns your property, the choice remains yours, of course. Still, I believe that enabling our plebeians and cutting the cord on too much of a reliance on imported slave labor will provide us all with significant advantages in the long term."

"Imported slave labor," Isabella Osei's face twisted in disgust. "What a neat euphemism for people that have been kidnapped at gun point from the embrace of their loved ones by the very pirate scum other nations hunt and hand."

"Here we go again," Kimura groaned and pushed his chair back to grab a glass. A slave servant appeared from between the crimson pillars with a tray of cool drinks to hurriedly satisfy the senator's desires. "We all know your extremist stance on the matter, Isabella. Beating that dead horse isn't going to curry favors with anybody. Your Majesty," he turned to Marius who focused him with green-brown eyes, "our nation's economy has been built on the backs of our slaves since the founding. They are our property and we have every right to use them as we see fit. Limiting their use will only serve to weaken our economy and undermine our property rights. If it is your goal to further the Hegemony's welfare we must consider the economic impact of such measures and ensure that we do not harm our nation's prosperity in the process."

"And I say," Isabella's soprano snapped like a high-toned bell, sharp and piercing, "that his majesty's suggestions don't go far enough. In fact, I would urge you to consider outright abolition of slavery in the Hegemony. It is time we move towards a more just and egalitarian society!"

"I wonder, my dear, if you would sing the same tune if the majority of your personal wealth was not tied down in real estate rented to plebeians but rather in the kind of actively managed enterprises the rest of us lead?" Olivia's smile with cold and toothless, and her sparkling eyes carried a warning that went right over the other female senator's head.

"What do you mean to insinuate by that?!"

"It means, my dear," Marcos Kimura smiled like a cat presented with a bowl of the sweetest cream, "that ideas, that your morals are cheap if you don't have to sacrifice anything to uphold them. We cannot ignore the practical realities of our nation's security and economic interests. Our slaves have been instrumental in providing the labor necessary for much of our economic success. Abolishing slavery would lead to a decline in productivity and a decrease in the very military capabilities you seek to expand. Furthermore, it would lead to outright turmoil, to more unemployment and a decline in the standard of living for many of our citizens."

"You heartless-"

"Enough!" Marius' hand slapped the table.
"We are not here to discuss the abolition of slavery. Senators, I appreciate your concerns. This is a suggestion. I may wear the silver laurels, but it's not my place to tell you how to handle your own property. To do so would be quite un-Marian. I'm merely offering an alternative for those of you who are interested in it. You know my family well enough to understand that I'm not an abolitionist, even though someone standing by their convictions will always have my respect," he tilted his head towards Osei. "Be that as it may, I do believe we can increase productivity and stimulate economic growth not just for us, but also for the very people whose patrons you all claim to be, my esteemed friends. The compact of our nation is between us patricians and the plebeians. It is them who have suffered from the institution of slavery, by robbing them of opportunities to build themselves up by their own hands. If we provide them with better opportunities, we increase their standard of living and reap the benefits of greater social stability."
Pushing an indention on the table a control panel popped up, and he activated the holographic projector. Immediately the rest of the lights in the room dimmed. "There's more, amici. I won't beat around the bush. If current trends continue the percentage of slave labor on the labor market compared to pleb laborers is set to grow by nought point one to nought point three percent per year. Draw this graph into the future a few decades, and it will at one point become a dire problem for our nation's welfare and inner peace. Tell me, whose taxes are going to finance their welfare and quiescence?" He pointed at the graph flowing in mid-air. "The numbers don't lie. I'm not going to force any of you to take action. This is not the way. But I have already tasked the imperial bureaucracy and the board of Alphard Trading to check which positions currently occupied by slaves can be replaced by plebs, by machines, or be completely cut. I'll lead by example, and I hope your enlightened self interest will let you follow me if you can."
That was not quite the truth. He had made that one up on the spot, but as far as lies went it cam almost too easy to him. Keeping a straight face had never felt easier, especially as he now used it to lead into his next point.
"This was my suggestion. In addition, our foreign policy concerns demand that we take steps to attract foreign investment and specialists. A just and efficient system of labor is key to achieving these goals. Again, my proposal does not have an abolition of slavery as its goal, but merely a... re-contextualization of it to take our wider needs into consideration. Some adjustments will have to be made."
He pointed at the hologram hovering over the middle of the round table.
"No more hereditary slavery. A child born to a slave will be free. And new slaves will be limited to menial tasks."

"No fucking way!" Kimura growled, but Marius went right over him.

"Legal immigrants will be exempt from being subjected to slavery, as will their children! We need foreign technology, foreign capital, and foreign specialists to fill any gap that we cannot close ourselves. None of you actually believe that any of that will happen if, say, a Lyran-born engineer who came here legally, possibly even sponsored by one of our corporations, comes into financial trouble and ends up a slave to pay off his debts? People outside our borders already have the impression that we excel at the worst excesses of the old Terran Romans. There have to be guarantees in place that make it clear to them they won't end up in a loincloth in a quarry being whipped by an overseer," he explained.

"The repercussions on foreign relations, especially if the Hegemony were to build those first, would probably be catastrophic," Patel mused.

"Undoubtedly so!" Osei enthusiastically agreed. "This is not just about economics or security. It's about our image and reputation. We are already facing criticism from other nations for our use of human slaves. If we continue down this path, we risk isolation and condemnation from the rest of the galaxy. You have my support on this, your majesty!"

"Well, I can see your point," Al-Amin weighed in, his voice hesitant. "I dare say none of my business partners from outside the Hegemony's borders are too keen to fall subjects to the hurdles or justice system allows. But wholly exempting one brand of people from slavery, that opens up the slippery slope towards jealousy, and to a two-class justice system. Don't get me wrong, the Meridian Alliance is onboard with attracting foreign capital, whether we're talking about currency or talent. But this is path that ought to be treaded on carefully, lest it undermines the peace you're seeking, your majesty."

"I can't believe what I'm hearing here!" Kimura's dark eyes blazed with anger. "Your Majesty," somehow he managed to fill the title with absolutely no respect, "I understand your concerns for the well-being of our citizens, and I couldn't give a rat's ass about the complaints that some foreigners, some day, may somehow have. But this here is an intrusion into our property rights! We, all of us here, must consider the basic economic implications of limiting the use of human slaves. Slaves are a perpetually reproducing labor force. Many of our farms, our plantations rely on the labor of these individuals, and any attempt to limit their use will undoubtedly harm the livelihoods and the secure supply of many of our citizens! And what about the privateers? Don't you think they'll be less than amused about regulations on their business?"

"Oh, don't make a mountain out of a molehill, Marcos," Olivia Patel chided him, her long polished nails tapping the table. Marius had realized early on that it was a sign of her head racing with thoughts. "I loathe the government regulating how and what to do with my property as much as the next person. But this here largely concerns property that you don't have yet?! And don't pretend one second you care for the opinions of some pirates. The Crimson Chalice doesn't care what we do with the slaves they put on the markets. There main profits aren't in engineers and builders," she rolled her eyes.

"Nobody's taking away your current property, Senator Kimura," Marius quietly reassured him. "Within the legal framework of the Hegemony you are free to handle your property as you see fit. Keep them, sell them release them. All the same, it is my right within the same framework to suggest changes and limitations to the practice that will only have an impact in the future. I don't see how anything I have put on the agenda today endangers your immediate operations in any shape or form?"

"I'm not trying to beat a dead horse by hoping you all agree to my stance on human rights in the slave question," Isabella Osei looked weary, yet defiant, "but you cannot seriously tell me, Marcos, that you could not possibly adapt your businesses' specialist positions from slaves to plebs or even lower patricians in case those slaves die or get too old? The process alone will take decades; that's a trickle, not a flood."

Kimura stared back at her, unfazed. "It is my property. What you are suggesting is akin to me owning a car, and all of a sudden the state decrees that I can no longer buy repair parts for said car. Worse, you're telling me I can buy the car, but prohibit me from using it the way I see ft. No, I will not have any of it!"

"There's stubborn, and then there's bull-headed," Patel shook her flowing mane. "I am no friend of undue investments, but if push comes to shove I'd rather adapt than struggle against the flow. There are other ways to ensure our prosperity without continuously bloating some parties already impressive stocks of slaves. Maybe we can really achieve better outcomes if we invest in new technologies, improve our infrastructure, and get more productive plebs into the right positions. It's at least worth of being considered and not flat-out rejected."

"Thank you, Senator Patel," Marius nodded gratefully. "For most of this, that's all that I'm asking for."

"And you haven't really thought that through, have ya?" Kimura harrumphed, whatever respect he had now subdued by his bad mood. "Assume your ideas catch on, people dump their slaves, then what?" he gesticulated wildly. "Emancipating a large number of slaves, some of them in the second or even third generation, provides external powers with immense opportunities to compromise our national security via infiltration. Just because we set them free doesn't mean they would immediately love their former masters," he grinned scornfully. "How many would be stuck on our worlds with no means to return to wherever they were initially taken captive from? Now wouldn't that be a ground ripe for unrest and violence."

"Any change carries some dangers with it, senator. But you're doing your position no favors by being a doom monger. Since whether you adapt or remain as you are is voluntary, it is unlikely that mass releases of slaves will coincide. And a trickle can be controlled by existing security. That's why we have it."
Forty years of patience in dealing with this very kind of person did have their advantages. Advantages like 'not risking a civil war by having Marcos Kimura thrown from a window on the twentieth floor'. Patience that, sadly, was seldomly rewarded.

"Change? What you are proposing is not change, it is chaos!" Kimura growled. "I fear that you are risking everything for a vague and uncertain future. We have a duty to protect the interests of our people, not to indulge in empty idealism. Looking good to foreigners doesn't put food on the table. We need to be pragmatic and realistic, not idealistic and naïve. Slavery as practiced now has let our society thrive for decades. It is a fundamental aspect of our way of life and our culture. To abandon it now would be a betrayal of our ancestors and our traditions!" He rose from his chair. "Thus, with all due respect, I must insist that you reconsider this proposal. It is not in the best interest of our people, our culture, or our nation, and it will not have my support! Good day!"

Almost in unison the others also rose, but in protest and to sway the senator.
Marius remaining on his chair, his eyes following Kimura as he made his exit, his face quite as he was fuming. There was no point in appealing to the man's reason. Fifteen years of dealing with the man the first time around had proven just as much.

Osei was on his side. Patel and Al-Amin were open enough to endorse his suggestion, and flexible enough to adapt to his proposal. Which only left Kimura. He could try and decree the changes anyway. And Kimura could try and force the Senate to convene and vote on it. The vote would still not be binding. But Kimura's faction was the largest among the many faceted senators. Failing such a vote would be akin to a vote of no confidence this early in his reign. He leaned back in his seat and watched the double door close behind Kimura's towering form.

Staring at the door he gritted his teeth. This was not over yet.


Camp Sulla
Forty Miles North of Nova Roma, Alphard
Marian Hegemony
May 6th, 3009
Framed by wooded hills on one side and rocky plains to the other, Camp Sulla was a small city in and by itself, filled with warehouses, underground bunkers, hangars made from armored concrete, barracks and control centers. Home to the 1st Marian Legion's first cohort, it was also the Marian Hegemony's Armed Forces prime training grounds.

It had been a while since Marius had last set foot there, but the moment he jumped from the passenger seat of the small transport VTOL and onto the base's tarmac it felt almost like coming home again. He had trained here as a mechwarrior, as was customary for members of the imperial family, and the place felt more welcoming in its drab desolation than the senate chambers did.

A small welcoming committee approached to greet him.
That was something the old him was just too familiar with, but finding himself back in his young, in his earlier life made him realize just how comfortable some parts of being 'just' the heir had been on their own. Greater unrestricted freedom of movement had been one such part. Now, as emperor, his every move had to be preplanned and organized, lest his personal security detail was to collectively die of an aneurysm. At least they had the decency and professionalism to blend into the background most the time.

"Your majesty! You honor use with your visit!" the lead figure called over the dying whine of the aircraft's engines.

If she really was excited to see him, the tone of her voice did a good job of hiding it, Marius thought as she came to attention in front of him, raising her hand in salute.

"The pleasure's mine, General Volkova!" he returned the salute in the same fashion, looking up to her. "At ease, please!"

Alina Volkova was a tall, imposing figure, all muscles without an ounce of fat on her. Decades of a rigorous workout regime had cut off any softness from her body, leaving only sharp features, high cheekbones and a defined jawline worthy of a boxer. Almost seven feet tall, her piercing blue-green eyes probed him with the calculating mind of a seasoned predator. Her hair was cut short and neatly groomed, with the sides of her head shaved to allow for better connectivity with her 'mech's neurohelmet. Decades of field operations and raids had left her skin with a deep tan that was only broken by a red-white scar on her forehead, an old memento from overheating and shrapnel.

"What can the Legion do for you today, your majesty?"

"I'm here to check on family property, and to get some much needed training hours on the parcours done," he explained, adapting the level of his voice to the receding background noise. "I'd like to take my father's mech for a ride," he pointed to the hangars in which he knew his and his ancestors' machines were stored and maintained. "If you've got the time, why don't you join me in your mech? I'm a little rusty, and you know what they say about training with the best."

"In that case I'll be honored to remind you who's the better mechwarrior, sir," the tall officer replied with a toothy grin that failed to reach her eyes. Her voice remained clipped and mirthless. Marius couldn't help but frown, but didn't say anything. "With your permission I'll get myself ready. I believe you know the way. See you on the training course, sir."

He nodded and saw her make her way to the barracks, confused about what was bugging her. Volkova was a hard woman who had played no favorites with him when his father had punted him from his studies into the cockpit of a battlemech. But until now he had believed to have a good rapport with the Marian Hegemony Armed Forces seniormost officer, especially since she had seen to his training personally. Softly shaking his head he made his way to get into gear himself.

The barracks of the 1st Cohort were right next to the imperial hangar, and it was customary that the reigning emperor and their adult children kept their own lockers there, right among the other pilots. Mechwarriors were a peculiar breed, and his arrival did nothing except raise a few eyebrows from those on duty or coming across him in the hallways. A few salutes there, a "Your Majesty" here, maybe a few curious looks as he passed through. But no great fuzz. His training had not been too long ago, and he remembered a few faces as he passed, exchanging nods in recognition.

The locker room that held his gear brought up fond – and painful - memories. The air smelled familiar and welcoming, the odor that strange mix of old sweat, showered bodies, and worn gear that other probably would have found more repugnant than endearing. Having the room for himself, he began to undress and take his vest and helmet from the biolocked locker. That security measure had been the only concession distinguishing himself from the other mechwarriors garrisoned there.

Part of him remembered his little jest with Posca about packing up to lead a life of mercenaries, and he felt bile bubble up in his stomach. Not at the idea, but at the fact that already the obstructions he faced made him reconsider it. Gritting his teeth he slammed the locker shut with almost enough force to put a dent in it.

"Easy now! What's that poor locker ever done to you, Hawkbeak?"

Marius whipped around and found himself staring at a young man about his age, sun-tanned, dark-haired and gifted with his mother's green-blue eyes.
"Vulture?!" he cried out in surprise, a broad smile blowing his dour mood away in an instant. "What are you you doing here? I thought they put you on Suetonius, you mouth-breathing, sad excuse for a mech jock!" he chuckled, the two men sharing a quick embrace, patting each other's back.

"Sad excuse? Says the man who took a year to be able to hit the broadside of a barn!" the other man shot back, laughing.

"Hey, what can I say? The targeting computer was screwed seven ways to hell and back. Besides, I did pretty well with the spray-and-pray approach, didn't I?"

Vulture snorted. "Maybe you should have that conversation with the clean-up crews, eh?"

"God no!" Marius held up his hands. "I'm sure there's still some rubble from my first training exercise that they'd be thrilled to bury me under," he sighed. "Man, it's good to see a face that doesn't want to jump my bones for some political favor or another. What are you doing here, Aidan?"

"Got recalled at the start of the year. One day I was on my third raid, the next day I got the orders to report at Camp Sulla. They say my scores are great and my conduct on mission's exemplary, and now they wanna saddle me with commanding the cohort's training centuria." The other mechwarrior shook his head.

"An early promotion? Why do I get the feeling you're not happy with that?" Marius probed.

"Because even someone as perceptive as a doorknob as you can see the obvious, Hawkbeak. Two raids is nothing. Now don't get me wrong; running around on a pirate jumpship with Harbinger's Hellions isn't my idea of a good time, but how many mechs with my deployment history do you know that get called back to Sulla?" Vulture sounded defeated. "And just when I was getting the kind of experience actually needed."

"You suspect your mom, Aidan?"

"Wouldn't you?" Aidan Vulture Volkov replied.

"Well, the general's never given me the mother hen vibes," Marius shrugged.

"That's because she not your mother, but mine," Aidan deadpanned. "Anyway, seems pretty obvious she had her hands in this. Not sure how this'll set me with the new recruits. Rumors fly fast, ya know?"

"Well, I met her earlier. Welcomed me on the helipad. She's agreed to meet me on the training course in a few. Maybe I could put in a word on your behalf?"
Marius felt his comrade hesitate. "What is it?"

"Nothing. I'm not sure. You know how she can be, but she's been in a really foul mood for the past week or so. I doubt she'll be holding back fighting you. Watch your back, Hawkbeak." He sighed again, deflating a bit. "I should be going. Got a simulator appointment, and classes later. Godspeed!"

"Thanks, Vulture, I'll keep that in mind. See you around!"
He watched the man leave, wondering what was up. A pissed off Alina Volkova was like a bear with a bad mood: nothing a sane person wanted to cross. But then, people led by their emotions made mistakes. Either way, he harbored no illusions about being able to beat a mechwarrior of her caliber. But then, training against better fighters was the only logical way to get better yourself.

Having finished dressing in his cooling vest, he found his way to the imperial hangar. Technicians were buzzing around the machine in the first cubicle like bees.
His father's Battlemaster was a compact yet towering machine, completely different from the Marauder Marius had trained on and used so far. A solid humanoid shape with tactile hands, clean forms and a tinted cockpit allowing almost human-like range of movement and visibility, the Battlemaster was spotless, painted in white with a central set of thick diagonal purple lines and golden cuffs painted onto the mech's arms.
The memories of seeing it the first time flooded back into his mind, and combined with the impression he felt right then and there he couldn't help but break into a broad smile and whistle in appreciation.

A technician stopped next to him and smiled.
"She ish a beauty, ishn't she?" the Pompey-born woman exclaimed.
All Marius could do is nod. "That she is. Let's take her for a ride!"


[…

…Reactor online…

…Sensors online…

…Weapons online…

…All systems nominal]

Marius drove the Battlemaster's eighty-five tons across the tarmac and through the base's labyrinth into the training grounds. Moving around in the assault mech was an odd sensation, less wobbly than on the Marauder's chassis. The cockpit was also placed a good deal higher above the ground, granting him superior mobility. It took him a few close calls with nearby structures to get some sort of feeling for the larger mech's inertia, but he felt he had adapted reasonably well once he walked onto Camp Sulla's training course.

The Marian Hegemony's Armed Forces were raiders. 'Pirates in Togas', the Canopians had come to call them in his days. But their small numbers and primary occupation did not mean the legion did not train their people well, and Camp Sulla was testament to this. Over more than four hundred square miles different landscapes and scenarios had been set up to train the legion's recruits on as many scenarios as possible, in as many combinations as were thinkable.

"This is Control. Hawkbeak, you're advised to switch to channel three."

"Roger that, Control. I'm moving into the course now. Switching weapons to training mode in three, two, one… ready," he replied.

"Understood, Hawkbeak, we'll be monitoring your progress. The course is yours. Control out."

The Battlemaster picked up speed as Marius drove it down the soft slope of a hill, across a small stream and through a copse of trees. A red marker pinged on his sensors, just for a second, and his radio cackled with Alina Volkova's voice.
"So there you are, your majesty. Brave of you to challenge me on my home turf."

The assault mech crested the ridge of a hill.
"Seemed like the better spot than the streets of Nova Roma, Thresher," he replied with her callsign, his eyes darting back and forth between his sensors and the view from his cockpit as he tried to gauge her position. Granting him his wish the general's mech appeared briefly on screen. Not long enough to get a fix on it, but apparently the reverse was not true. His missile alert blared, and a salvo of LRMs descended on him in a wide arc.

Pushing his throttle to the max, he ran between the nearby trees, trying to use the vegetation and speed to his advantage. Not all missiles hit him, but still enough of the salvo found their target. Not carrying their actual payload, twelve of the fifteen missiles struck true, his sensor registering the hits as if they were live rounds.
"You can't spoof LRM seekers with a few low trees and an assault mech's speed, Hawkbeak," Volkova called him out. "Stay on the move. Use the terrain." As if to emphasize her words his sensors registered another missile salvo approaching.

Marius grunted, twisting the mech's torso and sent it into a run back down the slope between a couple of prefab houses and empty sheetmetal halls. Ducking, he made a three-floor building catch a few enemy warheads, and another one got entangled in overland powerlines and sent off course. He didn't stay in place but trained his machine towards the direction he had caught her sensor blip before, driving its full mass to its full speed of 64.8 km/h. A third salvo followed, most hitting him again, but he knew his thick armor could take them.

Volkova's mech appeared again, and this time he also saw it pop up for real. Swinging his right arm towards its position he fired his PPC, sending a blue lightning bolt towards his opponent. Heat inside the cockpit rose immediately, but the modified machine's nineteen heat sinks were quick to dissipate it again.
"No luck this time, mechwarrior," Volkova teased, answering herself with a fourth missile salvo and a shot from her Thunderbolt's large laser. It grazed Marius' larger Battlemaster's torso on the right side.

With gritted teeth, he steered the mech throw low brushland and car-sized boulders towards his opponent. Thresher appeared to be making her way to the more built-up sections of the maneuver ground. He fired his PPC once more, hitting a rock face where just a blink of an eye before Volkov's mech had walked. While he missed, her missiles did not, pelting his front and top. The damage wasn't alarming – yet. He either needed a clear shot for his particle cannon, or to close the range to play out the Battlemaster's qualities as a brawler.
"What's going on, Thresher? Vulture's told me you're in a foul mood, and you've been nothing but standoffish with me so far."

Volkova's mech drove into the main road of a recreated town, making the decision for it. He fired on her, but hit only the building in front of her. Her being in between the houses slowed her down, though, and he pushed the assault mech forward to close the distance.

"I was always given the impression that my service to the Hegemony was impeccable, Hawkbeak," her voice came through the speakers as he reached the outskirts of the settlement.

Marius frowned. "If you ever gave someone a reason to doubt that I haven't heard of it, Thresher." He took a hard left turn, catching a glimpse of her two blocks further down the road. His fingers twitched, and a burst of SRMs and four green beams for medium lasers lunged at the target. Stone and concrete smoldered and warheads crashed into the side of a building. Had they been hot they would have blown that whole floor out. The way it was all he could feel sweat trickle from his forehead. He dove into a parallel street and sped up to take the next turn left, hoping to catch her that way. The buildings flustered his sensors, partially shielding the enemy's heat emissions, scattering its electromagnetic profile.

"Almost," she teased him, the word hissed than spoken. "You'd think that kind of service would see its just rewards eventually, wouldn't you?"
He turned the corner, ready to launch an alpha strike – and found the road empty. Instead, Thresher's mech sprinted from the corner of the block of buildings on the next crossing to the opposite corner, lashing out with lasers and SRMs of her own. They all hit true. Gritting his teeth on impact he punched down his own firing buttons. His particle cannon fizzled out against the storefront, but three of his four medium lasers and at least some of his SRMs struck the general's mech this time.

"Better, but not great," Volkova commented while Marius anxiously watched his heat threshold climb into the darker yellows, ditching his efforts to fight tactical and deciding to go for the jugular instead. Thesher's Thunderbolt wasn't faster than his mech, but weighing twenty tons less made it more nimble. Ignoring the rising heat he made the assault mech bolt after her.

"Wait, is this about my uncle?!" Once again, the main alley was empty.

"What else would it be about!?" Volkova snapped. "I've spent close to forty years in the force, the past twenty of them honing them into the best mech forces the Hegemony's ever had. If there's one person who deserved that position it should've been me."

Marius slowed down, cycling his sensors and allowing some of the built-up heat dissipate as he slowly walked down the road, his torso turning left to right an back. The designers of the training course had riddled their mock town with plenty of places to hide a vehicle, plenty of side roads to dip into when one had to avoid nosy mechwarriors.
"So you think I snubbed you in favor of an O'Reilly?"

"I never considered you to be someone in favor of nepotism. My son thinks highly of you, too. But if it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck..."

Suddenly bricks and rubble exploded all around him and a cloud of dust descended around Marius' mech. Warning sensors howled in sudden surprise, and he instinctively pushed his throttle down. A SRM raced past his cockpit, and his damage screen showed lasers tearing deep into the back of his right leg as Thresher's mech emerged from the building she'd used as cover.

"Your father's Battlemaster is a better choice for urban combat than your Marauder. Better visibility. A more balanced weapons load-out. A shame you don't know how to use it yet, Hawkbeak."

Dust whirled around them as Marius frantically tried to open the range while turning his less damaged side towards his opponent. He caught a glimpse of the smaller mech in the dancing particles and fired all his weapons, the lasers briefly illuminating the heavy Thunderbolt.
"My uncle got the job because he's got the right kind of ideas," he spat back, trying to keep up his concentration on the fight, his surroundings, and the deeper issues at hand here. His battle computer registered another couple of hits, turning even more of his armor screen from yellow to red. "You're running hot, Thresher."

"I'm used to it, Hawkbeak. Are you?" As if to prove him wrong she appeared on his nine, her four lasers flashing.

Even at their reduced power he could feel the heat in his cockpit rise dramatically as they hit the nearby SRM6 launcher, disabling it. Dust particles sizzled as the Thunderbolt pushed itself through them to his twelve. "My turn!" he growled, hitting his firing button for another alpha strike, but only his quartet of medium lasers reacted, three hitting the heavy mech square in its chest.

"Ooops, seems like you forgot your minimum range on that PPC?" Volkova lunged her mech forward towards him. From somewhere she'd grabbed a street lamp pole, with a slab of concrete still attached to the base, and swung it like a club in a low arc.

Instinctively Marius tried to steer his larger mech to the left and back. It played right into Volkova's hands. The moment the center of his weight shifted to his mech's left leg the makeshift club connected with the right one. Combined with the prior (simulated) damage the mech's battle computer gave all the servos in that leg a shutdown order. Ordinarily the damage done by the smaller mech would not have been that substantial, but as he was already off balance the myomers gave way, and Marius felt his mech fall.

Eighty-five tons hit the ground, hard, leaving Marius momentarily dazed. When he came to again, the Thunderbolt stood over him, the right arm with its large laser aimed squarely at his cockpit.

Choosing to ignore the danger, Marius couldn't help but chuckle.
"You haven't lost your edge, Thresher. If anything I'd say you gotten more vicious since you've trained me!"

For a few long seconds the two mechs stared at each other. The sounds of battle vanished, and gusts of wind started to carry away the dust, slowly cooling down the machines' hulls. Then the victorious mech lowered its arm, leaving it hanging to its side.

"More like more reckless," Volkova sighed, suddenly sounding more defeated than he did. I can probably squeeze out a few more good years in the saddle, but time stands still for nobody, Hawkbeak. That mahogany desk in Nova Roma was oh so inviting."

"You'd go nuts if you had to deal with imperial bureaucracy and the suppliers. If you think your paperwork now is too much, it's nothing compared to what my uncle has to handle. That's not your world, Thresher." He shook his head to clear off the rest of the daze. "There's no person in the whole Hegemony with more active command experience than you. That's why I chose to keep you were you are. Because the Hegemony needs you. Because I need you, right here."

"Oh, now we're back to flattery, is that it?" for the first time since they had met today there was a hint of amusement in Volkova's voice.

"Well, do you think my great-uncle could do your job?" Marius answered her question with another question.

"The desk part, maybe. The active command? Meaning no disrespect, but the man's too fat to fit a cockpit, and he's probably never commanded a force larger than a reinforced centuria," she replied truthfully. "And yet he got the job that he got."

"He's an organizer, a strategic planner. You're the brain that guides those who execute these plans."

"Meaning I'll command the 1st Legion until my retirement, got it, Hawkbeak," she replied resignedly.

"No Alina, you're not listening to what I'm telling you. It means you'll get a promotion, and rather soon. So you better start grooming reliable officers to take over command of the first legion, because I'll punt you one step up the ladder," annoyance crept into Marius' voice.

"There's no step above me," Thresher replied crankily.

"There is now. You'll be running the day to day operations of the whole army, Alina. Not just one legion, but the second one, too and all the ones I hope to add in the future. Now help me get back on my goddamn feet, Praefectus Exercituum Volkova!


Western Palace Grounds, Alphard
Marian Hegemony
May 10th, 3009
"Faster! Keep your defense up!" Posca reprimanded him.
As if to emphasize the older mans words a flurry of punches rained down on Marius, and he struggled to steady his footing. He had decided to take up contact sports as an outlet for his stress and frustrations. Ordinarily, he would just have packed a duffel bag and went climbing some mountain for half a day, but his always vigilant mother hen Posca had objected loud and clear to that. The memories of his fall had done the rest for him. Though currently he was not sure if falling again would not have been the better choice.

He had been back in the Chamber of Whispers.
Kimura had staid true to his word and rejected his efforts to broach the subject again. As a politician the man had the foresight of a rock, but as an obstructionist he had the stamina of a brick wall. Marius cursed him silently, the distraction earning him a painful kick to the thigh as his trainer and sparring partner easily probed his untrained defenses.

Marius gritted his teeth.
"You know, sometimes I wish I could have people crucified for getting on my nerves! Posca, how far would I get if I had the whole senate put to the cross?"

"Depends on the size of the sections, dominus," his mentor replied without missing a beat. "One for every mile? That gets you to, say, Ravenna. One every hundred meters? Probably right to Nova Roma's central waste processing plant."

"Now wouldn't that be fitting…"
His sparring partner used the distraction to jump right into a grappling stance. While trying to block his arms getting a hold of him, Marius neglected the second axis of attack and soon found his feet kicked from under him. With a hard 'thud' he landed on the sandy ground and immediately found himself in a choke hold. For a second he tried his best to struggle against it, break the hold, but his opponent didn't budge. He tapped out, and the grip vanished almost immediately.
Gasping for breath he pushed himself back onto his elbows. It took him a few seconds gasping for air before he was ready to speak again.
"Enough for today. Lets do this again tomorrow. I've got a feeling I'll need it."

"You feel you'll need to have your royal ass beaten again, dominus?" Posca raised a questioning eyebrow.

"You're enjoying yourself far too much, Posca," Marius sighed. "No, I'll meet those fools once again tomorrow, and the biggest of them is as stubborn as a mule. Though calling him as smart as a mule would be an insult to mules!" he spat, groaning as he rose to his feet again. "I wonder how often father wanted to rid himself of them. Certainly would've made things easier."

"It would, for a time. It would also makes things rather... messy." Posca handed him a damp towel and a bowl of water.

"On the flipside, it may just instill the right learning effect. Messy sounds just about right now," he shook his head, pearls of sweat flying everywhere.

"Messy can be quite interesting."
Both of them turned to the bright sound of female voice.
A strikingly beautiful woman walked down the gravel path towards them, a disarming smile on her face. She was tall and statuesque, with long, dark blonde hair cascading down her shoulders, and she moved with a grace and confidence that spoke of a lifetime of privilege.
"I was told I could find you here, your majesty. I hope I'm not interrupting you...?"

The Emperor straightened up, his chest heaving with exertion, and smiled in greeting.
"Lady Kiruma, it is a pleasure to meet you," he said, his tone cordial but guarded. He was wary of what this unexpected visit might signify. "I just finished my training," he nodded towards his instructor who had sat down in the shadow of a palm tree at a respectful distance.

The woman smiled, her lips curving in a sultry, knowing expression. "A shame. I would have loved to watch that," she said, her voice low and seductive. "But please, call me Octavia."

The Emperor's pulse quickened at the woman's words, and he felt a slight flush rising to his cheeks, equally enjoying the sensation and feeling every bit as awkward as a teenager. He was aware of Posca hovering nearby, watching the exchange with a watchful eye, but he couldn't help answer with his own most disarming smile.
"Eh, unless you enjoy watching your husband's opponents get bruised and humbled I suppose the entertainment value would have been rather limited," he chuckled sardonically, gesturing towards his sweat-soaked clothing and bruised limbs. "I'm hardly at my best right now, but I'm always happy to give it some effort for a beautiful visitor, even if it's Marcos Kiruma's wife."

Octavia laughed, a full and throaty sound that made her seem taller than she was. Tiny laughter lines gave her face the mature and grounded look of a woman confident of her appearance and abilities.
"Flattery will get you everywhere," she said, stepping closer to him. "But I'm afraid I haven't come merely to admire your martial skills."

"What a shame," he finished cleaning his face.

"Indeed. It's not everyday you get to see the Emperor when he's all sweaty and disheveled," she said, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

Marius smirked. "I'm afraid I'm not quite at my best right now, Madame Kiruma. But I'm sure I can still manage to hold a conversation," he said, his voice laced with playful banter. "Would you care for a walk through the gardens? We can discuss the reason for your visit while on the way to my chambers."

The woman raised an eyebrow, a sly smile playing on her lips. "Oh, I'd love to do so. Lead the way."

Walking a winding path framed by intricate flowerbeds and well-trimmed bushes, in the shade of olive and exotic palm trees. Posca followed them at a distance. After a moment, Marius broke the silence.
"Not that I don't enjoy your company over that of your husband, but why are you here today, Octavia? What does Marcos want?"

"Bold of you to assume I'm here to do my husband's bidding," she gently touched his arm, smiling coyly. "What if I've come on my own accord?"

Her touch was smooth as silk and sent shivers down his spine. "Then I'd be ever more interested to listen to you," he motioned her to speak.

"My dear husband is too stubborn to seek you out. He's dug in his position. Talking with you would see him lose face, and he's nothing if not adamant about his honor and image," she explained matter of factly.

"So he sends you to haggle on his behalf?" Despite himself he had to chuckle.

"More like I'm talking with my emperor on behalf of my estate's interest," she shook her head, long blonde hair swaying with the movement. "And my noble husband has little patience for the intricacies of running our estate. He leaves this honor to me," she explained, stroking his arm. "I can't say I like what you have in mind, Marius. But I believe I have a deal in mind that can work for both sides. Marcos will listen to me. If you listen to me. I've been told you're a reasonable man."

Marius smiled, but he didn't let down his guard. "Flattery will get you nowhere, my lady. Why should I budge if I have most groups in the Senate on my side?"

She dropped her smile and looked into his eyes. "Because I believe that a genuine compromise is better than a stubborn stalemate," she explained. "My husband's faction can block your position on this, probably for years on end. But eventually these things will take a life of their own. In my experience, they always do. Like a train carriage running down a hill. So we can step aside. Or we can get run over. But what if we jump onboard to be the one person who regulates its velocity?" she shrugged, her hair falling to the side and revealing her low-cut dress.

"It's better to be the brakes than to have no say at all? A nice analogy, I must admit. Ah, there we are." He stopped at the foot of a low set of steps that led to his chamber's balcony. "I'd love to hear what exactly you've got in mind, but I'm afraid I really have to refresh myself," he gave her a broad smile, then turned his head to Posca.

His personal servant held his tongue but rolled his eyes, silently mouthing s t u p i d.

Marius climbed the few steps and gave her another smile. He left the door open behind him.


....III. Children born into slavery will be granted the right to primary education on the same level as plebeians, but will still be required to serve their owners after school hours. Slave owner are required to allow slave children who finish their intermediate exams within the upper ten percentile access to the three-year high school level. Succeeding in the Leaving Exam leads to automatic release from captivity. The same is true if the slave child after finishing primary education chooses to enlist into the armed forces for a minimum of seven years. During this time ownership passes from original owner to the state. After finishing basic training they will receive half pay, and full legal emancipation will be granted at the end of their tour of duty. Service guarantees citizenship. The principle of hereditary slavery no longer applies.
IV. First generation legal immigrants are exempt from being subjected to slavery unless being convicted of a capital offense. This covers children being born outside the Hegemony. Children of first generation legal immigrants are exempt from being subjected to slavery until reaching the age of majority.
V. Pregnant slaves will be assigned to low intensity labor or be allowed maternity leave during the last two months pregnancy and the first two months after childbirth. The state will recompense the owners with ten denari per day.
VI. As of 3020 C.E., slaves new to the Hegemony will be limited to fulfill low-skilled menial jobs (housekeeping, farming help, mining). Slaves already owned prior to this point are not subject to the limitations. Preservation of the status quo also prevails in case of a resale of the property. If demand for a certain position exists, plebeian/free applicants have to be hired first. Only if no free citizen can be found to fill the position within a reasonable period of time can the recourse to slave labor be made.
VII. …
– Declaration on the Status of Slaves in the Marian Hegemony, May 21st 3009 C.E., transmitted to ComStar for circulation on June 1st the same year

 

[Culsu]

A little bit of everything this time. The revelation of the Illyrian cache made it necessary to restructure some parts of the story, so this is a bit disjointed. We'll have the actual discovery and its immediate fall-out in the next chapter, as well as some other events on Alphard that will be instrumental for the next decade or so.

C h a p t e r 0 4: New Beginnings​

Undisclosed Location, Alphard
Marian Hegemony
August 16th, 3009
The place had no name, at least none that could be found on any official documents. Those that served here called it The Hole. Those that were here involuntarily had more colorful - or bleak, depending on how long you had already been here – names for it. It was a concrete labyrinth dug and blasted into a green-gray butte, far north in one of Alphard's colder deserts. Vegetation was sparse, water even more so, and not a soul lived within the next hundred miles. The only way in or out was through the guard levels on top, and the only connection to the rest of the world were bi-weekly supply flights by unmarked VTOLs. If you were brought here, you never left again.

Posca followed a guard in drab fatigues that once might have been deep blue down a winding concrete stair. Cold strip lights did their own to make the place look as inhospitable as possible. Here and there some flickered, throwing eerie shadows into hallways with mag-locked cells as Posca descended deeper into The Hole. His breath drew little clouds as he went on, and despite his thick tunic he shivered. It got colder the deeper they went, and more damp. Either the ventilation systems had not been built to deal with this sort of environment, or the guards simply did not care to make their prisoners' stay more tolerable.

The stairs ended and turned into a corridor that sloped further down and to the left. They had reached the bottom of The Hole. Only a few cells were here, with even fewer inmates, and half of them were bare rock, not concrete. Dull orange lightbulbs gave off just enough of a glow to turn the hallway into a dim twilight.

"Wait here," Posca told the guard. If the man was bothered by being commanded by a slave he did not let it show. He stopped with a grunt that could have signified anything, his hands resting on his nightstick and the holster of his large caliber sidearm.

Posca moved on, leaving the guard out of direct earshot, and came to a halt in front of the level's first cell. Unlike on the higher floors the cells here were closed off by metal bars that a thin wire mesh that allowed those outside a good look inside without the need to open them. The doors were triple-locked – mechanic, magnetic, electric – and solid enough to withstand direct mech-grade weapons fire, and he was certain the mesh could be electrified as well.

Three further steps led down into the cell, which was roughly three by three meters, with two sides of the room bare volcanic rock, as hard as steel, and the others polished ferroconcrete. There was a tiny wash basin and a basic toilet in the corner, and a thin cot covered a rectangular block of concrete to serve as a bed.
"Is it time for questioning? And here I was, fearing you'd forgotten about me."
The man sat with his back against the wall, his eyes closed, his legs pulled close to his chest. Greasy hair hung in thick strands into his face, and the custom-tailored suit he wore had seen better days. The guards had taken the laces from his shoes. Strangely enough, those very shoes were polished to a shine. Going by the smell wafting from between the bars, they were the only thing truly clean inside the cell.

"Why, are you bored?" Posca asked casually.

The man blinked, turning his head in an instant. Piercing blue eyes fixed on the Emperor's mentor, his face an unreadable mask. For just a moment he stared at him silently, then a smile crept on his face. No, not a smile, Posca corrected himself. A shark's grin.

"Hannibal Patrev Hargraves!" he exclaimed. "Strange, how an engaged PhD student from Stewart can end up all the way out here, right at the other side of this door in this godforsaken rock, isn't it? What can I do for you today, Mr. Hargraves?"

"Not many people know this," Posca regarded the prisoner, feeling just the tiniest sting at his words. "But I do prefer Posca nowadays, Mr. Blackwood."

"As you wish," the man named Blackwood shrugged. "Information is what I'm good at. Well, was," he motioned at nowhere particular in his cell.

"Getting on Hanzo Miller's bad side can have that effect, or so I'm told, but I reckon it's usually less illustrious people who fall victim to his wrath. Getting mixed up with a second-tier Camorra godfather; I must say, this was a surprise to me when I read your file," Posca looked down on the man. "I wonder what sin got you thrown in here? Was it greed?"

Blackwood leaned his head against the wall, his greasy hair obscuring half his face again. He chuckled wearily. "I was brought down by the second worst of all sins in my trade: impatience. You see," he straightened, "indirect is usually the better route in my kind of business. Say, you have some guy calling himself prime minister on some far-out world, and his opposition wants to spy on him? You don't go and recruit his personal secretary. Far too risky. No, you go indirect. Recruit the guy who maintains the copy machines. Machine breaks down, the guy repairs it, slips in a tiny relais – and whenever the prime minister copies something from that day on it throws out a copy on your machine as well."

"And you went for Hanzo Miller's secretary?" Posca raised an eyebrow.

Blackwood ran fingers through his face. "That would've been the smart move, actually. No, I went after his wife. I figured after my departure from Lyran space and my adventures in the League I didn't want to waste years and years to burrow myself into his organization to use it as a springboard."

"You had been running industrial espionage with your own network of informants on Defiance Industries, and later Corean Enterprises, too. Maybe others that are less prominent as well. You know, when the Hegemony figured who they had their hands on they made tacit inquiries to corroborate your story. Never got something definite back, but the buzz the questions created? Well, sometimes no answer is the most conclusive answer. Or so I was told," Posca smiled. "So, Hanzo's wife, Victor? Really?"

"It's Mr. Blackwood to you, Hannibal. Tried to seduce her," he waved dismissively. "Worked like a charm, actually. Apparently, I'm still quite the catch when I'm freshly groomed, wear a good suit and don't smell of eight weeks worth of sweat, grime and shit."

"And then… Mr. Blackwood?" Posca probed.

"And then, Posca, I found out first hand the fucked-up marriage dynamic some people have nowadays, because Hanzo's wife and his balding ass are in some kind of consensual open relationship, and all the stuff I whispered to her after I thought I had buttered her up ended up right on his plate. Lesson learned," he sighed dramatically. "Never mix pleasure and business. Not following my own rules, that's been my worst mistake. Hanzo's men found me in the hotel I had rented under a fake identity, knocked me out – and then I eventually woke up in your government's hospitable hands," he smiled, revealing a few missing and broken teeth.

"I'm glad we could provide the accommodation for you," Posca replied with a cold smile of his own. "Though I'm surprised you didn't run to Canopus in the first place."

"Yeah, right," Blackwood snorted. "Man with money on the run. Even the most incompetent SAFE operative would've known to look under each rock on Canopus IV for me first place. I made my bet that most people wouldn't be seriously looking for me in a place where crucifixion is actually on the menu." He shook his head, then abruptly rose from his cot and came face to face with Posca. "So, what's the deal? What does your master want?"

"Maybe he wants a measure of the man?" Despite standing on a higher step than Blackwood Posca could almost look into his eyes.

"As much as I enjoy the diversion from my tight schedule of sleep, eating sludge and getting roughed up by people undeniably too stupid to get the truth out of someone, I don't appreciate being taken for a fool, Posca. The warden could've sent you the protocols of my interrogations and a brief of what you people think to know about me. No, your master has sent you because this is something important enough to be handled within only an arm's length distance of the throne, but by someone who isn't followed around 24/7. Someone who'd be… overlooked by people who don't see slaves as people."

Posca eyed him coldly through the bars, his arms crossed. "The Emperor has sent me to evaluate you. He'd like to offer you a job."

"A job?" Blackwood did well in keeping his emotions in check but for the very first split second, where his eyes widened and his head almost jerked back. "Why me?"

"See, Victor, that is what I have asked myself as well. Surely, the people you have wronged would have been willing to pay us handsomely, were we to unveil your continued existence in our good care to them. But, his majesty has made it clear that we do not suffer a shortage of funds and complaisances. What we do lack is a reliable network of informants, domestic and abroad, and someone with the wits and experience to build and run it. Someone like you, Mr. Blackwood."

Blackwood took a step back, almost missing the lower step before he caught himself. He had expected to be sold out, or to be left to rot. This? Well, this had not ranked up high on hist list of plausible events.

"As for the why? Because you are an outsider – and an egoist. I know your type, Victor. People who just love to be right, who revel in their own sense of superiority. I've seen many of them come and go, burning up on their own hubris. Fortunately for you, your saving grace, it seems, is that you are actually competent. Well, most of the time," he motioned at the cell with a mirthless smile. "Which is something that could earn you your freedom."

"You want me to spy for you?"

"Please, Victor," Posca dramatically rolled his eyes. "We do not want you personally to spy for us. We want you to be our master of spies. As a stepping stone we will provide you a list of known information peddlers within the Hegemony. Emperor Marius wants something more…solid put into place."

"Paid informants are about as reliable as the purse that pays them. And there's always a bigger purse somewhere willing to pay that little bit of extra cash," Blackwood scoffed. "If that's all there I I'll make the best of them until I have something better in place. Outside, I might be able to reactive some of his contacts, but those are mostly industrial espionage. This isn't a small task, Posca. It'll take years to put people into place, nurture them. The logistics are staggering. Internal ops, foreign espionage, counter-espionage, put the military into the mix, as I suppose your Emperor would want to? And all at the same time?"

"If this is beyond your capabilities I'm sure we can find someone more suitable for the task," Posca shrugged, trying to hide the satisfaction it gave him to see the man squirm.

"It's not!" Blackwood snapped, more annoyed than angry. "But it'll take a lot of time. Don't expect to see results early on, and don't expect what finds its way back into my hands in the first months, years maybe, to be more than a trickle. But I can do it. I can," he added, more to himself than for Posca's ears.

"Then I suppose we will find out if that's the case," Posca replied flatly. "The warden will be presented with a general pardon for you, and you will be transferred to a safe location that provides," he smirked, "more adequate accommodations. Money and manpower to set you up will not be an issue. Liaisons for the legions can be set up once that field is ready to be ploughed. We do not expect you to work miracles. Not yet," he allowed himself a thin smile. "But we do expect you to give it your best, if you choose to be our all-seeing eye." He paused, then added almost as an afterthought: "Also, should you at some point decide to double-cross us, we would feel obliged to provide your connections in the League and Commonwealth with all the information and support we can muster."

Victor Blackwood looked up at the concrete ceiling and the dim orange light in the cell's corner. "Seeing a sun again would be great. Very well, you have your man." He sighed heavily. "I'd shake your hand to seal the deal, but I'm afraid the current running through that wire mesh would make the ordeal rather unpleasant for the both of us." Blackwood sat back down and pulled his knees to his chest, and for a moment there was a sense of sincerity in his eyes that mocked his casual tone. "You know, what's to stop me from running away once I'm out of here again? All those resources… I could even take you with me. A new name, a new identity, a new home on some place out in the Periphery with a couple million C-bills in the bank…"

Posca could feel his heart beat in his chest. Calmly, he sat down opposite to the man, tilting his head sideways to look at him through the bars. A sad smile crept onto his face. "I don't believe you'll run, Victor. I've known men like you all my life, in all functions. You love the challenge too much. As for me?" He sucked his breath in, surprised at how unsteady his voice sounded. "I do appreciate the offer," he said in earnest, "but I think I'll decline."

Blackwood's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"You know, fifteen years, hell, ten years ago I may have taken you up on that offer in a heartbeat. But look at me," he absentmindedly rubbed his hands on his knees. "I am fifty-seven. Too old to start anew, to start a family. Too old to live a life where every waking moment I would have to look over my shoulder. No," he clapped his thighs and stood up again, "it is what it is. Farewell, Mr. Blackwood. I am sure we will meet again."

Two days later, a lean man with slick dark hair and a fresh-cut beard, wearing mirrored sunglasses, walked out of one of Nova Roma's most exclusive tailor shops, wearing an exquisite three-part suit-and-toga combination in the latest patrician fashion. A plainsclothes security detail shadowed him as he stepped into a black limousine and droved off. CCTVs this day all seemed to have strange malfunctions as soon as that particular car entered their field of view.
Victor Blackwood liked seeing far more than to be seen.


Nova Roma, Alphard
Marian Hegemony
August 30th, 3009
Sylvana O'Reilly was on her way to meet her brother when she came across Lady Octavia Kiruma as she was escorted through the hallways of Mount Caelius' palace. Her cheeks were flushed, her usually so meticulously styled dark blonde hair worn open over her shoulders. She walked with the swing of a young woman, flashing a mischievous grin as she murmured 'Your Grace' as she passed by, her head briefly tilted in acknowledgment.

Flustered, Sylvana looked after her as she turned a corner, a guard following her at a respectful distance. With a start she shook herself and made her way to her brother's chambers. Another guard let her in.

Despite the open shutters the room carried a musky scent. The light was slightly dimmed, and the large bed was in disorder. Water was running in the nearby bathroom's shower. Untouched breakfast – fruits and bread and a large mix of tapas – stood on the bedroom's small dining table. It was almost noon by now, but she shuddered at the thought of having garlic prawns or roasted bacon-wrapped plums for an early breakfast. Her brother's taste had always been a bit more special in that regard. He had once told her he had no issue with eating a nice steak for breakfast. Sylvana herself was more of a peanut butter and jam sandwich breakfast person.

She took in the room with a feeling of profound discomfort. This was so very unlike the brother she had experienced for the last few years. Marius had always strived to be 'proper' in the eyes of family and peers. Was that what being Emperor did to you?

The sound of water from nearby stopped, and her brother stepped into the room, wearing nothing but a towel around his hips, running a smaller one through his soaking wet hair.
"Oh hi, Syv! Glad you could make it. Busy day." He smiled, cocking his head at everything and nothing in particular.

"I met Lady Kiruma on my way here," she said in greeting. "Seems early for a personal audience."

"Had lots of ground to cover," he shrugged. "My militia proposal's been met with some stiff resistance that I'm fighting. Octavia's been instrumental in that."

"Seems like it was quite a battle," Sylvana shot a glance at the bed, scowling.

"You're not hiding your disapproval well, little sis," Marius observed, equally not hiding his sly grin.

"I'm not trying to!" she shot back annoyedly, blushing despite her best efforts. "I…" she grasped for words, raising her hands, then letting them drop back down in frustration. "What the hell are you thinking, Marius?! This isn't like you!"

Her brother regarded her with a cryptic look on his face for a moment before answering her, choosing his words carefully, or so it seemed.
"I've seen how quick life can end, Sylvana, how precious every given second is. For years I've been doing what others have been expecting me to do, sis. I've got a fourteen hour workday, sis, when I'm lucky. Sixteen hours, when I'm not. And I'm spending most of it trying to drag the upstart descendants of pirates, farmers and mech jockeys into the 31st century while they wiggle and squeal like pigs. Strangely enough, screwing the opposition leader's wife in every position imaginable has proven to be an extremely productive means to an end there. Certainly helps with my stress relieve, too." He took a seat at the table. "For everything else there's exhausting myself in martial arts, or blowing stuff up in my mech. Trust me, I need my training rounds and time on the mech parcours, lest I take to the Senate with a gun."

Her brother flashed her a short grin that held exactly zero mirth, making her shudder involuntarily. Pouring himself a cup of coffee that at best had to be lukewarm by now he looked up at her over the cup's rim. "So, no. I don't give a damn about what people think. As long as I'm not married I'll try to enjoy my life as best as I can," he faced her disapproving glare defiantly.

"Aren't you afraid this little… arrangement of yours will blow up in your face?" Doubt was palpable in her voice.

To her surprise her usually so meticulous brother simply shrugged.
He flipped an olive into his mouth, answering her between bites. "Catastrophically so, eventually," he nodded. "But I'm willing to take the trade-off for now if it means I get my policies enacted. Kiruma thinks if he can use his wife to slow me down and steer me into waters more favorable to him he gains influence behind the scenes. But he fails to understand one important turn of the dance he's chosen to take part in, Syv."

"And that'd be what exactly, big bro?"

"If one side wants to move, say, a meter. And the other doesn't want to move, at all. Who's the winner if they end up moving half a meter?" his eyes sparkled as he grinned. "Is only losing half your authority really a victory? What if it happens again, and again, and again? Like the ocean slowly eroding the shoreline. I wonder when Lord Kiruma will realize as much? Given Octavia's appetite, I hope the realization will take him a few more years, though by then it'll be too late."

"It's still a massive scandal in the making," she stepped over a heap of clothes Marius had discarded on the floor.

Her brother shook his head, his face serious now. "I don't think so. Kiruma is all about maintaining face. All his wife's done so far has allowed him to appear as the gracious and victorious mediator in senatorial affairs, blocking my initiatives first, making it look as if I'm the one offering him concessions compared to my initial proposals. For a time, at least, he keeps winning because it cements his leadership position of the Traditionalists," he explained. "He can't expose what's going on as it'll ruin his reputation more so than mine. I'm an unmarried man. Technically, I can share my bed with whomever I want. Even though I'm sure Octavia loves the thrill, how'd it look to his peers and public, him whoring her out? Nope, he can't throw his wife under the next best dropship, not without getting dragged into the flames himself. Also, I'm pretty sure Octavia's smart enough to have her own little insurance policy in place. Even so, the only thing anyone can actually prove is that we spend time together and talk about matters of policy – which we generally do."

"Well, what did you 'talk' about?" Sylvie put the word in air quotes, rolling her eyes.

"As hard as you'll find to believe it, we've talked about the militia," he tried to flush some remaining moisture out of his ears with his small finger. "In his usual fashion the good Lord Kiruma has seen fit to, well, throw a fit about my initiative to reform the ad hoc mess dad and grandfather left us into something more useful. Patricians' privileges and all that. Jupiter's balls, Syv! Come, take a seat and help yourself to some food! Anyway. I believe we've got some form of compromise he can live with, thanks to his wife's art of persuasion." He broke out into laughter at Sylvana's flabbergasted look. "I'm not kidding, she's genuinely a good negotiator! The gist is, local patricians will still be in command, but we set the standards by which the units will work. Anyway Syv, as much as I like to brag about my sexual exploits there's actually something I wanted to talk about."

"Definitely not the kind of topic you expect to talk with your brother about," she muttered and helped herself to a plate of various tapas. "Well, I suppose I can count myself lucky you didn't do the windmill in plain sight."

"Now come on, little sis. I do possess a modicum of modesty."

"Eh, unverified claims and all that. But go ahead." She started eating a small baked feta cheese.

"You're the only one I can expect to be fully honest with me on everything, Syv. That's why you're privy to my little escapades. Well, you and Posca, but Posca's too much of a nagging mother hen every other day. That being said, how long have you been with the company by now?"

She frowned. "I've been following the board around for the past seventeen months. Sat in meetings, got insights into each major department, know the who is who. Currently I'm acting Vice-CFO for the planetary branch here on Alphard."
"Sounds stressful," Marius commented, emptying the cup in one go with a grimace.

"Well, big bro, to put it into perspective: Alphard Trading Ltd. is the largest civilian employer in the Hegemony. So, if I get only one tenth of the crap on my plate that you get, I think I can squint real hard and not see you banging the opposition leader's wife."

"Gee, thanks for your absolution. Makes me feel better already," he deadpanned. "So, you do have executive experience, right?"

"A bit. Why do you ask?" she wanted to know.

"The company's family, business. Syv. I've got some foreign policy plans ready to launch and I'd like to set you up as the person to represent the family, the Hegemony, and our business interests in that matter. Put on your best dress and practice your brightest smiles. You're going to be an ambassador!"


Dalmatia, Illyria
Illyrian Palatinate
October 4th, 3009
Illyria's sun shone bright from a cloudless sky as two ASF soared across the small star nation's capital town of Dalmatia. One could have put all the people living there into one of Nova Roma's districts and still had place to spare. Illyria itself was a sparsely populated as its capital, which, Sylvana thought to herself, was quite the shame, given the planet's natural allure. As a member of the Hegemony's royal family she had rarely travelled off world, even within her own realm's borders. Visiting another nation's capital system, even one as small as the Palatinate, was both a joy and a privilege.

The seat of the Palatinate's administrator, a position traditionally negotiated among the ruling oligarchic families before it was put to the – predetermined – vote, was built in the fashion of an ancient Scandinavian chieftain's hall, with a wide-arched timber frame holding a high-peaked roof over a stone foundation. Government business that day took a backseat to the overall festive atmosphere, aside from a small square table at the center where Sylvana and her Illyrian counterpart sat next to one another, facing the crowd. Around them, the whole place smelled of herbs, roasting meat, food, people, and smoke from open fireplaces.

Conscious of the looks of the Palatinate's gathered nobility, Sylvana dipped her archaic fountain pen into the small ink pot and placed her signature onto the document spread out before here on the long oaken table. Servants darted between her and the man sitting to her left, dripping red wax onto the paper. Finalizing the ceremony, Sylvana dipped her signet ring into it, gave it a hard press, and rose to shake the other man's hand.

The long hall erupted into thundering applause, some voices yelling 'Palatinate! Palatinate!' at the top of their lungs. Tankards of mead and beer clanged amidst loud cheers. Her handful of bodyguards looked decidedly unhappy even as her own mechwarriors in their purple dress tunics joined the festivities, but she looked into the administrator's deep brown eyes and squeezed his bear-paw like hands as tight as she could.

"I must say I was reluctant at first when I read your brother's message," Alfric Jorgenson was the picture-perfect model of an ancient Terran Viking, bearded and towering over Sylvana, his sun-tanned face creased by weathered lines and a small, pink scar. His voice carried well enough through the noise for her to understand him. "An embassy, official relations, trade… not exactly the kind of words we've come to expect from the Hegemony. To be blunt, your Grace, we've only ever experienced your people staring down the sights of our guns."

"And yet here we are today, shaking hands."

"And yet, here we are," Jorgenson nodded, echoing her sentiment.

"Sometimes new people are needed for new directions. You said you only know us from fighting us. It's my hope that today marks the day where you'll start to get to know us by the goods and currency we exchange in good faith. Your worlds offer promising markets, and great mineral wealth we can exploit, together," Sylvana explained, her auburn locks falling wide over her shoulders. "We've both got much to gain from this partnership!"


--- --- --- C* Weekly News Bulletin, 40/3009
… Periphery: Marian Hegemony & Illyrian Palatinate establish official relation at festive ceremony in Dalmatia. Ambassadors to be exchanged, estates for embassies granted on Alphard & Illyria. Alphard Trading Co. sets up Illyrian Prospect & Mining Ltd. as 100% subsidiary for operations in Illyrian Palatinate. Claims for prospecting & exploitation acquired on 3 Palatinate worlds. … --- --- ---


…Illyria was a smoke show, and everybody in the Legion knew it, or at least suspected it. What we didn't know at the time to which end the smoke was being blown. It wasn't the money, that much was certain. Look, the Illyrians export iron and steel. Now I may have skipped a chemistry class or three in school, a'right, but even I know that iron's as common as hot air coming from a politician's mouth. The Patties were probably earning pennies on the ton shipping that stuff. Not exactly an economy brimming with disposable income, but they deluded themselves into thinking they had a great deal, and Alphard was just too happy to let them think that. Then the company set up shop, doing prospecting missions on three of their worlds with proper modern gear, GPR* and all that fancy tech included. Raiding by the Thirteen dropped off for maybe a month or two, then it went back to old levels. We had explicit orders to continue operations in the Palatinate, despite the agreement the Emperor's sister had signed. Sometimes our freelancers pretended to be Circinians – though there were certainly enough of those bastards to go around – sometimes we took up the mantle of whatever pirate band we fancied at the moment. After all, there's no better plausible deniability than what we got. Nobody believed the Hegemony would continue to sponsor raids against the very nation they just signed a treaty with, least of all the Patties, full of hope as they were. They thought they had grasped a feather from the golden goose, the poor fools. That was where everyone was wrong, and the first hint that the new Emperor liked to play both sides. So, with 'pirates' still being a threat Alphard petitioned – and was granted – the right to protect the company's sites with mercenaries. That's where me and the boys entered the scene. We stashed our uniforms away on Alphard, and next thing you know it the boys of the 1st Centuria were on Illyria as the 'Brotherhood of Ares'… from: Broken Trust. The Marian Hegemony's and Illyrian Palatinate's Relationship Before 3045.

 

[Culsu]

C h a p t e r 0 5: A Hole in the Ground ​

Mount Caelius
Nova Roma, Alphard
Marian Hegemony
November 5th, 3009
Marius slammed the door behind him, threw his overcoat onto the nearby bed and slumped into the next best chair with a groan.

Posca appeared from a nearby alcove to pick up after him, but not before patting him on the shoulder.
"That bad again, dominus?"

"The universe seems to have a perverse sense of humor. Here I am, the Emperor of twenty billion people – Em-pee-roar! – and I still have to contend with the worst vestiges of parliamentarism!" Marius ran a hand over his face. "There's so much to do, so little time to do it, and most of that is wasted trying to please the egos of halfwits."

"How terrible," Posca commented flatly. "I take it you managed to claw some form of compromise from the Senate's grubby fingers? All those 'talks' with domina Octavia keep bearing fruit then, it seems. Your pain truly must be unbearable."

Marius turned to look at him. "You know, Posca, I think I'll have the physicians do an autopsy on you when you eventually die. I wonder. Will they find blood, or all your veins clogged by sarcasm?"

"Far be it for me to stop you from satisfying your curiosity, but unfortunately I intend to stay alive for quite a few more years. Someone has to provide you with much needed counsel and common sense, now that you keep losing yours in between your sheets," he scolded his former student. "Besides, be a magnanimous ruler and take it as just one further compromise."

"I feel like I'm making too many of those," he muttered quietly to himself, shaking his head. "Old habits."

"Well, then it does give me small comfort that I am not the only one here being a slave, even if you are just a slave to your own circumstances," Posca smiled.

"You're just way to much of a smart ass for your own good, old friend," Marius chuckled despite his sour mood.

"That's why you keep me, dominus, that's why you keep me," the older slave replied.

"Alright!" Marius pushed himself up again and stood. "I need to get a bite to eat and take a quick shower. What's left on my schedule today?"

Posca picked up a noteputer and scrolled through the calendar.
"You have a meeting with the magister militum at three o'clock about the time frame for the groundbreaking ceremony for the Collegium Bellorum Imperium, your Imperial War College. He is currently attending the unveiling of the public tender at Camp Sulla together with General Volkova and will fly in by VTOL once that's concluded."

"That was today?!" Marius smacked his own head. "I completely forgot about it with all the attention I had to give those parasites in the Senate." He would have loved to handle the negotiations and presentation himself, but delegation was a core quality for rulers. "Would have loved to watch it just to see how Uncle Corv and Alina get along."

Posca frowned. "Given their personalities, I would say they do get along like fire and water. Lucky for your uncle, the General will have to bow down too much for her to slap him in the face. Conversely, she can just keep him at arms' length should he get angry. Or hungry. Well, you will find out this afternoon, dominus: if he makes it to your meeting, General Volkova has at least not squashed him with her 'mech!"


Camp Sulla
Forty Miles North of Nova Roma, Alphard
Marian Hegemony
November 5th, 3009
The nondescript warehouse sat at a dead end of one of many of Camp Sulla's concrete slab streets, looking similar to the next one, and the next one over, just sheet metal thirty feet high around a metal frame. Bright industrial lighting illuminated the interior were rows of chairs had been lined up in front of a large podium. Along one side of the warehouse large pallets, whatever they carried covered in tarps. Spread across four table catering was provided for the camp's guest who made ample use of the fingerfood and refreshments. Guards in standard combat fatigues covered the warehouse' entrance and stood in intervals along each side of the building, inside and outside as well.

Corvinus 'Corv' O'Reilly, magister militum and therefore the Hegemony's secretary of defense, looked not a centimeter slimmer in his elegant combination of tunic, toga and business suit than he had a few months prior wearing Alphard Trading's corporate security uniform. Walking next to him, General Alina Volkova looked like chiseled granite next to pudding.
A few years older than the member of the O'Reilly dynasty, she towered over her nominal superior as she and the secretary slowly walked along the perimeter, observing the camp's invited guests as they mingled and talked amongst each other. Volkova did her best to mask her scowl, just as she did her best to match her long legs' speed to the waddle of the younger man. She failed at both.

"Is there anywhere else you need to be or why are you running?" he piped up at her, smiling broadly.

Volkova opened her mouth and snapped it shut again, biting down a remark that would have been wholly disappropriate to the mind behind the new Marian army. The Marian army she had to take from column on a piece of paper to a proper fighting force. Instead she stopped in her tracks and gave it her best to make her answer sound level.
"I realize why they are here today, but I still dislike civilians taking up space and time at Sulla. Especially if they eat the value of a centuria's weekly rations worth of chow."

"Tut, tut, general. The Hegemony needs them buttered up nicely to play ball on what we've got in mind." He snatched a tiny salmon sandwich from a nearby plate and made it vanish in his mouth. "Champagne and good food has been known to do the trick."

Volkova sighed. "Just get them off my base as soon as possible so that I can actually do the work the Emperor has heaped on my shoulders, roger? Who are these people anyway? I don't know half of them!"

"Reps from everybody with a likely chance to have a go at what we have in mind. Alphard Trading, Hadrian Mechanized, Illuminous Computers, Riatake Metals, the list goes on. Hopefully someone will bite," Corvinus shrugged, making his double chin look even bigger.

"And those kids?" Volkova hissed, tilting her head at a group of informally clad men and women no older than twenty-five. "Did someone bring their children? What are they doing here?"

"Well, they're the odd man out of the crowd, ain't they?" Corvinus chuckled, then cleared his throat when he caught Volkova's decidedly unsatisfied look. "That's the Frat Gang. Hold your horses, that's the name they've given themselves. Bunch of engineering graduates from families with deep pockets. See that girl whose built like she could give you a run for your money?"

"The one with the light purple hair and side cut?" the general frowned. "Mars' matching socks! When they put the question to her how much protein supplements she wanted the only answer she must've had was 'Yes'!"

Broad shouldered, lean, with an angular face with subtle makeup that made her woman's eyes darker and more contrasted to her short and colorful hair, the woman Corvinus had pointed at towered over her peers.
"That's Ana Firenza. Her father's a landholder and runs a small robotics company. Apparently, he's bred some form of goliath tech wunderkind. I let them in as between all their families they've got the necessary venture capital to actually have a shot at this. Though, truth be told, I still don't really get why this is such a big issue."

"What do you mean?" Volkova gave him a puzzled look.

The smaller man clipped his thumbs behind his belt, looking up at Volkova in her resplendent purple dress uniform. "All the stuff we've dragged onto that stage and covered up? It's not like we expect people to reinvent the wheel. Even the newest platform we've trodded out has been a thing for at least half a thousand years. All that stuff? That's known technology, not the holy grail. It's probably why Firenza and her minions think they have a chance at this in the first place!"

Volkova shook her head and ran a hand through her face. "You know how a clock works?"

"Sure. Why?"

"Well, can you build one?"

"What? No?" Corvinus shot her a puzzled look.

"Figures," she muttered, rolling her eyes. "For such a smart man you're pretty stupid sometimes, O'Reilly." Before he could answer she shoved him towards the stage. "Now work your magic! The sooner you're done the sooner I can punt you back to Nova Roma!"

Corvinus caught his step and climbed the meter high podium, tapping the microphone. The murmur in the warehouse slowly came to an end as people shuffled to their chairs and all eyes focused on him.
"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your following our invitation in such great numbers! You're here because the Emperor is convinced that you are among the best companies and inventors of all or the Hegemony's worlds. As magister militum of the Marian Hegemony I am delighted to present a unique government tender opportunity – a gateway to success through competitive and milestone based fixed-price contracts that we intend to couple with a performance-based reward system."

In the audience, plates were put aside and faces leaned forward, their curiosity piqued.

"By participating in this tender, you have an opportunity not only to secure contracts but to forge long-term partnerships with the government. Successful completion of projects will enhance your reputation, leading to future collaborations and a preferential treatment by the national government and local magistrates."

He paused, gauging his audience's reaction before turning halfway around, gesturing at the tarps to the side. Immediately, soldiers stepped forward and pulled them off almost in perfect synchronicity. Murmurs erupted between the gathered representatives.

"This is why you have been called here, ladies and gentlemen." Corvinus pointed at the displayed weapons systems, ranging from small lasers all the way up to LRM launchers and PPCs, neatly spread across pallets with enough space in between to allow for close inspection. "Your task, should you be willing to take it on, will be the domestic development and production of these weapons systems. Each system has different funding and milestone deadlines as shown next to the exhibits, reflecting the complexity of the technologies in question."

"The MHAF will gladly provide you with as many examples of the weapons systems as you need, and you are free to engage in as many projects are you feel fit. But be aware that – aside from a lump sum starter package – full funding is dependent on reaching set milestones in time."

"Our government understands the value of transparency and efficiency. That's why we have established a stringent evaluation process to select the most competent firms. Evaluators will assess proposals based on technical expertise, past performance, financial stability, and adherence to deadlines."

"This is not a 'The winner takes it all' competition!" he emphasized, raising his hands. "The Hegemony will issue contracts to the three most successful contenders providing home-grown alternatives for each weapons system on display here! This means we will either buy from you exclusively, including future MHAF projects, or alternatively, export licenses will be granted. Either way, financial viability once a final working product is delivered can be guaranteed. Now, please take your time. Familiarize yourselves with what the state needs from you. Contact your headquarters, if you need to. Both me and General Volkova will be here to answer your questions," Corvinus shot the hulking officer a smile that was answered with the most unsuccessfully hidden scowl in human history, "and we'll be delighted to start with the paperwork later."

Like cockroaches he saw the assembled representatives of the nation's most viable and capable companies scatter between the pallets and what rested on them which, given the weight of some of the pieces on display was quite impressive to begin with.

Anna Volkova walked over to him.
"You think they'll bite?" she asked quietly.

"I can only hope so," Corvinus O'Reilly maintained his confident smile, but his voice portrayed less conviction. "Some will, surely. A few will bail. A few always do. But I'm counting on greed. Greed and corporate competition."

"Guess all we an do is wait and find out. Would be quite the waste if nothing came from this. My people worked all day to make it look good," Volkova chuckled drily.

As it turned out, the MHAF had not spent thousands on catering in vain.
The Frat Gang happily signed a contract for the development of a small laser. Most larger interested parties picked up two or more systems to work on. A few of the present metalworking manufacturers formed an ad-hoc joint venture looking into a Thumper platform.
Nobody picked the PPC.

Now all that was left to do was wait and watch which of them dropped out of the race first – and which of them made it to the finish line.


Any talented kid in Physics Club at school can build a simple laser if they've got access to a decent hardware and electronics store. The base knowledge isn't the problem. Take it a step further. My father's company makes medical lasers. Delicate precision instruments, with fine-tuned power outputs, but still: lasers. The same general principle as your common medium laser. So why aren't we, or any other halfway competent company already building that? After all, that tech's been there for almost a millennium. It's easy, right? Why aren't countless corporations across human settled space doing the same?

I'm not talking about the politics behind it. All those inbred so-called Inner Sphere noble houses will look twice before they let someone manufacture weapons of war on some world or another. The locals could develop illusions of grandeur. Maybe a Duke suddenly fancies independence? You think a Kurita or Steiner would want to risk that kind of proliferation? Yeah, right…

The reason so few people do it is because it's hard. Because it's staggeringly expensive to set up. Why? Because that laser has to work at minus 100 degrees C just as well as at 150 degrees plus. It needs to work in vacuum. It needs it's punch in a thick atmosphere. It needs enough energy to vaporize atmospheric dust and debris to emit a clean straight beam. It needs to survive massive and rapid changes in pressure, in gravity, in radiation. More, it needs to be able to handle the massive energy input from a fusion engine. Worse still, it needs to remain functional while the chassis carrying it is subjected to all kinds of physical damage. And when it becomes damaged, it needs to be built in a way that will allow for field repairs, ideally, by people who no next to nothing about the physical principles at play. Each of these points is a small engineering marvel. Combine them all, and then add the little fine print that says 'Has to be available at competitive market prices', and you get your explanation.

In the Inner Sphere, the holdup is control. Out here, it's finances and manufacturing quality. If you have to spend thirty million C-bills to get to a working prototype medium laser, do you have any idea how many of the damn things you've got to sell before you make a serious profit? -- Interview with Ana 'Capitan Maximum' Firenza, Journal of Applied Sciences, Alphard 3021 C.E


Illyria
Illyrian Palatinate
December 18th, 3009
Nestled into the cockpit of his GHR-5H Grasshopper Centurio Aidan Volkov watched the drone buzz by a few hundred feet above, the air shimmering in the wake of its jet exhaust, the heavy mech's head turning as he followed its course.

Ever since the Marian expedition had made landfall ten days ago the team had been busy cataloguing and scanning every inch of the one hundred square kilometers large area of the Ferrum claim, first by air-based ground-penetrating radar, then on the ground to follow up.

Currently the drone operator team back on the bridge of Augustulus was busy flying their two-ton remote controlled aircrafts across the terrain in a pre-determined grid pattern. An array of lasers in its nose cone scanned the ground below in a hundred meter wide strips, generating a three-dimensional image of the terrain accurate down to the centimeter.

Ferrum consisted of rolling hills covered in low, dry brushwood and tall grass alternating between lush greens and near brown dry yellows. A few narrow streams in rock-strewn riverbeds flowed south to south-east, and sparse copses of evergreens dotted the landscape. Prime farming terrain this was not.

Aidan watched the drone leave his field of view and sped up his mech again, steering it up a steep slope of yellow grass tall enough to hide a cow. Red-gray rock formations, smoothed by millennia of wind and water, had him zig-zag up the hill. The Grasshopper was a nimble machine for its size and weight, reacting smoothly to his commands. It wasn't the most heavily armed mech in its weigh class, but its jump jets and heavy armor made up for that flaw in his mind.
"Control, this is Watch Dog 1, coming up on patrol point six."

"Roger that, Watch Dog 1. Anything out of the ordinary?" Control's reply came through his speakers loud and clear.

"Negative," Aidan's mech crested the hill. "Came across two Patty 'shepherds' about one point seven clicks to the east. Other than that, everything's quiet."

"Understood, Watch Dog 1. I reckon they didn't have all that many sheep?"

"Negative, Control, no sheep. The Patties seem to keep losing them, the poor bastards," Aidan commented drily.
The local terrain wasn't good for much more than sheepherding, and the Marians had told what few farmers there were they could keep their herds grazing as long as they didn't interfere with their operations. Only, the 'shepherds' that came to Ferrum seldomly, if ever, had sheep in tow, always came in pairs of two, or three, and were particularly interested in what the Marians were doing, from afar. And their backpacks and ponchos were more likely to hide cameras with telephoto lenses and communications equipment than a shepherd's lunch box.

He supposed it was only natural for the Illyrians to be wary of the Marian expeditions, despite the warm words and handshakes that had been exchanged by people in fancy clothes. As long as their mission wasn't put into question, Control had decided to play ball, but even then patience was a finite good.

"What a shame, Watch Dog 1. If they can't find them soon we might need to give them a push in the right direction. Off our property."

"Understood, Control. Continuing patrol. Keep me posted."
The Grasshopper continued its patrol route, following the drawn-out ridgeline of the hill to the north-west. He had to divert the mech to the west about halfway down his path as a thicket of evergreens with grey bark and thick reddish needles blocked the way, rising into the clear blue sky three times as tall as the mech. Further down the western slope a group of green-gray tents congregated around the metal frame of a drill site. Workers stopped their tasks as he walked down the hill, waving friendly, and he returned the greeting with the Grasshopper's arm.
Ferrum had dig sites and prospector teams spread all over the claim's territory. Practically, they were all legitimate geologists and mine workers and knew what they were doing. Most did not even know they were part of a large deception scheme. The less they knew the less someone could give up.

"Dig 4 looking good, Control. Continuing patrol," he reported dutifully as he marched back up the hill.

Control's response took longer than expected this time. He was about to repeat his statement when his speakers erupted with activity.
"Understood, Watch Dog 1. Be advised we've got a situation at the primary site. Patching you in right now, centurio." Control's voice sounded excited and tense.
Aidan could hear static for a moment, then another voice filled the ether. "Uh, hey, Control? We've got most of the main gate excavated. There's metal plating down here that my techs tell me must be service paneling. Pretty rusted and stuck. We're going at it with blowtorches and moving in the mobile generator. The gate itself looks fine, almost pristine!"

Aidan could feel the adrenalin fill him with excitement. Instinctively, he put the pedal to the metal. "Dig 1, Control. This is Watchdog 1. I'm heading your way! Control? I want all eyes on the perimeter and our guests. The moment they get too close to Dig 1 I want to know!" Worry mixed with his excitement as his detached mind registered the acknowledgments from Control.
His Grasshopper accelerated to his full speed of almost 65 kph. Not satisfied with his speed, he punched his jump jets into action, short-cutting the way back to Dig 1. This was it.

Their mission brief had given them a good lead as to where to start looking, probably courtesy of the new spymaster, Aidan thought. A few passes with ground penetrating radar had sealed the deal. The other large claim on Illyria. The claims on two other planets. The digs and soil samples. While technically useful, everything they had done was a diversion. While smaller teams kept whatever eyes the Patties had on them busy all over their claim, the main site had slowly been taking shape, with excavators moving hundreds of tons of soil, rubble and rocks already. When the old owners had left, they had done a meticulous job of turning an entrance and road wide enough to drive two tanks on abreast into just another hill side.

Landing on fiery rocket exhaust Aidan's mech came to a rest on a rock ledge.
Up ahead at the bottom of a low valley, the base camp came into view, two dozen white prefab houses clustered around a central plaza housing the expedition's pool of heavy machinery and vehicles. The remains of a paved road ran through the valley, overgrown and cracked enough that only every few meters patches of pavement stuck through soil and vegetation. Little enough that it had been completely overlooked on a world with such low population density as Illyria.

Looming over it all was a Mule-class dropship and, almost in its shadow, their Union-class dropship, the Augustulus. A few hundred meters further up the opposite side's hill another tent camp bustled with activity. Half a dozen excavators, some tracked, others with wheels twice as tall as a man, ate a trench into the side of the hill with ravenous speed while trucks carried off the spoil onto a growing small hill at the bottom of the rise. Dig 1.

Right now, the work concentrated on a stretch halfway up the hillside. Magnetic detectors and ground-penetrating radar had screamed out loudly there, hinting at a large mass of metal, twenty tons or more, that the dig site CO had been certain to be the main bunker doors. That had now been confirmed.

Aidan made his way around the camp and back up the other side of the hill, stopping the Grasshopper as he came close to the trench. He left the cockpit and slid down the ladder, and immediately ran towards the center of the commotion.

Shaped like an irregular V, a large funnel had been dug that now revealed two wings of a near seamless steel gate. At the bottom, the original pavement of the access road saw the light of the sun for the first time in more than two hundred years, dirty and wet from the loamy ground but otherwise intact. At the right side, a group of technicians in hard hats and orange overalls huddled around a switchbox. Thick cables ran from it to a nearby mobile diesel generator. Around the trench, more and more people gathered as work on other parts of the dig site grinded to a halt, clad in work overalls and mercenary fatigues. The lead tech gave a thumbs up. Clapping his hands, the site's foreman, and square ebony-skinned fellow in his late forties turned to the generator. "Fire it up, folks!"

Stuttering, the diesel came to life. For a few long seconds, nothing seemed to happen. Despite the generator's ruckus Aidan thought one could have heard a needle drop.

Then metal groaned. It was a deep, agonizing moan that pierced marrow and bone and made the hair on his back stand up, like fingernails scratching on a chalk board, only much deeper. At the switch box another tech hurriedly was tapping commands into the noteputer linked to the doors' mechanism. Dust and loose soil rippled from the concrete ledge above and from the tiny cracks and openings into which the two solid steel slabs once had retracted.

Above, the diesel strained, whining, which foreman and the workers around him exchanging worried looks until, abruptly, a hissing sound emerged from where the gate's two wings met, and with a series of dull 'thunks' the magnetic cylinders keeping it locked rescinded. Metal grinded over rocks and soil, and with a barely noticeable delay the gates slid open until the halfway point, straining against some blockade before the generator gave out with loud bang as some valve lost the fight against two hundred tons of reinforced steel.

It wasn't every day that you dug up an SLDF Castle Brian.

"Secure the gates and set up lights!" the foreman commanded, and a trio of techs jumped to action with barely a sign of hesitation.

Aidan slid down the sides of the funnel, trying not to trip on the loose ground. He had not even made it halfway down as a voice yelled "Oh shit, there-!"
Whatever they had wanted to say was cut short by the sound of a thundering explosion. Dust, debris, and red mist erupted from the opening. Cries of "Man down!" and "Medic!" were repeated by dozens, and a dust-covered figure tumbled out of the twilight, coughing, pulling two bodies behind them before they collapsed onto the cleared pavement.

Aidan rushed down and was among the first to reach the tech. Her eyes were wide and her breath shallow, but except for the cover of grey dust she seemed unharmed. Her two colleagues did not share her luck. One bled profusely from a dozen chest wounds and something that Aidan quickly recognized as shrapnel in his legs and abdomen. The other one was missing both legs below the knees – and most of his face beneath the hard hat.

"Shit, claymores," a slightly tanned man in his early thirties wearing random camouflage fatigues and body armor knelt down next them. "Bastards must have boobytrapped the entrance. Give the intruders and few feet, then a nigh transparent tripwire or some kind of laser trigger or pressure plate," he muttered, pressing his hands on the still breathing man's most severe wounds. "Kat? Kat! Get down here, and bring the gear! Medic? Medic!"

Medics were already sliding down the slope. Aidan took a step back and stared back into the gap. Dust had already begun to settled again. The air coming from within was cold and stale, and what little light entered the concrete caverns showed only tall and wide corridors, with arrows and signs painted both on the walls and on the floor. Blackened spots and blood now covered some of them. Slowly, consciously, he turned around and raised his voice.
"Listen up, people! Make room for the wounded! Let the medics through." He glanced back over shoulders into the half-light of the bunker. "From this moment on we're all on a tight schedule! OpSec condition one is in effect. I don't need to explain what that means for us 'paramilitaries'," he made the air quotes and earned himself the chuckles of the gathered legionaries sans uniform. "For the few civvies among you that means none of this gets out, under condition of capital punishment!"

The medics scrambled back up the slope with the aid of a few volunteers, the brief moment of levity gone as the wounded and dead passed through the ranks.

Aidan flicked his radio on. "Control, Watch Dog 1. Open Sesame is go, I repeat, Open Sesame is go. I want all hands on deck! Get the infantry out here and on the perimeter, on the double." He turned to the gathered crowd. "I want mobile lights and radio repeaters set up in intervals. Double down on getting the access course cleared and those gates fully open. And get me those camouflage tarps! Keep unwanted eyes off this, from the air and on the ground." He clapped his hands, trying to ignore the queasiness in his stomach as he glanced at the crimson blood on the dirty floor below. "This just went from your lovely camping trip to hard labor, people! No time to lose! Demo specialists and combat engineer up front, the rest behind them. We're moving in, ladies and gentlemen!"

He moved down towards the half-open gates. "You two, with me!"

The man who had just a minute before tried first aid on the wounded tech spoke up.
"Right, sir. Mitch Alramazan, CQC and demo specialist," he nodded, then turned to a short-haired, square-shouldered woman kneeling next to him. "You coming or what, Kat?"

The woman named cat shook her blonde head and rolled her eyes. "Since I don't want to drag your dead ass all the way back to Stafford? Yeah, I'm coming. Kat Ramone," she gave the hint of a salute. "Same field as the big guy." She looked Aidan up and down. "I'll need my gear. You can't go in there like that. Someone get the boss some armor and a helmet!" she yelled over her shoulders in a tone that allowed for no debate. "Let's get you suited up. And then let's go spelunking, centurio!"

The air hung heavy with a palpable tension as the group ventured into the depths of the abandoned SLDF Castle Brian. What had first appeared to be a straight tunnel wide enough for two mechs to walk side by side turned out to be zig-zagging downwards, with each corner providing spaces for casemates and laser emplacements. The infantry holdouts lay empty and abandoned, as bare as the day they had been built. Armored cupolas held lasers in swivel mounts, but the base's central power was down, and the backup batteries had long since discharged themselves.

Simply moving forward was a time-consuming effort. Mitch carried a laser and motion scanner that was meant to detect tripwires and any traps with electronics in them. Kat's tool of choice was "basically a radar mixed with a sniffer", as she had put it, meant detect the chemical composition of known explosives as well as hidden traps. Both also made good use of the good old Mk. 1 Eyeball. How much that would help them against Star League tech, he didn't know. But, he thought to himself, stopping every few meters and checking all those positions still beat getting your legs cut off just above your knees by a 250 years old claymore mine. Besides, it wasn't as if they were the only ones checking for traps.

The tunnel was swarming with people: combat engineers, soldiers carrying heavy weapons, technicians, medics. Getting that many people down here immediately was a gamble. A reckless, but necessary one. With every passing minute those bunker doors lay open the chances rose that the Illyrians or a third party found out just what the Hegemony was doing here under the guise of a mining expedition.

Behind them, excavators rumbled on, widening the entryway. Techs were already busy setting up portable floodlights. The bunker walls were gray and dry.

The colossal underground complex, a relic of a bygone era, exuded an eerie aura that seemed to seep through every nook and cranny. Cameras and other sensors, sitting in armored glass bubbles set into the ceiling, covered their advance. If they were still active then none of them did anything. So far. The corridors stretched out before them, dimly illuminated by the flickering glow of their flashlights, casting long shadows that danced and wavered on the cold concrete walls. In waves the light followed them as the techs struggled to keep pace with the lead teams. Alphanumeric codes in faded blue that meant nothing to him covered sections of the round tunnel.

Adian had switched his coolant vest and light trousers for heavy body armor and a combat helmet with a visor for splinter protection. Internally, he was far less calm. This bunker was living history, and it had already tried to kill them. Anxiously he stayed in the middle between the two combat engineers.

Two turns further down, Aidan felt the road level off. The tunnel widened into a large cavern of loading ramps, parking bays, and roll-up doors tall enough to let largest assault mechs pass. A few dulled windows and a halfway open door beckoned the trio to explore. In what must have been the guard house and offices for the loading dock they discovered signs of the original garrison's hasty departure. Abandoned equipment and remnants of hastily vacated quarters hinted at a past urgency.

"Secure the area!" he commanded. "We'll set up our temporary base of operations here. Get the generator down here, and set up defensive positions around the main entrance. I want anti-vehicle mines and SRM positions set up!"

Mitch shot him a questioning glance.
"I read the SLDF had a thing for drone defenses on some of its bases," Aidan told him quietly enough that others didn't hear it. "When we figure out the main power I'd rather not have it coincide with murderbots swarming us unprepared."

"Lovely forecast," Mitch muttered.

Kat hadn't gotten the start or the conversation. "Forecast? What forecast?"

"Dry with a fifty percent chance of lead," told her drily, then jumped up two stairs and pushed the door to the office open and stepped inside. He hadn't even put his foot down when he felt Mitch's hand tighten around his shoulder like a vice.

"Are you trying to give me a heart attack!?" he hissed. "Look at all that clutter in there! It's like a candy store for booby traps!"

"There's got to be a map of this place in there," Aidan pointed towards the door. "This is the loading dock. The main sorties run through here, and all the supplies come here first. If there's one place aside from base command that has a map it'll be here!"

Mitch grunted. With almost polite force yet accepting no objections he pulled Aidan back and pointed to a place next to the door. "You stay there, mech jockey. Don't move! Kat?" he motioned towards the door.

"Mitch, this is the most reckless shit I've been doing since Basic," the woman muttered as she carefully tapped the door with the tip of her boot and began a sweep with her scanners. Nothing showed up, and careful as a cat in a kennel she placed one foot in front of the other.

"Really Kat, the most reckless? I remember you trying to seduce that girl on Pompey who was as straight as a ruler. Oh, and the base commander's fiancée," the Mitch quipped as he followed her inside with his own scanner, faking. "Besides, it's dry and almost perfectly temperate down here. Now all you'd need is a nice mug o' coffee to make this perfect since you've already got my exalted company."

"Nothing on my scanner. Couple open drawers," she shone her flashlight over a desk with a dead screen and a large folder. "Looks like freight manifest printouts, pretty faded." She refrained from picking them up and hunkered down, trying to shine her light between where the desk ended and the folder began. "Safe," she decided.

Three parallel pairs of desks stood in the center of the room, with consoles and switch boards facing towards the windows and the large space behind.

"Same here," Mitch answered from a few feet away. "Just a lot of junk." He picked up a mug and made a face. "Anybody up for three hundred year old coffee stains? Yuck!"

Kat shone her torch across the room, then stopped and turned the light back the way she had started. "Boss? That map you were looking for? Guess I found it!"

SLDF Castle 401-L RICHELIEU.
Painted on the concrete wall in clean white on faded orange looked a bit like a cross between a beehive and the roots of an ancient tree, with seemingly countless tunnels of all sizes boring into the ground on at least five main levels and easily as many utility sub-levels. Smaller versions of the angled tunnel they had descended down so far led to just below the surface to smaller bunkers and pillbox systems that had once been the castle's first line of defense. At the center of the labyrinth sat a hardened control center, and at the deepest point an equally hardened chamber read 'Geothermal'.

"Jupiter's hairy ballsack, look at the size of that thing!" Kat whistled through her teeth.

Aidan had to agree with the statement. Whatever ideas he had had about the SLDF, he just had been forced to think a few degrees bigger than before. He felt a tiny pit in his stomach. Maybe this was a tad too big for their britches? He pushed the thought away.

Mitch said nothing, simply studying the map closely, tracing a path with his fingers. He checked his watch.
"If he cut through the barracks here and down through storage level two we should be able to make it to the command center in about forty minutes, sixty minutes top. That is, if the map's to scale and the stairwells are still intact."

"And not mined," Kat added with an emphatic nod.

"And not mined," Mitch repeated.
Aidan tore his eyes off the map and checked his watch. "We'll wait until we've set up shop before we move on." He switched on his radio. "Control, this is Watch Dog 1. Do you read, copy?"

"Loud and clear, Watch Dog 1. Signal quality is good."

"Roger, Control. We've got a map of the bunkers. Setting up a base camp at the loading area, then we'll set out to explore the first level. I'll take a small group and make a beeline directly to the command center. Chances are high it'll be sealed, but it's worth a try. Watch Dog 1 over."

"Understood, Watch Dog 1. Keep your head down and your limbs attached." A pause. "You know your mother will never let it go if we bring you home in more than one piece. Control out."

Aidan looked at his radio for a moment, then sighed, and stepped out into the loading area again.

Half an hour later trucks were already driving down the tunnels, hauling weapons, equipment and more personnel down there. He called for a gathering at the center of the cavern.
"This place is nothing but a huge labyrinth, people. We'll have to move methodically if we want to get a look at everything and not have anything bite our asses. Keep your eyes open! This is the SLDF we're talking about here. These guys were professionals, and they had access to tech we can only dream of. We've drawn blanks so far." He winced. "Well, mostly. Expect every kind of passive and active defense you can think of. And then the ones you can't think of, too. Here, take a look." He gave a signal to a nearby tech and a mobile holo projector sprung to life. It was an extravagant luxury, but whatever his friend on Mount Caelus had known had been enough to gave the expedition almost limitless access to tools and equipment. "This is SLDF Castle 401-L RICHELIEU."

Everybody automatically took a few steps closer and leaned in.

"I'm no specialist on SLDF bases, but it looks smaller than your ordinary Castle Brian. Still, we have what looks like five main levels here, each centered around a main hub location. Like the one we're at right now. From each of those, two main axis veer off, and each of those then branch of into a large number of smaller sections, like the crown of a tree. Now here's the plan!" Aidan turned from the hologram to face his soldiers. Your men will hold and secure Alpha Base here, Ostroff," he called out a giant of a man wearing heavy body armor. "Hannigan's people will secure the areas directly behind all those loading gates and mech passages. Cut your way through if you have to, but I don't want any nasty surprises left unchecked right next to us."

"Yes, sir!" Hannigan was a fiery redhead with a temper, but she was also a professional infantry soldier and a veteran of two dozen raids.

"Third Centuria's people will start exploring this level, alpha branch," he pointed at one of the main two lines running from the hub area. "Nguyen, be methodical, note everything down, take inventory. That's why we're here, people! Go only as far as you can set up repeaters and a clear line of communication. And be careful!" he reminded them. "I'll take a small team and try to reach the command center. What are you waiting for?!" he clapped his hands. "Move it, people!"


The atmosphere among the group grew solemn as they walked through the corridors and personal bunks of the soldiers who had called this place home, now mere remnants of a bygone era.

The barracks stood frozen in time, as if the occupants had simply stepped out for a moment and would return at any given moment. The rooms were adorned with personal effects and mementos, telling the stories of lives lived and aspirations held dear. Motes of dust danced in the beams of torchlight. The beds remained made, their sheets and blankets neatly arranged, as if waiting for their weary occupants to return any moment. The silence within the barracks was deafening, broken only by the distant sound of their own breaths.

In the mess hall, tables were set as if expecting a gathering—a stark reminder of shared meals and conversations that had once filled the space. Hundreds of empty chairs stood as silent witnesses to the immense scale of the abandoned fortress.

In the recreation area, games lay untouched on tables—decks of cards, chess sets, and holovids ready to provide entertainment to those who would never return.

Walking through the corridors, Aidan and his comrades encountered forgotten memorabilia—trophies, medals, and plaques that adorned the walls. Each artifact held a story, a testament to the valor and achievements of the soldiers who had once called Richelieu their home.

The stairwells were solid ferrocrete rather than metal lattices. That meant no black abyss beneath their feet, but also no idea of what was around the next turn of the stairs.

On Storage 2 they they encountered a series of purposefully blocked tunnels, their entrances collapsed by carefully placed demolition charges. It was clear that someone had made a deliberate effort to seal off these passages, raising questions about what lay beyond. Questions for a later time.

Storage 2, or what they could see of it, was empty. The underground warehouses on the part of the level they had to traverse were all open, each of them two hundred meters long, possibly a quarter as wide, and prime examples of gaping nothingness.

They descended another set of stairs to Storage 3. Again they found a number of collapsed tunnels, but before frustration could set in they also came across warehouses that proved Richelieu was not just a hole in the ground. Infantry kits, assault rifles, all kinds of infantry weapons and support weapons, all neatly vacuum sealed. Stores of ammonution in various states of filling. Mech spares in shipping crates, covering everything from myomer bundles to targeting electronics. One warehouse held damaged mechs that most likely could not have been easily field-repaired and thus had been abandoned when General Kerensky and most of the SLDF left. Various infantry combat vehicles. A warehouse filled to the brim, the writing above the blast doors simply reading N A V A L 0 1.

The hardest part was to press on and not to waste time gawking. And they only saw a tiny part of the facility as they made it to the command center. Aidan reckoned that, even beneath all the rock and ferrocrete and bare steel, the command center had to be an ferrocrete sphere at least a hundred meters across. The last redoubt, only to be taken with lots of patience – or vast quantities of explosives. Or, as the Amaris coup had proven, subterfuge.

It was sealed.
"Thing's been rigged," Kat muttered as she knelt next to a keypad. "See how it doesn't quite fit with the casing?" she pointed to a barely visible gap.

Mitch knelt down next to her and hummed. "You think someones set it up to blow when you punch in the wrong code?"

Kat nodded slowly. "It's what I'd do if I didn't have much time and wanted to keep my stuff from people with sticky fingers."

"Can you defuse it?" Aidan asked.

Mitch and Kat exchanged a long look, the simultaneously shook their heads.
"Not like that," Mitch said.

"And not on the fly," Kat added.

"Well need the rest of the team. Decent lights. Professional code-breaking equipment. Patience."

"And some luck," Kat finished his list.

Aidan sighed, tired and defeated, his body aching from the unfamiliar weight of the armor. "Alright. Let's get back. Enough for today. Besides, there's dozens of square kilometers of tunnels still left to explore. Lets get something to eat and some sleep, and I'll get you the gear you need."
He didn't tell them the emperor had already provided the expedition with the necessary gear. Just another foresight of his old friend. One step at a time.

Later that day, when night had already fallen, Aidan slumped onto his cot in the small cabin he called his own on Augustulus.

Hannigan's soldiers and engineers had opened all the gates leading away from the hub and found the vicinity empty. No immediate threats, no drones, no IEDs, no traps. What they had found was a machine shop and garage that had once served as a repair center for the garrison's vehicles, and a dozen mechbays with automated repair gear.

Nguyen's people had ran out of repeaters and turned back after about two thirds of the way. Which still meant they had covered a few kilometers worth of tunnels. Half the storage where empty. A number of tunnels leading to larger sections of branches had been deliberately collapsed, and apparently in some cases flooded. Whatever was in there, the SLDF had considered it to be important enough to go the extra mile to deny unauthorized intruders easy access to it. The idea gave him just one more thing to worry about.

What Larry Nguyen's men had found in the twenty-five percent that wasn't empty and was accessible already was a treasure, though. There was probably enough stuff down here alone to equip an SLDF infantry brigade or two as they had stumbled across warehouses filled vac-sealed Mausers, armor kits and uniforms. There were ammo crates stacked to the ceiling. Racks and racks filled with artillery shells. Mortars. At least a company of early production version Marksman artillery vehicles...

He sighed wearily. He'd have to figure out a way to prioritize. The Mule he had was just a drop in the bucket. He'd need more transports. More time. More luck...

Aidan Volkov fell into a restive sleep, full of dreams where men in Star League uniforms with bloody stumps for legs chased him through concrete caverns.


Aurea via ambulemus / Golden is the path we walk.
Scrambled message transmitted from the primary Marian dig site on Illyria to the provisional embassy, December 18th, 3009. The same message was transmitted via the Illyria HPG to Alphard the next day.

 

[Culsu]

Originally, this was supposed to start the next chapter, but the individual log entries always ended up too big and would have ended up constituting between a quarter to a third of the chapter. Still, I didn't want to completely throw it away. I hope this gives you a small treat to bridge the time until I've finished Chapter 6.

INTERLUDE: LOG​

Personal Log, CO SLDF 401-L RICHELIEU, Lieutenant General Alexandra Renard, SLDF

Date: January 15, 2766

Logbook Entry 1:

I have assumed command of Castle RICHELIEU today. Construction is still in the final stages, but 80% of the facility are already operational. What I have seen of Illyria confirms that it is a remote backwater, with barely any native population within a thousand kilometers of the base. I can see why HQ wants to use it as a logistics hub for our operations in the sector. People on planet are too busy herding sheep to care, and we are outside the member states, which gives the SLDF free movement in all directions without a care.

The Periphery has always been a volatile region, and our clandestine presence here is set to help us with the deteriorating situation in the Magistracy and Concordat. HQ anticipates a surge in activity in the coming months as tensions escalate across the periphery.

As the commanding officer, it is my responsibility to ensure the smooth functioning of this base, facilitating the movement of troops, supplies, and equipment.

The base's HPG system is still en route and is expected to arrive around March. In the meantime, communication is handled the old-fashioned way: by courier.

Command has been adamant that RICHELIEU's role in supporting sector forces cannot be overstated as its location provides an excellent staging point outside the immediate range of the rebellion.


Date: December 2, 2766

Logbook Entry 39:

RICHELIEU has been operational for close to a year now. I have to commend the crew and garrison for their professional conduct, even though I wish I could do so under different circumstances. The fight, especially in the Concordat, has been brutal, and the relentless intensity of the fighting demands a continuous flow of supplies and reinforcements through our facilities.

An increasing number of heavily wounded keep arriving on base. Our medical facilities are more capable to treat that kind of physical traumata than your average field hospital, so HQ ships the worst cases out to us. And there's so many of them! Medical staff works tirelessly, but I'd be lying if the flow of empty-eyed soldiers missing limbs or being burnt across eighty percent of their bodies hasn't been giving me nightmares.

I've spoken to my husband briefly, and sent the kids pre-recorded messages for Christmas. It's the second year in a row that I won't be able to celebrate with them back home. Sometimes I just want to curse this uniform.


Date: June 9, 2769

Logbook Entry 78:

My day needs 36 hours. The General's drive to conquer the Rim Worlds Republic via a multi-pronged campaign has confronted my staff with endless obstacles. The strain on our garrison has been immense, with an ever-increasing influx of heavily wounded soldiers and damaged equipment requiring our attention without pause.

The reports say the SLDF is pushing through, but every victory comes at a high cost. The casualties we receive are a blatant testament to that. Medical staff is risking burnout, but there's nothing I can do about that. They are needed almost 24/7. When I signed up all those years ago I never believed I would see so many maimed bodies in just a few years. Damn this war, and damn that fat treacherous fuck Amaris!

All things considered, morale is good, but there is an undercurrent of tension among many who have no means of reaching their loved ones on the worlds of the Hegemony that Amaris has occupied.

My tech staff, too, is kept alive by energy drinks, caffeine and sarcasm. Our repair bays are constantly occupied as dropships continue to unload tons upon tons of gear deemed to damaged to be handled by field repairs, but equally too valuable to be butchered for parts now that supplies from the inner worlds have become an issue. I will have to set up mandatory rest periods for the technical staff lest I have them all burned out by the end of the year, or reaching a new level of consciousness from substance abuse. For obvious reasons I can't do the same for the medical staff.


Date: December 18, 2769

Logbook Entry 96:

With the fall of Apollo organized large scale resistance across the Rim Worlds Republic has largely ceased. Now, all eyes are on Terra. Mine, too. I haven't heard from close family for years, and I'm afraid of the implications beyond of just the comm blackout.

As for the RWR, the aftermath of conquest presents its own set of challenges for RICHELIEU.
Establishing order and stability within the RWR worlds is proving to be a Sisyphean task. Major cities have been brought under SLDF control, but pockets of resistance persist. Now it's not just the fighting. Garrison forces are actively engaged in security operations and the restoration of essential services.

Our logistical operations have been stretched thin. General Kerensky's demands emptied our stocks faster than they can be replenished. We've been running a net deficit for months now.


Date: June 3, 2774

Logbook Entry 176:

My situation at RICHELIEU has reached a critical juncture. The offensive in the Hegemony has commenced. Amaris' forces have used the years they had to dug in, which makes the actions in the Concordat look like child's play. I've been ordered to send more personnel and resources. It's become clear recruitment and replacement cannot keep up, and every man and every piece of equipment is needed at the front. The base now operates at half strength.

This poses significant challenges in maintaining our operational readiness.

Looking at the photographs on my desk feels surreal. I haven't spoken to or seen my family in more than eight years. Not since HPG communications with the Hegemony were cut. Would I even recognize the twins now? They've turned eighteen earlier this year. What about the little one? Am I even still married at this point?!?


Date: February 12, 2779

Logbook Entry 306:

Terra is Amaris last redoubt. Command's focus has shifted entirely towards the staging areas for the final great battle. Our stocks of naval replacement parts are almost empty. Tens of thousands of cubic meters of storage capacity – emptied. Those SDS systems really did a number on the fleet, and the worst is yet to come.

Mirroring that, the majority of my medical staff has left for the front lines. We're too far away to be of any use for the war effort right now, so my doctors and nurses have been divvied up between commands to serve in field hospitals. A rump staff remains. The medical wing's a ghost town now. Strange thought, it all being silent when it was filled with cries and prayers for so long.

Rather than supplies, now damaged vehicles and battlemechs pour into the base. Most of them are too damaged to be repaired in the field, but too valuable to be butchered, especially with all the damage to factories in the Hegemony. Our automated repair suites and my remaining tech staff are sorting through them, rebuilding what we can with the diminished stocks of spares at hand. The rest awaits future repair and refurbishment once the final conflict has concluded.

On a personal matter: I've heard horror stories about the treatment the families of SLDF personnel had to face under Amaris. I fear for the worst.


Date: October 18, 2781

Logbook Entry 333:

House Cameron is dead. The Hegemony is now on life support. It's obvious that the member states don't give a damn about either, other than trying to get their hands on what's still left. Worse, it seems the General is letting them.

As if that isn't bad enough, contributions from the states to the SLDF have become a mere trickle. Recruitment, too, has become a challenging endeavor. The losses incurred during fifteen years of war have left a void that is difficult to fill. What few new recruits sign up is far from sufficient to make up for the casualties we have suffered. RICHELIEU is a microcosm of the broader challenges we face. We operate a shoestring budget, with a pittance of the supplies we should have for normal ops on paper. After fifteen years we've become exceedingly good at that.

Kerensky remains resolute in his vision of restoring a semblance of normalcy to the Inner Sphere. I don't know how the man does it. A trickle of supplies and personnel continues to be shipped back to base now that the war's over. At the current pace it'll take years until we reach even fifty percent of the pre-war quota. To be honest, I'm not sure if we'll ever get back to that point. Looking at the world, it feels as if everything is unravelling.

Despite inquiries and searches by trusted friends I have not been able to get in contact with my family on Terra. With a heavy heart I have thus resigned to the fact that my partner and children are gone.

Weirdly, accepting the truth has allowed me to grieve, truly, for the first time. I feel hollow, but at the same time I also feel like a great weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Where ever they may be right now: I hope you can forgive me.


Date: April 28, 2784

Logbook Entry 381:

This will be my last entry. It's plain to see that the great houses are sliding closer to all out war with every passing day. The Hegemony is all but gone, and the Star League is sure to follow it. Rather than follow it down the abyss, the General has a plan to avoid it all. EXODUS, he calls it. The base has decided to join in, and so do I. Truth be told, there's nothing holding me here. 'Here' meaning known space. My family is gone, and for a third of my life I've known nothing but war. Enough is enough.

Selecting what supplies will be taken has been my mission for the past weeks. RICHELIEU has never reached its pre-war quota, but we are nonetheless well stocked. Transport capacity is limited. There's close to two thousand soldiers still on base, so I've had to carefully pick and choose. Rations, medical provisions, fuel, spare parts are highest on my list. Also: a whole storehouse of sealed kegs of the local beer brew. Screw the regulations on that; I've been with these people for twenty years, sitting in this fox den. That's the least they deserve!

Concealment is the second order of the day. We've been covering the outer bunkers with soil and fast-growing seeds. What could not be shipped out has been sealed. Priority military material has been placed in separate storage. I had demo teams collapse the tunnels to these portions of the base lest they easily fall into the wrong hands. All across the Inner Sphere the vultures are already circling. I don't share the General's hope that by withdrawing the SLDF from the equation people will come to their senses. Exodus. Let's preserve what is left of us, and maybe when they've wrecked it all we can come back one day and put it all back together.
Lieutenant General Alexandra Renard, SLDF, signing off.

* * * * * ​

Coming up: Taking Stock -- Nosy Neighbors -- Set the Fox to Keep the Geese

 

[Culsu]

C h a p t e r 0 6: Wages of Greed

​

SLDF Castle RICHELIEU
Illyria
Illyrian Palatinate
January 11th, 3010
People were curious by nature. There was no way to change that. When the Marians first approached the Palatinate with their offer for non-aggression and trade, people were naturally curious about that. When they began to exploit their claims on the Illyrian worlds, people were all but scrambling to take a look at the newcomers. The merchant houses running the Palatinate wanted to know what the Marians were up to, so they had their thralls stake their claims out with cameras and sensors as best as they could. Curiosity became mixed with suspicion when on site security proved to be surprisingly tight. Soon, not even the best telephoto lenses were allowed to get close enough to their main dig site on Illyria. And cargo dropships started coming and going. The Illyrians were no rich or developed nation, but they were one thing: miners. And what they knew to be on planet did not justify the kind of traffic and security the Marian site so suddenly experienced. A formal complaint was lodged with the new embassy. Rumors started to circulate, of faded blue containers being shipped off world rather than processed ore. And people whose main currency is information took notice.

Cruising leisurely at 60,000 ft. the arrowhead-shaped, three by two meters drone had a radar cross section just shy of the size of a hawk and special pressure valves cooled its exhaust so that it was a mere blip on heat sensors. Sharing a tech base remarkably close to that in the currently Marian-occupied bunker, its impossible accurate cameras located in a basketball-sized cupola in its nose cone could read the health warning on the side of a cigarette pack from low orbit.

Sitting a few hundred kilometers away at the end of a secure pin-point laser link the drone's operator carefully zoomed in on the site deep down below. White prefab houses covered the valley floor. Four spheroid dropships sat on a blackened plain close by, with loading ramps extended. Scores of people were moving around, on foot and in machines. He had tried to check the dig site itself, but the tarps spread across the hill site did a remarkably effective job to obfuscate what happened beneath.

A large flatbed truck emerged from cover. The operator zoomed in on its back where tension belts held scores of crates painted in light blue. She frowned, zoomed in closer. Suddenly her eyes widened, and her hand slammed down on a button, freezing the feed. She could feel a pit in her stomach, and her fingers actually trembled for a moment before long cultivated self-control and discipline regained control. Swiftly picking up the feed where she had left, the camera jumped to a second vehicle racing from the gash in the hillside, carrying a similar load.

She picked up her phone and pushed the speed dial on it.
"I'm sending you an image now," the operator said tensely before the voice on the other end of the line could speak. "We do have a situation here. Have you got it?"
"Blake's beard…!" the other voice, usually so composed, muttered.
The operator just nodded to herself, the image of flatbed full of crates labeled with the Cameron Star frozen on her screen again. Blake's beard, indeed.


Mount Caelus
Nova Roma, Alphard
Marian Hegemony
January 13th, 3010
"I thought you'd be dancing through the palace, dominus. Now you're sitting here, looking as if a cat pissed into your morning coffee," Posca frowned at his master.

Marius sat in a high-backed chair in the small council chambers he had had constructed on Mount Caelus as an annex to the imperial palace, mirroring the Chamber of Whispers in the city down below. Resting his elbow on the table to prop up his head, he grimaced back at the grey-haired slave and mentor.
"Nobody wants to see me dance, Posca," he shook his head. The rest of his inner circle had taken some time to get used to the unfiltered discussions between the two men.

"I'm not convinced of that, sir. I've seen your martial arts training, and you do have good body control. A video here and there could do wonders enamoring you with the plebs," Victor Blackwood smiled, his smile widening at Marius irritation before it completely dropped off his voice and his voice turned serious. "It's almost like a trojan horse, isn't it?" It was clear he did not mean the dancing.

"It does invite trouble," Marius conceded. "This isn't just a lance of lostech mechs you find in some forgotten warehouse, Posca. Just what's in this freight manifesto is enough to equip an army!" he pushed the printout back into the middle of the table.

The Mule dropship had burned for the planet, hard, its cargo bays filled to the brim. Others had already been sent to Illyria they day the message of their discovery had been received.

His uncle Corvinus leaned forward and picked it up.
"That dropship's been filled to the top. Enough guns and gear to fit out every soldier of the whole 1st Mechanized, and that's less than half of what Volkov says they still have on site. A company of Marksman artillery vehicles. Thor artillery vehicles. Alacorns with freaking Gauss rifles. Plenty of Bulldogs. A few Goblins. Von Luckners. A lance of Valis. Half a dozen Rhinos. Half a dozen damaged Condors. Prometheus bridge layers. Manticores. ATVs. And the list goes on and on…"

Alina Volkova whistled in surprise.

"I reckon that's a lot?" Posca look between her and Marius.

"Not enough to restage a play of the First Succession War, but substantial, given our means and numbers. And supposedly that not all. What about battlemechs?" General Volkova asked.

"About a battalion so for, and those are just the ones that are damaged yet deemed service-ready. Your son says there's plenty more that are in pieces. Apparently, there's types in there your son barely even recognizes," Corvinus told her.

"There's more," Marius explained quietly. "The list of what they've found and noted as valuable enough to be looted covers three pages, from Star League computers up to apparently a handful of unspecified naval weapons. Ideally, Posca, we take everything up to the last nail and screw and ship it back to the Hegemony."

"Realistically, that is wishful thinking, sir," Blackwood spoke up. Realizing that nobody objected him the head of the nascent Marian secret service continued. "There are too many people involved, and too much crucial gear involved in this operation. If we send in too many ships to get the material out, the sheer number will make people suspicious. If we don't send as many, chances rise exponentially with every passing day that people figure out what we're doing anyhow. Hell, even if the Patties don't find out chances are one of our own people will spill the beans at some point. Someone always does."

"I'm afraid I still don't see the problem, dominus. Surely, such a coup would be a nigh legendary success, especially this early in your reign? Chances are you could ignore whatever misgivings the Senate may have for at least the next couple of years, right?" Posca looked puzzled, which was a rare occurrence.

"Wish that domestic reaction was the only side of the coin I've got to keep in mind, Posca," Marius shook his head. "A find of that size attracts all the wrong attention from all the wrong sides. People stop being rational when they hear the words 'lostech' and 'Star League'. If the find is big enough to have people worried, they might just take this as a sign to lash out pre-emptively."

"Everybody from the Circinus Federation to the Free Worlds League could feel impelled to act. McIntyre's people have almost three mech regiments, and they are a lot closer to the planet than we are. Luckily, they are also the least likely to find out. Unfortunately, that can't be said for Kyalla Centrella," Blackwood explained. "The Magistracy's espionage apparatus is very capable, and given the Hegemony's relation with Canopus, the Magestrix could very well feel that temporarily leaving some borders exposed to gather a force large enough to directly attack us before we can make use of the find is worth the risk. Worst case scenario, SAFE finds out and the FWL wants it."

He had forgotten Comstar. Privy as he had been to classified information, Marius had slowly seen the benevolent façade of the organization unravel during his first reign. He did not know to what end, but Terra disliked the idea of advanced technology in the hands of everybody but them. The robes were not to be underestimated
"Alina?" Marius shot her an inquisitive look.

The tall officer solemnly shook her head. "Nothing we field right now would withstand a coordinated assault on Alphard or the rest of our territory. A few years down the road and we could make it a fight, but right now? If Kyalla or the Marik really wanted to knock us out, they certainly could."

"We're doing what we can, but neither procurement nor training is magic," Corvinus added, nodding at General Volkova. "Setting up the infrastructure takes time, recruiting takes time, and getting the legionaries to a point where they know what they're doing again takes time. Also, mechs and tanks don't grow on trees, and we don't have any domestic production. Even if we magically had the legionaries, we're stuck with what the market can provide. Ideally, we can have the 1st Mechanized fully established by the end of the year, and Legio I on a good way."

"They'd also be green and untested as hell, sir," Volkova shook her head.

"Which is why we need to keep our heads down, amici. No parades, no official statements, no numbers. Give it all time to settle, then slowly drip feed what we have into the forces. A couple hundred Mausers here, two or three mechs at a time there. Nothing to ruffle too many feathers. Until then: a complete information blockade," Marius emphasized.

"I will try to keep it under wraps, but at the end of the day there are too many people involved to keep this totally secret," Blackwood sounded apologetic, but resolved. It was the voice of a man who knew had taken the stance of 'It is what it is, but we'll make it work'. "I'll prepare a tale, find a way to spin the story. Once things are revealed it won't be possible to outright deny that we've found something. But I can try to control the narrative, minimize the scope of what we have found. Reveal only what we absolutely must, when we must. Downplay it. Should be possible unless someone decides to leak all of it in one go. Then we're screwed," he shrugged nonchalantly.

"So, we hope for the best but prepare for the worst?" Marius shoulders slumped.

"I'm afraid with so many cooks stirring the pot that is precisely all we can do, sir."

The council fell silent.

The Illyrian cache had been an afterthought in Marius' plans, something almost forgotten since it barely made news when it happened, and Comstar's dedicated involvement had kept much of it under wraps. Going after it had been more of a spur of the moment decision, probably more tempting the thought out. Now that it was in his hands, the repercussions of actually having access to it suddenly rested a lot more heavily on his shoulders than he had anticipated. Slowly, he rose from his seat.
"I fear times are changing, amici. Everywhere there are signs the Inner Sphere is slowly but surely clawing its way out of the worst of the succession wars, growing again, rebuilding. It's not just the jackpot we've struck in Illyria that invariably may put us in danger. For a century we've grown rich off raiding our neighbors, by being a safe haven for pirates. We have to be careful that what has made us wealthy won't soon paint a large bull's eye on our back. It would be the peak of irony that right when we are at the cusp of becoming a true power some minor incident leads to an avalanche that ends up burying us." He turned to Blackwood. "I know you are the newcomer and outsider to this constellation," his gesture took in the whole room, "and that I'm saddling you with much. But our fate may very well depend on the information you gather and provide us with."

Blackwood shot Posca a glance and smiled.
"Sir, I've been provided with both the challenge and the opportunity of a lifetime. I'll do what is in my power. I'll also make an effort to keep tabs on what all those enterprising privateers who harbor are up to. Just in case."

Marius sighed, feeling a lot older than his young body had reason to.
"Alright, I suppose that's all I can ask for anyway. Uncle, Alina: I know you're doing it already but get me those cohort up and running. We'll convene once there are new developments. Now if you excuse me, I think I'll have to clue in my sister about what's going on."

His thoughts wandered to the contents of the shielded box in his personal quarters. Nobody else knows of this, Aidan's note had read. It could change everything. The question was: how?


SLDF Castle RICHELIEU
Illyria, Illyrian Palatinate
March 2nd, 3011
"Move! Move! Move!"
Aidan ran up a flight of stairs, his neurohelmet in one hand, the other grabbing the hand rail to pull him along faster. The stairwell was abuzz with the sound of boots, heavy breathing, grunted commands and curses. Alarms blared through the concrete caverns of the ancient SLDF castle. The day was officially going to hell in a handbasket.

The Patties had been getting ever more insistent in their demands to get access to the site. This morning, they had made a real job of it. A few companies of armor and infantry had set up position on the edge of the Ferrum claim, supported by a few mechs, and an ultimatum had been issued: give us access to your claim, we know you're illegally digging for lostech.

Aidan had tried to stall them. Then RICHELIEU's long dormant sensors had picked up a jump signature at the planet's pirate point, and before they knew it an Overlord was howling through the atmosphere. He'd hailed the ship. The only answer had been to land on the tail of a fusion torch and disgorge an understrength battalion of mechs at his doorstep.

"Nguyen, I need that bunker online!" yelling into his radio, he pushed a blast door open and sprinted into the main loading area.
It was pandemonium. The evacuation order had been given twenty minutes ago, and everybody not carrying a gun was busy grabbing whatever they could get in a last minute effort to squeeze just that tiny little extra bit of technology out of the castle.

"There's like two thousand tons of soil and rock on top of that cupola!" Nguyen's harried voice barked back through the speakers. "I need more time!"

"Time's the one thing I don't have. I'll see what I can do. Keep the line open!"

"Roger. We'll get this thing going, no matter the cost. Nguyen out!"

Aidan ran towards the automated mech repair bays. All the machinery and electronics rested in doubly secured freight containers, with every nut and bolt video documented in triplicate. The flatbeds were ready to roll. Behind them stood his ride.

A jeep came racing down the entry tunnel and stopped with screeching tires.
Centurio Ostroff jumped out and came running towards him. Covered in sweat and dust, the seven foot tall soldier looked even bulkier in the combat armor he had requisitioned from the SLDF depot. The Mauser assault pulse laser looked like a submachine gun in the man's bear paws. Crusted blood covered the back of one hand.
"Comms to the jumpships are down, centurio," he reported without introduction. "We've been getting plastered with heavy broad-band jamming since the moment that big bugger made landfall."
"Are we holding?" Aidan donned the neuro helmet and fastened the chin strap. The SLDF model was far lighter and more ergonomic than the unwieldy static helmets he was used to.

"The Patties 'ave underestimated our defenses and readiness. Beat their first assault back. Bloody affair. They must've lost two hundred men and a company worth of vehicles and mechs. We lost a quartex, and two mechs took a pounding but are still up," the infantry specialist reported. "But we need to leave, now. Those newcomers have gone after the outer camps and are now moving onto us!" Ostroff was usually as stoic as a rock, but the urgency in his voice was undeniable now.

Aidan angrily shook his head. "I'm not abandoning this bunker, not without a serious fight, Ostroff. We're not letting this facility and all our equipment fall into enemy hands that easily. Nguyen's men are working on getting the surface defenses up, and our demo experts are setting charges to blow the entry tunnel. We'll take whatever's not nailed down, blow a mile worth of tunnel to deny the Patties and whoever else is out there easy access, and then we'll be getting the hell outa Dodge."

Ostroff flashed a lopsided smile. "A shame we never got a chance to check out those other tunnels. Always was curious why they worked extra hard to blow them."

"Fuck 'em," Aidan muttered. "Could be zombies down there. Could be Roland the Headless Hunchback pilot haunting the halls, for all I care. We're living on borrowed time, so it's better to get the stuff we have got access to than speculate about the stuff we haven't."

"Alright," almost four hundred pounds of legionary nodded. "What are your orders?"

"See those flatbeds? No matter what happens, they have to get onboard a dropship. Keep a corridor from the bunker to the landing site open. Get the rest of the people out."

"And what're you going to do?"

"I'm going to buy us some time." Aidan patted the hull of the giant war machine standing next to him and smiled. "I've always wanted to shoot a Gauss gun."

A throng of techs buzzed around the mech's feet. Their commanding officer waved at him.
"Centurio, I'm going to run you through the start-up sequence," he announced.

"Absolutely not," Aidan snapped. "We've got no time for that. Get me in that cockpit and get out of the way."

"Alright, but I'll have it noted that it's on your own peril then," the mech tech frowned. "This isn't just an SLDF machine, sir. It's a royal configuration, Hegemony specs. I'll be on the line for the first meters."

"Fine," Aidan grunted, "as long as you get me in the field, now!"

RICHELIEU's main tunnel was a fifteen meters high oval, but it piloting an assault mech it felt like a cramped narrow tube.
"Be careful, sir. The neurofeedback on Star League systems is more direct and intuitive than on what we're used to work with," his mech tech explained to him via radio as he stomped up the causeway.

Aidan had to evade a duo of trucks and the multitude of civilian and military personnel that squeezed through the tunnel. In intervals specialists were setting demo charges against loadbearing parts. He caught a glance at Mitch and Kat, laden with plastic explosives they had dug up from part of the bunker's storage. There faces were fully concentrated, bereft of their usual banter.

"Roger, I can feel it. Movement and commands are much more fluid than I'm used to. Makes steering almost feel slippery," he replied. "Rather than brute forcing my way through with sheer concentration it all almost comes too easy."

"The matches with the data we've taken from the systems. Calibration and permeability of neural transmitters is leagues better than our stuff." A pause. "Your armor's complete, but patchwork. The autorepair bay was already dismantled, so what you see is what you get, sir. Best I could do on the fly."

"As long as I can fight I'm not too concerned about the paint job, base," Aidan turned around the last bend in the tunnel.

"Jump jets are offline, as is the Artemis system, and you're short some ammo…," signal quality deteriorated quickly as he walked towards the light of day.

"Understood, base. Get out safely!"

"G...d hun..ng!"

He emerged from the concrete tunnel into the funnel of packed dirt holding the sides of the hill. The last shreds of the tarp meant to conceal the entry flapped in the wind above. Fires raged in the prefab village. Broken glass glittered in the sunlight. Soot covered blackened walls. Pockmarked and burning tanks stood discarded along the wide eastern slope. The dead were everywhere. Waiting for more to join them.

Chunks of ferroconcrete erupted around him as a salvo of AC rounds tore into the first prefab house he came across. Aidan's ninety-ton assault mech turned like a ballet dancer, his targeting computer picking up an enemy Dragon at around half a kilometer away. The Terran Hegemony built electronics burned through whatever ECM the other mech emitted with terrifying ease and locked on in far less time than Aidan was used to from his Grasshopper. His LRM20 launcher belched a salvo of guided missiles and he brought his M-7 Gauss rifle to bear. Anxiously he held his breath as the targeting reticles converged. His own missile warning blared angrily as the Dragon spat out ten LRMs of its own, but before they had crossed half the distance Aidan punched the firing button. Thunder cracked, but not from the weapon itself. The ferrous nickel-iron slug riding on a trail of ionized air crossed the supersonic threshold – and slammed into the Dragon before the sound even had registered in Aidan's ears.

The effect was instantaneous – and devastating. The Dragon was a heavy beast, and its torso-based LRM launcher served as an additional buffer zone for the humanoid mech's cockpit area. At least, it should have. The metal slug tore across the launcher's upper half and right through the front window, peeling the mech's head away like an overripe banana.

Aidan had no time to gawk as the dying mech's last salvo pummeled the Highlander, makeshift plating coming loose in some spots. He gritted his teeth, but the massive war machine took the hits in stride. The Dragon simply had stopped. It stood right below the ridge like a statue.
"Holy crap," the centurio muttered, "I think I'm in love."

Circumstances gave him no breathing room to venerate the ancient technical marvel he rode in as his screen lit up with red blips.
"Control, what's the situation. Augustulus, this is Watch Dog 1!"

"Watch Dog 1, Minerva is set to launch in two," Augustulus' operator's voice was tense. "Bollinger's broken orbit and we've lost contact ascent due to enemy jamming. Outer camps are gone, and we've got more than twenty-five enemy mechs converging on Ferrum."

"Negative on launch, Control. Evac still ongoing, main package en route! Maintain position and give fire support!" Aidan commanded, switching channels. "Shepherds, this is Watch Dog 1. Meet at my coordinates and protect the road from bunker to dropships! Pair up and prepare for mobile defense."

He drove the Highlander through the rubble of the settlement up the eastern slope to get a better vantage point.
"Ostroff, what's your situation?"

"We've fallen back to our second line of positions to tighten the defense," the gruff centurio's voice echoed through his speakers. "Infantry ammo's fine, but we're running short on LAWs and portable SRMs. Not sure how much good we'll do against those mechs." He sounded doubtful.

"Fall back to the LZ then and secure the loading area around Augustulus and Minerva. Your men are of no use getting trampled in the rubble, taking potshots with their rifles," Aidan made a quick decision.

"Understood, Watch Dog 1." Ostroff hesitated before adding: "What about Nguyen?"

"The Shepherds will keep the road open as long as possible," Aidan promised. "Now move out!"

"Roger, centurio. Ostroff out."

Aidan's Highlander climbed the eastern slope's ridge. Green blips moved to the section of the map that lead from he funnel-shaped cut in the nearby hill to the dropships sitting a little less than a kilometer away. His lightest unit was a relatively new Quickdraw. The heaviest mech in his arsenal, aside from the Highlander he had adopted, was an ancient Cyclops. Alphard had pulled out all the stops to give him the most firepower they could scrape together, and he was under no illusions the reason he was in command was directly related to the fact the emperor was his friend – and the highest ranking officer of the armed forces his mother. There'd been plenty of officers with more seniority, but he'd gotten the job, and he'd be damned if he didn't see it through!

The red tide advancing on him right now put that into question.
Enemy mechs poured over the next ridge, APCs and infantry in tow, registering his presence the same moment as he did theirs. He didn't wait for them to make the first move. The Highlander locked on to the next best target, a Griffin in plain white, and he punched the master firing button, unleashing a full salvo of short and long-range missiles, lasers and Gauss slugs. Immediately he put the Highlander in reverse. More peripherally than consciously he noted the mech dancing like a puppet as projectiles hammered its hull and the solid metal slug evaporated armor.

"Enemy moving in! Shepherds, get ready!" he called out over his comms. "Nguyen, right about now would be a good time!" Aidan caught the LRM launcher cycling back to green and fired again. The already battered Griffin staggered back once more as missiles tore into its torso. With a flash the shoulder-mounted missile launcher exploded, and barely a split second later a series of explosions rocked the mech, tearing it apart in a fireball.

A barrage of PPC bolts, autocannon fire and incoming missiles cut any kind of celebration on Aidan's side short. Gritting his teeth, he drove his assault mech back below the ridge as damage indicators turned to yellow and orange. "Nguyen!?"

"Working on it," Nguyen sounded as if he was speaking through gritted teeth. "I'm sending my people out with the trucks, I can do this with a rump crew. A few minutes," he promised.

Up above, Augustulus opened fired over the ridge, LRMs and PPC bolts raining down on the attacking force. They responded in kind.
"We don't have minutes!"
The Highlander stopped between the wreckage of two two-story prefab houses, towering above them. "Everybody get ready. Here they come!"

They did. Like a tsunami the enemy force rolled over the hilltop. Aidan's Shepherd team were the first to fire, throwing out a ten mech alpha strike that hit the first wave like a truck. Shielding his lower torso and legs against the enemy, he himself opened fire as well, spreading his weapons across the whole advancing front. SRMs exploded between soldiers. Medium lasers bore into APCs. His LRMs took a fancy to Marauder. The Gauss gun hiss death at a mech his battle computer identified as an Excalibur, blowing its right arm cleanly off. Across the front pristine white mechs took damage and people died.

The counterstrike followed immediately. While the first line still struggled under the Marian onslaught the enemy's second line rolled over the hill top. The enemy mechs wasted no time and started firing with brutal efficiency. Their battered comrades joined in almost immediately.

Being on the move was what took the sharpest edge off the blow. Aidan's men were experienced veterans and knew their machines well. Paired up and mobile, a lot of the incoming fire missed outright or was caught in a way that one covered the other's vulnerable spots. Still, none walked out of that first response unscathed.

Like Tango dancers, the Marian mechs swerved across the valley floor, keeping away from the road in their center. Where the attackers fire was heavy, but individual, Aidan's people concentrated theirs. The Marauder was a tough cat, but in the combined crosshairs of a Thunderbolt and a Grasshopper it staggered. The Cyclops and Quickdraw paired up against the Excalibur. Others followed suit.

In theory the idea was good. Practically, the white mechs teamed up as well. Not only were their ECM quickly proving to be a problem. Some of the mechs also somehow began shooting down the Marian missiles!

"Coming through!" Nguyen barked, and the flatbed trucks shot out of the hillside.

The Shepherds shifted, no longer just concerned with putting as much hurt on the enemy, but now dedicated to offering themselves up as more promising targets than the unarmed trucks and the passengers clinging to their backs and side.

Autocannon rounds exploded all around them. Lasers lashed out, and the staccato of machine guns. In a day that was going to hell in a handbasket Aidan witnessed a miracle as none of the trucks driving along the rubble-strewn road took any serious hits.

His own men were less lucky. The Quickdraw took a quick succession of laser and PPC hits. The Cyclops lost an arm all the while his AC/20 shredded an enemy medium mech. His centuria's Catapult jogged across the battlefield, lasers blazing and missiles streaking from its pods when it was hit by a combined AC barrage coming from three directions. The massive war machine crumpled like a tin can before its internal ammo stores exploded in a violent stream of fire.

"Nguyen!"

A long, deep metallic moan echoing through the valley basin was his answer. The ground rumbled even over the sounds of battle, and tons of earth and rock slid off the hill as some five hundred meters behind the bunker entrance an armored cupola pushed itself through the top layers of soil.

With the sound of metal grinding on stone a massive LRM launcher emerged from the cupola's top, flanked by pair of guns. The missile flaps opened and a seemingly endless stream of projectiles speared into the sky on white exhaust trails. Barreling through the ruins of the base camp, Aidan fired his Gauss rifle again, coring an already burning Flashman while SRMs belched from his launcher into the legs of a Kintaro and between a group of enemy soldiers. His eyes followed the bunker's missile salvo, wondering what mech Ngyuen had targeted. He frowned before bringing his medium lasers up to keep the heat buildup in check, focusing his targeting sensors on the Kintaro. He was about to fire when the missiles landed like pearls on a string in a line cutting across the whole enemy front.

Rather than listlessly spraying the mixed Patty-merc force with debris and shrapnel gleaming hot white fireballs erupted as burning gel popped all over the dry brushland. A wall of fire cut the attacker's force in two. Both Aidan and the enemy Kintaro pilot paused a second, stunned. Despite the distance the Marian centurio thought he could feel the fire's heat penetrate his cockpit. Or maybe that was just his mind's way of distracting himself form the dancing little torches all along the slope?

Whoever commanded the white mechs reacted immediately this time. The enemy's right flank broke off the assault on Aidan's position and turned towards the bastion as one, opening fire in a split second.
In his own fight, Aidan's enemy found his bearing first. One medium laser missed, the other burned across the Highlander's chest, but it was the Kintaro's dual SRM-6 launchers that dialed the assault mech's armor readings into the deep red in far too many places for comfort.

Aidan returned the favor, swerving left as good as possible in a twelve meter, ninety ton war machine as his freshly cycled launcher spat SRMs, leaving the medium mech's right arm limp. His own two lasers burned deep scars across the merc's hips, but the Gauss slug went awry, bursting through half a dozen prefabs, bringing his ammo down to half.

"Keep it up, people!" Aidan commanded. "Every gun on those bastards as long as the fire's keeping them apart." He grunted as the Kintaro opened fire again, twisting the Highlander's torso to dip out of the missile barrage's way almost completely. "Augustulus, what's Minerva's state!?"

"Watch Dog, loading is halfway done," control responded urgently, alarms blaring in the background. "Where starting to take damage!" Augustulus warned, fittingly as PPC bolts and laser zapped over the wall of fire, over the Shepherds' heads and into the landed dropships. "Be advised we have the rest of the enemy force advancing on Ferrum from the outer camps. Encirclement is a matter of minutes, Watch Dog. We can't stay much longer!"

Rather than changing the firing position Aidan kept his forward momentum and covered the few dozen meters between the Kintaro and his SLDF mech in a few seconds. "Roger, Control!" The merc fired his lasers again, and the Highlander soaked the damage up. But his SRM launchers had not yet reloaded again. "Nguyen! Can you set the turret to auto fire? Demo team?! Everybody in the bunker, get back to the LZ, now!" The assault mech raised its right arm. It looked as if the white mech realized in the last second what was going on and tried to backpedal, but it was too late.

"Just a few more cables," a terse Mitch muttered quickly before his channel fell silent again.

Throwing a massive right hook Aidan smashed the Kintaro's helmet-like cockpit in.

The young centurio took a second to evaluate the battlefield. All around him mechs were fighting, dying. For the moment, his remaining mechs held numerical superiority on this side of the wall of fire, but the burning, clinging gel would stop the enemy only so long, and fire did nothing to stop the mercs from using their long range weapons against his men and machines.

His radio screeched.
"…aking too mu… fire! …ret jammed!" Nguyen's voice was barely audible through static and explosions.

Almost a dozen enemy mechs and tanks that had shifted to the threat of the bunker's active defenses raced towards Nguyen's position, all weapons firing into the thick steel cupola and the embrasures and gun port. One of the guns attached to the large topside launcher shattered into a thousand pieces as AC rounds tore into it. The weapons' mount shuddered, squealed – but did not move to target its assailants. Flashes and explosions illuminated the others side of the cupola as well, and the announced enemy reinforcements appeared as distant blips on his sensors, showering the SLDF defenses with long range fire.

"Nguyen, do you read? Nguyen!?"
Aidan pushed the wrecked Kintaro over and targeted the first best mech firing at the bunker. Twenty guided missiles and a metal slug struck true, butchering the thin back armor of a Marauder, with the Gauss projectile breaching the front canopy.

Flames poured from the bunker's embrasures, so white and hot that they almost appeared liquid. Deep inside Aidan knew that getting Nguyen and the rest of his men out was a forlorn hope, but he still tried to raise him again. The channel remained silent.

The enemy did not. Turning, the detached flank now concentrated back on the Shepherds, and now their friends joined the fray as fresh pristine white mechs appeared in pair or triplets all along the horizon. Among the second line of attackers a gap appeared and an Atlas rumbled through the still burning wall of flames, ignoring the searing gel. With the breach made, others followed suit, set to join again with the rest of their comrades, momentarily turning into a solid wall of white steel.

"Shepherds, keep the entryway open at all costs!" Aidan moved his Highlander towards the deep cut leading inside the ancient Castle Brian complex, and the remaining Marian mechs joined in.

"Demo team! Mitch! They're pushing towards the bunker. Out now, and blow the damn thing!"
He fired his Gauss gun another time, dropping the ammo count to three. An Orion caught the slug dead center but kept coming.

Scarred, the heavy mech returned the favor by firing its AC/10 and LRMs, turning the Highlander's armor readings all across the torso to a purple. Metal moaned and myomers snapped as the impact of weapons' fire cut the assault mech's left arm off right below the shoulder. Zeroing in on the Hegemony force, the merc mechs opened fire, almost as one.

Two Shepherds went down in flames, bringing his numbers down to six mechs plus his own.

"Watch Dog 1, Minerva is loaded and preparing launch. Return to LZ immediately! I'm firing up the drives," Control snapped.

With a feeling of all-encompassing dread Aidan saw the enemy lead lance form a wedge and run towards the excavated entry of RICHELIEU, their comrades providing them with ample covering fire. He glanced at his displays and at his remaining comrades. Taking a deep breath, he put the Highlander in reverse and started pouring as much fire into the enemy as his heat sinks could tank.
"Shepherds, evac immediately. Cover each other!" he flipped channels, defeated. "Mitch, they're at the entrance. Will be inside any moment now. We're getting slaughtered here. Can't hold them. I'm sorry!"

There was a long pause before the demo specialist replied. When he did his voice sounded just as numb as Aidan's.

"Got it, centurio. Wish I could say it's been a pleasure. Get our people home safely." He sighed. "Hope it all was worth it." The line fell silent.
Falling back under the merc onslaught, Aidan watched his numbers shrink further as one of his Thunderbolts' legs gave in, sending the allrounder mech tumbling down. The pilot punched out in the last second, but landed in the middle of pandemonium and was quickly swallowed by fire and chaos.

The five hundred meters to the ship felt like an eternity. As the distance shrunk, more enemy mechs poured into the causeway down to the bunker. Limping, burning, bereft of limbs and attached weapons the Shepherds hurried into Augustulus' mech bays. Aidan stepped onto the ramp, the Highlander's torso twisted to provide the illusion of protection.

Suddenly, distorted and weak, Mitch's voice broke through the overall radio static.
"Better with a bang than a wimper, eh? Fuck you, assholes!"

The earth heaved. And again. And again.
A series of thunderclaps roared out of RICHELIEU's main tunnel, then dust and debris gushed out in a gray geyser.

As the loading ramp rose in front of Aidan he saw, almost like in slow motion, as part of the hill gave him, collapsing on itself. Rushing into a cubicle, Augustulus' systems secured his mech alongside what remained of the Shepherds, and almost instantly heavy G-forces pushed his body down as the Union-class' fusion engine jumped into action. The explosive force of the engines created a pulsing, rhythmic cadence that pounded through the dropship like the beat of a pounding heart. Against its own engine the impacts of enemy fire against the hull was barely audible. The force of the launch pushed Aidan into his cockpit seat like a great hand, squeezing his whole body as the dropship struggled to gain height and speed.

Alone and cut off, Aidan Volkov's thoughts fell back to what he had left behind, and at the catastrophe that had unfolded right around him. Nguyen dead. Mitch. Kat. Half the Shepherds. The voyage home would be long and dour.

He did not need to be a soothsayer to know his old friend's reaction upon receiving the news.
The Emperor would not be pleased.


Mount Caelus
Nova Roma, Alphard
Marian Hegemony
April 19th, 3010
A storm front pushed dark gray clouds into the bay and over Nova Roma. The rain was still a thin drizzle, cold humidity that crept through clothes and windows alike. The weather was a perfect mirror of the mood inside the small council.

"You shouldn't have lied to me, brother." Sylvana paced across the room, her auburn hair gathered in a tight bun, wearing a thin business suit in several shades of green.

"I guess I'm lucky I confided in you eventually then," Marius rumbled, his youthful face frowning as he absentmindedly swirled a double bourbon in a thick tumbler.

"I'm your sister, Marius. If you can't be honest with me, who else can you be it with?" she snapped back at him. "I would've advised against this whole spiel from the very start! Maybe you're not all that suited for being more than a school teacher!" she rounded on Posca. "Great job at being imperial advisor!"

"Let it be, Syv," Marius took a deep sip of whiskey. "Posca's not to blame. I got the information. The whole thing was my idea." He placed the tumbler on the table and straightened. "I made the decision."

She stared back at him for a moment before she sighed and shook her head, her shoulders slumping. "Whatever. You're the emperor. Just don't drag me into something if you're not willing to clue me in. Not ever again, brother!" She turned half to face the rest of the council. "Well, it seems I now can add 'how to write off a company' to my corporate resume," she added tartly.

Marius smiled sympathetically. "How bad is it?"

"It's more an annoyance than a catastrophe for me," she shook her head, causing her bun to wobble around. "The monetary and material losses for the company are probably a decimal in our balance sheet. Most operations haven't progressed far enough to demand massive equipment investments and transport costs. We can cleanly write off IPM. I'm not the one I'm worried about, brother."

"You're worried about the political fallout?" he raised an eyebrow.

"Well, obviously. You've ben working hard to get your ideas and laws through the Senate. Getting chased off Illyria will make you look weak," she explained.

Under the table, Marius balled his fists. He'd barely looked at this angle since the news of their rout had broken in the palace. Once again, he found himself face to face with the strange staccato of highs and lows that an active part in shaping once fate brought with it. Just the other day he had been leading the groundbreaking ceremony for the Alphard Aerospace Academy, the naval pendant to the Imperial War College that was currently already under construction.

"Not necessarily. We could make it look like the culmination of a clever plan and show all the lostech we gained," Corvinus suggested.

"Absolutely not!" Marius shot the proposal down, sounding harsher than he had intended. "We will keep our findings as much under wraps as possible. Something always slips through the cracks, but the less people know about what we've got, the better for all. There's enough people out there who would try to get their hands on it, and go over our collective corpses to get there."

"Maybe we need just the opposite of the magister militum's idea?" Victor Blackwood spoke up for the first time. "Just tell the people the truth. Minus the lostech angle. Repeat how we went to Illyria with open arms. Brought trade and investments. Only to be backstabbed by those honorless Viking descended yokels. No good deed remains unpunished and all that."

"That could work," Posca nodded, giving Marius an encouraging smile.

"Thank you," Blackwood presented the thinnest of smiles himself. "Prepare a speech to the nation. Condemn Illyrian aggression. Doesn't matter if it's just half the truth. Domestically, we control the flow of information, so all you've got to do is stay ahead of the news curve."

General Volkova cleared her throat. "Regardless of how we spin it: we cannot let this stand, sir. The people will want blood. And I know for a fact that the legion will want a chance at payback."

Marius turned away and rose, walking over to the star map that covered almost all of the chamber's northern wall. He knew Alina was right. Appearing weak was the greatest mistake a leader in his position could make. A few years down the road he probably could have shrugged it off, especially with all the turmoil the near future was about to unleash. But right now, he needed to be the strong brute, inside and outside the Hegemony's borders.

He looked at the four mosaic stars representing the worlds of the Palatinate and made up his mind.
"How long will it take to mobilize our forces, General? When can you punish the Illyrians?"


SLDF Castle 401-L RICHELIEU
Constructed in the early days of 2766 C.E. by the SLDF corps of engineers RICHELIEU was one of a number of fortifications specifically set up outside both the Successor States and the Periphery nations. Distant enough from the front lines as to not invite enemy attacks and still close enough to serve the juggernaut of the Star League Defense Force, RICHELIEU and its brethren were smaller in size than the standard Castles Brian of the Inner Sphere, but larger than the Outpost Castles found throughout the Periphery. Meant not primarily as garrisons – even though the complexes provided ample room for large detachments of troops to be housed and supplied near permanently – but as logistics hubs for the front lines, the average Castle 'L' consisted of four to eight underground levels of warehouses, machine shops, garages and large repair facilities for most military vehicles smaller than dropships. Castles 'L' would provide medical facilities advanced enough to care for wounded that could not be properly nurtured or saved in field hospitals, and their repair facilities could return machines back to service that field repairs would have seen scrapped and butchered for parts. By storing replacements for all branches of the SLDF the Castles 'L' kept supply lines short, especially for larger gear like naval parts that otherwise would have been needed to be brought in from great distances, often from Hegemony worlds. RICHELIEU was one of only three Castles 'L' to be finished and put into service, and the garrison saw most traffic when General Kerensky moved the SLDF against the Rim Worlds Republic and during the preparation phase for the drive towards Terra.

While nominal operations and refilling of the dwindling stocks were attempted in the years following the end of the Amaris Civil War, the garrison eventually saw the writings on wall as the Inner Sphere slipped closer to all out war. When General Kerensky revealed his plans for Operation EXODUS, most of the base personnel chose to follow him and their SLDF comrades. The last commanding officer oversaw the efforts to conceal the installation and its defensive bunkers and load as much of the present supplies to their dropships. Parts of the installation holding gear deemed to dangerous were sealed off by controlled detonations and partial flooding, while vital parts of RICHELIEU were rigged to blow in case unauthorized parties attempted to access them.

It is not known whether the garrison managed to link up with Kerensky's EXODUS in time and what became of them or their families.
Coming up next: Pride and Punishment / Ma Belle's Long Reach

 

[Culsu]

C h a p t e r 0 7: Politics by Other Means
​

Nova Roma, Alphard
Marian Hegemony
May 2nd, 3010
"Well, that scheme went tits up faster than a dead hooker in the Perfumed Alleys!"
Never one to mince words Marcos Kimura shot an accusatory glare to the young emperor as he paced through the Chamber of Whispers.

"As always, your eloquence is unrivalled," Olivia Palek rolled her eyes and sighed. "But unfortunately, for once I have to agree with my esteemed colleague." She shook her head. "The first grand diplomatic overture of the Hegemony, and barely half a year's past before it all went up in flames."

"Screw diplomacy!" Kimura growled. "They've killed our people, stole our property, and chased us off planet. And we don't know how many they're holding hostage, given we didn't manage to evacuate two of the four planets."

"Maybe so," Malik Al-Amin scratched his beard. "What are the losses for the treasury? Did your sister have the numbers, your majesty?"

"All things combined, we're looking at around thirty million C-bills, give or take. It's basically a rounding error for Alphard Trading, and the loss in military equipment isn't so much the monetary cost but who and what we lost." Marius shook his head, speaking through clenched teeth. "Heavy and assault mechs are hard to come by outside the successor states, and losing experienced mechwarriors is never easy." He stopped behind a chair and gripped the backrest, forcing himself to exhale. "In the grand scheme of things, my sister and the board are convinced this won't have any serious economic repercussions, though. We'd do well to remind ourselves that this was never about getting access to Palatinate mineral resources. Whatever they might have, we can get the same easier on our own worlds."

"Then what was the whole point of this exercise, if not to get their resources?!" Kimura exclaimed, equally puzzled and frustrated.

"Tsk, tsk. It really shows that your wife is the one running your businesses, Marcos. Getting the Illyrians themselves was the point." Olivia threw her long braid over her shoulders and looked at him, an eyebrow raised in skeptical evaluation of the man. "A couple hundred million people are a sizeable market, and since we have a hundred times their industry their mere existence would have made them a consumer market ripe for our corporations to conquer. That's what made the deal so valuable in the first place, didn't it?" she looked at Marius.

"A good marriage means partners concentrate on what they're skilled at. It's called division of labor, Senator Patel!" Kimura snapped back before Marius could answer.

The Emperor ran a hand through his auburn hair and turned to stare out of the windows onto the plaza deep down below, hoping his face did not slip. A good marriage, right. He swallowed what he had wanted to say and concentrated on the senator from Addhara. "You're right, Lady Patel," was all he said. That, and the access to a vast underground SLDF base full of lostech.

"Then it's a shame this will no longer happen," Al-Amin leaned back in his chair, folding his hands. "The Illyrian shortage of jumpships means we would have dominated every aspect of that trade, from start to finish. By undercutting their own trade families through sheer volume, I think our cartels could have fully controlled their economy in fifteen, twenty years. A shame. Truly, a damn shame," he sighed.

"Screw your trade routes and balance sheets!" Kimura rumbled. "This is attack against the Hegemony, against all of us. It's an attack against the Emperor, too!" he focused on Marius. "What are we going to do about it? What will you do about it!?"

"Maybe the best thing to do would be not to further escalate the situation?" Isabella Osei's bright soprano suggested. The petite woman drew back when all eyes in the room centered on her, then stiffened. "What good will shedding more blood do now?"

"You can't be serious!?" Kimura erupted from his chair. "I knew you and your friends were too soft on almost ever issue, but this? You'll let this affront slide!? Are you a coward, or are you a Marian noblewoman!?"

"I am not a coward!" she shot back with surprising fortitude. "My family set foot on this planet five years before yours ever saw the sun rise over Alphard, and I will not-!"

"Bella!" Olivia's voice was not loud, but it cut like a knife nonetheless. Osei's mouth snapped shut. "You know I rarely agree with Senator Kimura's usually outdated point of view," she shot the man an imploring glance. Just this once Kimura was wise enough to keep his mouth shut. "But he is right. We cannot let this slide. It was an attack, and an attack calls for a reaction. People got killed. Patricians, pleb soldiers, civilians. The streets want us to take action. They want vengeance."

"As they should!" Kimura growled, but left it at that.

"War is good for business," Al-Amin declared, then briefly flashed a smile before turning somber again. "But peace also is good for business. There's also the issue to act now, before public sentiment turns into a frenzy. The attacks on our holdings have been on the forefront of every outlet 24/7 for the past weeks. We'd do well to take the reins into our hands before it all boils over."

"Then give them an outlet! Let's mobilize the legions and go to war! Illyria is just four planets, and not even one tenth of our population between them! You're the emperor, right? Then let's become an empire!" Marcos Kimura sat down again and looked at Marius expectantly.

"No, senator." Marius' face was composed and unreadable as he turned his attention away from the window and back towards the members of the Chamber of Whispers. "We won't. But we won't let this stand unanswered either!" He opened his arms in a wide gesture. "We don't have the strength to conquer the Palatinate. Not yet. Conquest is a pipe-dream, senator. We don't have the troops for a prolonged campaign, let alone an occupation of their worlds. If we tried we'd get bogged down, and it'd eat through the Hegemony's budget like famished mice through a grain silo." He looked at the others. "But we will hit the Patties, and hard. We must, in fact. The universe is an ocean, amici, and it is full of sharks. And often just the appearance of weakness is enough to draw predators."

"If I may?" a voice from the back spoke up, and Posca stepped into the circle, his simple tunic contrasting starkly with the elaborate and luxurious clothes of the gathered leaders of the Senate. "There is also the issue of lashing out too strongly. If you look like a rabid dog, sooner or later the huntsman will come and put you down." He tapped a button and a hologram of the nearby periphery sprung to life, centering on the four worlds of the Palatinate. "Up until now, the Free Worlds League has been the premier trading partner of the Illyrians. The Hegemony would do wise to tread lightly around Janos Marik's backyard. The Captain-General is not a man to be trifled with."

"What do you suggest then?" Marius motioned him to continue, hiding a sly smile. They had rehearsed Posca's objection.

"Moderation, dominus. Moderation is what I suggest. Be hard, but not harsh. No atrocities, no mass enslavement, no abductions. Clean strikes to emphasize that the Marian Hegemony can not be just walked over." He crossed his arms behind his back. "Act in a way a successor state understands. A… military reprisal."

"That sounds just like a convoluted way to expend lots of energy for very little direct gain. Reparations in the form of slaves and goods are the least would should demand after we've slapped those buggers around," Kimura protested.

"A very Marian way to approach the issue, senator," Posca shook his head, his voice taking on a tone Marius remembered very well from lessons where the older slave had been less than impressed by a pupil's performance. "But the League, directly neighboring the Palatinate and having strict laws against the enslavement of man, might see things very differently. While my personal position makes me less than objective in this question I dare say an intervention by Atreus is not something this chamber wants, is it?"

"He's right, Kimura," Marius quietly blocked the traditionalist senator's reply. "The last thing we want is to risk five regiments of the Marik Militia jumping the border to teach us a lesson we won't recover from. Janos Marik can squash us like a bug right now, even with the Lyrans and Capellans breathing down his neck. No amount of beating our chests," he had wanted to say 'his' chest, but decided for a more conciliatory tone in the last second, "will do us any good in that case."

The leader of the traditionalists crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. "Then what!?" he harrumphed.

"For the past ninety years we've been raiders," Marius' mouth opened in a shark-like grin. "So, I suggest we raid." He pushed a few buttons and the view in the holo emitter changed. "We will use the bulk of our forces, new formations included. It's the only way we can hit four worlds simultaneously with a comfortable margin of local superiority. We go in, destroy whatever forces they manage to throw our way, lay waste to their military and critical civilian infrastructure. Seven days on planet, then we take off again, regardless of the state of the objectives. It'll be a clean strike, not slaving, no looting, to keep foreign annoyance to a minimum. Only battlefield salvage, and Illyrians military supplies if we should get our hands on them." Marius drummed his fingers on the rimmed backrest of his own high-backed chair. "I'll even extend an olive branch in advance," he nodded towards Isabella Osei. Keeping each faction of the Senate at least somewhat happy with how he approached matters had the advantage of making fewer of his nights sleepless. "If they return our people and pay reparations we will consider the matter settled. Will they accept that? Eh, I doubt it," he shrugged. Having chased the Marians off planet with the help of benefactors, the Palatinate would have few incentives to play ball. "But nobody can claim we didn't try to solve this peacefully then. I'll have our terms transmitted via Comstar, couched in the most conciliatory way."

"They'll know we are coming," Olivia Patel added quietly for consideration. "They'll be ready. And then, what after?"


The Perfumed Alleys
Nova Roma, Alphard
Marian Hegemony
May 2nd, 3010
Nestled between the shadows of Nova Roma's downtown skyscrapers and the countless square kilometers covering the planetary capital's seaport, the Perfumed Alleys were a labyrinthine maze of thoroughfares congested by pedestrians, narrow side streets with upper floors leaning in so much it made them look more like tunnels, scores of seedy bars frequented by customers of dubious repute, and countless street vendors and small shops offering everything available under the sun, legal or illegal.

It was the place to go to if you were looking for goons for hire, where legitimate mercenaries offered their services. More so, far from the shadow of Mount Caelius the most infamous of the pirate bands and clans operating from the relative safety and under the patronage of the Hegemony called it their preferred port of call. The law treaded lightly here, if it trod there at all. Alleymen liked to handle things on their own, and the thirteen pirate captains effectively in charge of the district knew all too well how to keep their miscreants in line. For the Perfumed Alleys only worked if ordinary folk and their belongings were left unmolested. Rumor had it that those who fell ill of the unwritten rules of the place often could expect a fate worse than what official Marian prosecution, harsh as that was, had in in store.

Generations of emperors had looked the other way, content that the arrangement worked in everyone's favor. Changing the status quo was not on Marius schedule. He bore no great love for pirates, simply because their very being eluded his control. But for now, the Alleys suited him just the way they were.

Crowded, loud and full of foreign tongues, the district was a nightmare for his security detail. He had only been here once before, on a dare, as a teenage boy. Today he towered above most the others in the crowd, just a few inches short of two meters.

Taller, broader, and determined he walked, and the crowd parted right in front of him like on instinct. People here were used to the streams of men and women, flowing with them as naturally as leaves on a river.

He turned a corner into one of the broader alleys. The stench of people hit him, more raw than the extravagant mixture of smells that the streets had carried so far. You could get everything in the Alleys, as alleymen never ceased to proclaim with stubborn pride. Spices. Fragrances. Drugs. Food. Producing all the scents one could imagine.
It was also the nation's second largest slave market, dwarfed only by the Flesh Gardens on Suetonius. Here the air smelled of old sweat and new, or fear, of desperation. People abducted on raids from all over the periphery lingered in pens and cages, empty eyed, often bruised, with slave merchants greedily dividing their claims against each other with wires and fences and armed guards. Most at least had the good sense to span sun sails over their goods display. Hundreds of merchants sold and bought thousands of slaves each day in the Alleys.

It wasn't just for new slaves either. The Alleys were the terminal for all large-scale trade in the business on Alphard, and with some of the larger corporations taking a hint and switching over to higher degrees of mechanization and specialized pleb labor, those pens rarely staid empty.

Marius wrinkled his nose beneath the veil of the thobe he wore to cloak himself. The vest and kevlar meshes he wore beneath made him feel even bulkier than he naturally looked. His ear piece cackled.

"That place does bring up unpleasant memories." Posca's voice was husky as he spoke through a larynx microphone, bypassing the all encompassing noise of the alleys.

"Just stay close to me," Marius responded in kind. He felt a pang of remorse, having dragged his mentor along without remembering the ultimate cause of his presence in his life. He could have left it at that, but that tiny feeling in his stomach gave him pause. "I'm sorry, Posca. We'll get this done as fast as can be, and then we'll be gone again."

There was a long pause. He could feel the slave's eyes on his back, weighing his possible next words. But Posca only took a deep breath. "There surely are easier ways to get to the Chalice than this, dominus."

"Probably a dozen or more," Marius conceded, pushing past a smalltime peddler pulling a cart. From the corner of his eye he saw his two bodyguards shift around it as well. "Sure, I could've taken an aircar, but I wasn't keen to announced my visit to the world. Besides, seeing it all from down here? I think it helps me get a measure of the place and people, Posca. It's long past time that I met the Thirteen face to face," he concluded.

"I can think of a handful of ways that did not include, well, this!" Posca sounded as close to angry as he had long since heard him.

"I'm stuck with palace courtiers and senators, Posca. I don't get many chances to directly mingle with the people I actually rule, see how they spend their days, listen in to what they're talking about," he rebuffed him mildly.

Overlooking the southernmost point of the Perfumed Alleys, the headquarters of the Crimson Chalice was a conglomerate of whitewashed houses and mosaic covered domes that had grown and changed like a metastatic cancer since the days the first building had been raised. The brotherhood of the region's most fearsome – and powerful – pirate bands drew its menacing name from the most mundane of sources: the bar the first pirates had called their favorite spot. During the following decades, those pirates had changed, their power had grown, and the rooms around the original tavern had grown exponentially, turning into an assortment of warehouses, whorehouses, gambling spots, slave pens and barracks. Thirteen small villages in one intermingled locale.

The place's courtyard was like an invisible breakwater, though garish neon signs beckoned passers-by to seek pleasure and relaxation inside. Bouncers as tall as Marius, their faces brutish and pockmarked from years on the job, lingered around the high entry to the complex' interior. Sizing him up and judging him worthy, they stepped aside and let him and his entourage in.

Inside, the Crimson Chalice was one winding pleasure circus, a bar mixed with dance club, a brothel and a drug den. Marius had heard rumors of the kind of orgies some of his fellow patricians partook in, and if there was one thing he certainly was not it was a sexual prude. But the open debauchery on display here was something else.

Music thundered on half a dozen dance floors. Naked bodies danced, or had sex, or did both at the same time. The air was heavy with the scent of drugs and sweat, with the acrid smell of puke piercing through here and there. Raucous laughter and high-pitched moans drowned out what few conversations he caught as he made his way deeper into the Chalice.

An utterly beautiful woman caught his eyes, her face weirdly familiar, framed in black locks and golden jewelry she lolled around on a large wooden table, her breasts bare and the rest barely covered by sinfully expensive see-through black silks. Hands were groping her. Her legs were spread apart, and she drew smoke from a hookah with an enraptured smile on her face, her eyes closed.

With some effort he pried his eyes off her. The patrons ignored them as they passed by, with barely clothed slaves rushing to and fro with trays full of food and drinks. Others dangled from chains on some kind of rails, moving to the sounds of the hammering beats of the music.

Marius kept his veil up, hoping to filter out the worst of the smells and drug fumes of the place until he and his companions arrived at the gate to the pirate palace's inner sanctum. A couple of guards lingered around, half empty bottles lying around next to them. One was smoking something that definitely did not smell like ordinary tobacco.

"Whatchu want, eh?!" one bellowed, stepping into their way. Even five feet away his breath smelled awful through Marius' veil.

"Here to see the Thirteen, on official business," Marius replied, each syllable clipped and sharply pronounced to pierce the overall acoustic haze.

"That so, eh? Who might ye be then? Better check our schedule!" the guard glanced over his shoulder at the others and laughed. "Oh look, we don't have one!"

"I'm Marius O'Reilly," the young Marian leader announced, trying to keep his annoyance in check.

"Riiight," the pirate stepped closer, trying to face Marius which, given his height, was rather a challenge. "We've got a joker 'ere. Any relation to the Emperor, or do I we get to carry your sorry arses out of here in a pair of buckets for wasting our time?!" That got the other two bouncers' attention and they straightened. Marius' guards did the same, but less obviously so.
Despite the smell of rotting teeth and weeks' worth of not brushing them hitting him in the face, Marius remained unmoved. Calmly, slowly he took off his veil and thobe, looking the pirate in the eye. "A very close relation to the man, I'd say," he almost whispered.

As intoxicated as the man was, Marius' face was probably the most well known in a radius of thirty parsecs. He could see the wide grin slip off the other man's face, and the color followed suit. In a way it was quite fascinating to witness just how pale a man of the complexion of Kyalla Centrella could get. Marius tilted his head, barely raising his voice.
"I suggest you usher us in now. Would be a shame if that bucket you mentioned ended up carrying what's left of your ass when the Thirteen realize your little fuckup, don't you think?"

The fellow mumbled something, looking away before he spun on his heel. "Let them through, you two witless asscracks!" He even managed a small bow as he stepped aside to let Marius through.

Compared to the cacophony of debauchery outside, the inner sanctum of the Crimson Chalice was almost serene. Wide sandstone arches held a balcony over an oval room whose floor was covered in intricate mosaics worthy of a royal palace. Unlike the mythological or pseudo-historical touch most patricians preferred for the mansions, these here showed jumpships in space, battlemechs in combat, and planetary vistas. Lounge chairs and benches stood in alcoves all along the walls, and warm sunlight fell through a colored glass dome a few floors above. Almost as black as marble, a large and polished hardwood table dominated the room, echoing its oval form. Noteputers, papers, used kitchenware and glasses and bottles in various stages of emptiness lay scattered all across it. A bright holographic map of the nearby periphery hung suspended in the air right at its center. It was quieter here, and even the air smelled less oppressive. The main pirate bands held sort of a wary truce between them to make the best out of their business. But that did not mean they trusted one another.

He counted seven of the thirteen pirates that formed the conclave. It was almost unheard of that all thirteen were in port together.

"Under what rock did you climb out from?!" Leo 'Blaze' Mercer was the first to notice him. Four hundred pounds of meat and muscle hid beneath countless layers of fat jumped to their feet and waltzed over to him.

Showtime.
"Mount Caelius. You know, big hill, other side of the bay, with my palace on top? What tub of lard did you glide out from?"
Consciously ignoring the rolling tank, Marius put a finger to his lips and made a shushing sound, producing a small black rectangle rotating on a flat round foundation. He placed it on the table, and a high-pitched whine erupted from it, just at the edge of human hearing. "Now we can talk undisturbed."

The large man stopped, blinked, feeling the eyes of his comrades on his back – and barked a laugh. "Your majesty? You're lucky I recognized that mug. People who talk like that to me usually lose their tongues." He snorted. "Hah, gotta leave you that, you've got balls!"

"And I can even still see them," Marius replied flatly, then produced a smile as the others fell into raucous laughter at Mercer's expense. At least he had their attention. Leaving the man standing behind him, Marius picked a reasonably clean glass and poured himself some wine. "So, seven out of thirteen. The best of the thirteen, I'm sure you will claim," his smile broadened, faking joviality. "Maya 'Cutter' Khan. Blue Bonnet of the Grim Banshees. 'Blaze' Mercer. Captain Chen of Chen's Cavaliers. 'Storm' O'Connor. Lady Ramirez, of the Bonecutters. Jason Fletcher." He raised the glass to every one of them. "Greetings, to all of you."

Hands scrambled for glasses to return the toast. If there was one thing most pirates needed little encouragement for it was drinking, Marius thought. Some clichés were true.

"To what do we owe the honor?" Jackson Fletcher was the first to speak. 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.

Marius glanced at the slaves waiting silently in the alcoves. "Tell your property to get out. What I've got to say is for your ears only."

"You heard the man," Mercer harrumphed from behind. "Out now! All of you!"

The speed with which the slaves left told Marius enough about how they were usually treated if they did not obey to their masters' wishes and demands. He glanced back at Posca, but kept his smile.

"We're alone, your majesty," Fletcher announced. "Why are you here?"

"Simple." Marius put his glass down again. "You, and all the smaller bands operating under your patronage, have brought immeasurable treasures to this nation. Now, national policy has demanded that I put brakes on one of your most lucrative branches of business. So, consider this my olive branch, for your recent troubles. I'm here with an offer to… redress your projected losses."

"I'm probably the youngest member of this group, but one thing I've learned is that nothing in life comes free," Blue Bonnet whipped his dreadlocks back over his shoulders and focused his piercing eyes on Marius. "So, where's the catch… your majesty?"

"No catch, really. But you're right. This isn't just about you. It's not. The Illyrians shot up our people and made me look a fool for trying to do business with them. I want to hurt them, and you're going to help me do that."

"And why should we do that?" Mercer slowly walked back to his chair. "What's in it for us?"

"Why? Because I want to send a message to everybody out there looking to double cross us to think long and hard." Marius paused. "But that's neither here nor there, as far as you are concerned. What I'll do is that: I'm going to hand you the Palatinate's planets on a silver platter. The Legion's going in, and soon. We're going to smash their infrastructure, take their guns, steal their ships. Enact some payback. With the Patty defenders occupied with us that leaves you to reave at your black hearts' desires. I want you to indulge your vices, ladies and gentlemen. Rob those planets dry. I'll even let you in on a well-kept secret." He leaned down onto the table, facing the seven. "We dug up a lostech bunker on Illyria – and I'll tell you where," he smiled mischievously as all of them leaned in. "Now, let's talk details…"

An hour later they were on their way back from the Perfumed Alleys.
"That whole place, these people… They do make my skin crawl," Posca lamented when they slipped into a nondescript car at the edge of the district. The driver immediately drove off with them.
Marius placed the small device back from the Thirteen's inner sanctum between them and activated it again. It did not hurt to better be safe than sorry. With an ultrasonic whine the small machine sprang into action, and Marius had to correct himself: it did not hurt much.

"You held out fine, old friend." Marius wiped the sweat from his face. "But yes, I don't think I'll consider the Thirteen my trusted friends anytime soon."

Posca pointed at the device. "A present from Blackwood?"

Marius shrugged. "Supposedly it scrambles all sorts of electronic surveillance attempts. Capellan made, easily a generation ahead of everything we could domestically produce at the moment. I don't know how he got his hands on it, and I didn't ask."

Posca pondered the answer for a moment. "Do you trust him, dominus?"

Marius leaned back into the cushioned seats and closed his eyes. "Of course not. Maybe ten years down the road, when he's done everything in his power to protect the Hegemony, I'll extend my hand to fully embrace him. You can't really trust people who do what they do only because the alternative would be a far worse scenario." He sighed. "We were right to appeal to his ego, and he's the best choice for the task at hand. Though I wish we could have given it to someone equally capable with more leverage in our hands. But it is what it is. And we're in no position yet to prepare for a 'who watches the watchmen'-scenario."

Sensing the finality of the statement, Posca picked up on their earlier conversation.

"The pirates. If you're not keen to deal with them, why meet them un the first place? You're the Emperor!" Posca brought up their prior discussion.

"Because I had to sell them on the issue. I could have sent an envoy. Could've sent you," he opened his eyes again and shot the older man a glance. "But the point was to sell them on the importance of what's happening. I may be young," Marius added 'on the outside' in his mind, "but I understand that trying to get a bunch of pirates to do something is like trying to heard Pompeyan meercats. Besides, I wanted to get a measure of them, just as they must've been eager to get one of me," he explained patiently. He shook his head. "Still, sorry for dragging you through this, Posca."

The older slave chuckled wearily. "That you don't like them either at least gives me hope that I've instilled some good values in you during all those years of studying, dominus."

"A few here and there, certainly," he smiled warmly before his face turned serious again. "Those pirates… Each any every one of them commands far too much firepower for someone who pays very little heed to imperial rule. My rule, Posca."

"It seems counter-intuitive then that you've put their noses on the scent of Castle RICHELIEU. Unless…," his face lit up and he pushed himself to sit straight in his seat. "You want them to clash with the force that drove Aidan Volkov off planet!"

"Ideally, I've given them just enough rope to hang themselves. At least for one or two of them. If they destroy or at least damage the bastards that took the Castle Brian from us it's a win on both fronts." He leaned towards Posca. "The Legion will give that place a wide berth, and we'll be gone for some time before Fletcher or any of the others make their appearance."

"I'm no soldier, but why not have General Volkova try to handle those mechs?" Posca inquired skeptically.

Marius straightened in his seat. "I don't want to antagonize the people who sent that force any more than I have to, Posca. You've been in the room when they analyzed the battleROMs, Posca. Those mechs weren't Illyrian troops. They were pristine. More, there were some among them that have effectively been lostech for the better part of a century and a half. Tell me, does that sound like an ordinary merc outfit to you? Something a backwater like Illyria could just organize, bring in and pay from their pocket change?"

"Given you put it that way, I assume the answer is no. Then who is the Palatinate's benefactor?"

Posca noticed his master looking at the scrambler for a long moment before he squared his jaw and spoke again. "The Palatinate is just a pawn in all of this, Posca. Strategically and operationally, there was a very small window of opportunity between the dig on site Ferrum striking proverbial gold, and that force making its entry. Who controls the flow of interstellar communications, Posca? Who must have the means to read and analyze all faster than light messages, either manually or even by an algorithm?"

His mentor frowned. "You mean Comstar is behind this? But their stance of neutrality is literally their strongest position! Their whole raison d'être is that they are impartial providers of information."

"Information they themselves feed into their HPG network, Posca. Someone is always watching. What's Comstar's greatest strength, really? Their control of news and information across a thousand solar systems. Their access to technology nobody else has. That strength only endures as long as technology stagnates. As they can contain any finds and scoop them up, away from the grabby hands of the houses."

"If that were the case, I somehow doubt they would have been able to maintain their façade of neutrality and benevolence for long. There's always someone digging up one piece of lostech or another, dominus."

"A single mech dug up from ditch, or some Star League terminal found in an abandoned planet's warehouse isn't enough to shake the status quo, Posca. A Castle Brian with a couple hundred square kilometers of tunnels, with tons of supplies and technology in a working state?" He sharply sucked in breath. "That's a game changer. Comstar sits at the heart of the Inner Sphere like a spider in a net, in a solar system untouched by the ravages of the succession wars. And they have enclaves on every major world in the known universe, and corporate ties to countless others. Tell me, Posca, who else has direct access to all communications? Who else has a vested interested in maintaining a technological monopoly and therefore most likely systems in place that will scrounge said communications for any hint related to technology? Who's got the money, and with the MRB the direct access to mercs in the area and the means to organize shipping, let alone slip them lostech mechs from stockpiles to make sure they get the job done?"

"How about SAFE?" Posca offered, with little conviction in his voice. "They are the only known agency close enough to the location."

"True, they'd be the logical culprit, if you're not asking questions," Marius partially acquiesced. "But Blackwood's one-man operation ran circles around them for years. And how likely is it that the information about RICHELIEU reached them in basically no time, was analyzed correctly, then punted up the ladder, and then acted upon? With mercenaries, and gear that the League's own forces don't readily have access to?" he raised his eyebrows. "I think I've got well enough of a read on Janos Marik that he'd have no qualms about sending in official League forces when the prospect of gaining SLDF gear for possibly a few brigades was on the line."

Posca gave him a long, worried look.
"Dominus, if that is true, is meddling with them really a wise move?"

Marius laughed bitterly. "Posca, you once told me wisdom is knowing when to not do something, Politics is being forced to do it anyhow. I'm trying my best to not step on their toes. But I also cannot sit back and let it all play out unchallenged. The Legion won't attack them. Officially, the Hegemony will be long gone from Palatinate space before the Thirteen make their appearance. I see no reason to throw away the lives of good men and women. It'll also hopefully send the message that we know when to back off. Now, if one or two pirate bands hit Ferrum?" he shrugged nonchalantly. "That will also send them a message: that we back down, but that we don't forget or forgive either. Either way, when the dust has settled, we'll have gotten our pound of flesh, and they'll still sit on RICHELIEU."

"You do not think Mercer and the others will succeed, dominus?" Posca looked puzzled. The mentor was a fountain of knowledge on people and politics and history, but actual combat was not one of his strengths.

"It's… unlikely," Marius shook his head. "General Volkova thinks the enemy mercs were decent fighters, and the machines they pilot certainly outclass everything someone like Mercer or Bonnet field, in very much every regard: firepower, tonnage, maintenance. That is, if the mercs are still even there in the first place. Still," he slipped a tiny smile, "greed will draw the Thirteen in. But my money is on those two companies of mercenary mechs. Or do you think more than two of those cutthroats will work together?"

"That seems unlikely, dominus. But… I do not like it," Posca confessed. "It gives me a bad feeling in my stomach. Do you think by playing this tit for tat things will go back to normal?"

The car passed through the outer walls of the palace.

"No, Posca. It's only a matter of time until they realize how much gear we dug up and brought back home. I don't think this is over yet." He smiled sadly at Posca, giving the slave the impression of a far older man for the brink of second. "It's going to get worse before it gets better. But," he chuckled wearily, "knowing that already gives us the tiniest of advantages. We'll have to prepare accordingly. I hope you're not tired yet, we've got work to do!"

The next day, the Hegemony sent an ultimatum to Illyria. Wrapped in diplomatic language, Alphard demanded to hand over all captured personnel, repatriate all remains of the fallen, and pay reparations to the tune of thirty million C-bills. Illyria had until the end of the week to comply with the demands. Meanwhile, General Volkova began to plan for action.

Sunday came and passed.

In the early morning hours of Monday Posca woke Marius and handed him Jorgenson's reply. It was only one word. Considering himself somewhat of a scholar of history in his own right, Marius had to laugh when he saw it. The note read: "Nuts!"


...Mission wasn't exactly a catastrophe, but it was probably the width of one Canopian hooker's g-string away from it. The brass was eager to show the new paradigm in action, which, in my not so holy opinion, is never a good thing. Our Invader managed to drop in at the planet's pirate point. The setup was pretty standard. We had one Leopard with ASF run air cover and interdiction, one Mule on standby to pick up loot, and one Union rushing in to ruin the Patties' day. Reykavis isn't anything to write home about. Cold, with forests covering most the planet, at least where the mile high polar glaciers aren't. Your typical backwater world where you freeze your balls off three quarters of a year, and get eaten alive by mosquitos during the other three months. But like all their worlds it's rich in minerals.
… Gold? Nah, I mean sure, we'd take it if they had it, but most the stuff they dig up in the few communities large enough to run mining ops dug up iron, tin, nickel. We didn't come for that, but for the stuff they stored in warehouses around their capital at the planet's equator. We were the grab. The other two companies of 3rd Cohort were the smash, getting down on the other side of the planet near the main mines and industrial centers. Patties had been working some neat veins of cobalt, iridium and palladium, and every three months or so some cutthroat indie merchant bought up their stores for a pittance compared to the market price.
... Blackbeak Buccaneers actually took his ship in '09, that's how we found out. Anyway, getting off track here. My centurio wanted to go after the warehouses first and the local armory second. Had us split up fifty-fifty, which was bonkers since we didn't need the footsies to deny the Patties access to the armory, and the armor was at a disadvantage in town as compared to the open fields around the drop port and the warehouses. My maniple CO suggested he take both the infantry and the armor. That way we'd have a good chance at securing the armory before the militia mobilized. But the fool didn't want to hear anything about it, claiming all of the ops had to be combined arms, and that they'd be shoving medals and promotions up our unshaven arses if we did as he told us. Typical highborn prick. I've got no idea whose wheels he had to grease to get the position, or the mission.
… of course, he had some strings pulled! C'mon, you're no idiot, you know how these things work! Wouldn't be surprised if it was him who peddled the mission to command in the first place, as stupid as it was.
...Why? Because the footsies and the tankers had been out of basic for maybe half a year, and we had nowhere near the cohesion or even understanding what we were supposed to be doing to run a raid of that size! Certainly doesn't help if your CO's as thick as a brick. Yeah, I'm no Patton either, but me and my maniple CO actually grasped what the whole 'combined arms' shenanigans was s'pposed to be. Tried to train with them, hard as that was.

...because them, they were all plebs, and we were patricians. Yeah, half of our families were nothing to write down, just an old name with a big plot o'land. Principes coming from pleb ranks got as much command authority as one from an old name, but try to get it through some people's skulls after eight decades of social conditioning. Even my maniple wasn't all rainbows and sunshine, but at least we tried.

So, Reykavis. Dipshit in command decided to divide the force in half, which is always a good system when you're working with an uneven-numbered force composition. Instead of just rushing to the armory, using our jump jets to cut corners, we had to stick together to cover the footsies in the APC and the tank taking up the rear. Naturally, the militia makes it to the armory before us, and before you can say 'Caesar's Tits!' we're receiving fire from all sides. One of our guys has to punch out, and the tank gets mauled badly, but the footsies clear some of the buildings and can drag the pilot back into their APC. When we make it to the armory we've all taken hits, we're bruised, and we've got Patty mechs on the field by then. CO orders us to just indiscriminately blast the place before we hightail it out of there, because we don't want to get outmaneuvered.

Meanwhile dipshit centurio realizes he can't really take over the warehouses in time because he's got only half the footsies with him, his mechs are entangled fighting the Illyrians, and the sole tank and scout he has are hard-pressed to cover his only APC. Then a couple of mediums and heavies enter the field. Naturally, shit hits the fan, badly. Turns out the Patties had a merc lance on retainer, and not a green one at that. Our maniple manages to link up with the others just in time to see dipshit CO kick the bucket.

Well, Lady Fate loves herself some irony. His mech got cored by a Patty Centurion, of all machines. My CO takes one look at the situation, realizes she's now in command, and orders us to fall backt. Militia's converging on us, the mercs have found their bearing, and we're rattled.

She takes ten seconds to get us back in track again. The footsies disembark between the warehouses. The light mechs and sally to draw the Patties in, while the tanks and our heavies begin pelting the drop port's facilities with everything they have. So, the militia's forced to split up, gets tangled between the warehouses where our footsies pummel them with satchel charges and portable SRMs as they try to fight our mediums. Bad for them, as our lights then fell on their flanks. Same happened with the mercs trying to stop our tanks and heavies. Nothing's as dangerous as a CO who's got a good read of the battlefield.

Anyway, drop port's on fire then, the part that's not already dust'n rubble. Never underestimate the explosion a hydrogen tank can produce. Warehouses are burning, too. Didn't know why or who, but some fucker had infernos loaded. Anyway, air cover tells use there's more Patties converging. They go in to harass them, but one of our boys gets shot down by AA, and a tide of light armor and technical starts rolling in.
With pure luck we make it back to the dropship without further losses, and we haul ass with enemy LRMs knocking against the hull. Almost a total clusterfuck. We lost about a third of the unit's strength that day, and had no loot to show for it. 'suppose technically they called it a success because we did a hell of a lot of damage that day, but it didn't feel like one.

The only good thing to come from that fiasco was my CO eventually made centurion and turned the unit around. I was told heads also rolled higher up the ladder, and directives from all the way to the top had every single one of us mech jockeys sit through lectures on combined arms combat some months later. Given how the legions conducted themselves on the Day of Woe and in '38 I'd say we took those lessons to heart. ...Me? No, I got a medical discharge back in '25, took over my father's vineyard. By the way, can I get you another glass...? – A Force in Transition: Eyewitness Reports of the Genesis of the Modern Legion, Magmasaurus Imprint, Horatius, 3043 C.E.

 

[Culsu]

Oh my god, has it really been three months since I posted an update?!?

Apologies for that, but a combination of commissions on my map gig and utter stress at my main job kept me from continuing this story.

C h a p t e r 0 8: Ma Bell's Long Reach
​

Massilia,
Continent of Gaul, Alphard
Marian Hegemony
Glass splintered as the empty bottle broke into countless pieces, crushed by a smooth rock the size of a toddler's head. Half the span of a football field away a man flexed his hands, revealing the soft whirr of prosthetics far too pricy for someone clad in a worn long coat and factory workers' clothes. His face was still, retracing the path the rock had taken through the air and the four by four feet opening in the ragged wall on the other side. Metal lattice lay bare across the ruined, pockmarked wall, revealing almost more holes than substance. The man took a few steps forward to check on his work again. Half a dozen bottles lay broken, one neatly placed next to another, all crushed by his stones. A shimmer of satisfaction flashed across his stoic face. With hints of Korean and Mediterranean heritage it was a face that was in a word so average one would forget it the moment one no longer saw it.

With one last glance, the man turned around, picked up his rucksack, drew his beanie down over his ears and nodded towards the deepening shadows off to the side. Footsteps departed in the dark. In some distance, the engines of several cars awoke, their sounds quickly fading as they, too, departed. With trained ease the man navigated through the labyrinthine corridors of the abandoned, decrepit factory and emerged onto the sidewalk of a warehouse district, right where the cones of two street lamps left almost just the hint of an orange glow. There were only few public cameras in the district, and the few of those that actually worked only showed a select mix of prerecorded footage tonight, courtesy of the man's more tech savvy companions.

People numbered ever fewer than cameras at this time. Alphard was warm planet, but even here something like winter existed, and it hit harder in Massilia than in Nova Roma. Icy wind gushed through the warehouse district, driving dust and dry leaves in front of it. Shift change in most of the district would not be happening until a few hours from then, and nobody who did not absolutely have to be outside in the cold did so.

A stiff breeze billowed the man's long coat and he sunk a bit deeper between beanie and woolen collar. Down the street, right, then left, past a few old loading cranes, then right again. The district had seen better days. Time and again he walked past abandoned old factories and warehouses with collapsed roofs or white-painted, boarded up windows. It was an old district in an old city – or whatever passed as old here. Most park benches in the place the man had grown up where older than both city and nation he was in. Still, the district with its myriad rusty corrugated sheet metal buildings was a relic of the early goldrush days of settlement on Alphard, back when everybody expanded wildly, before the planet's economy had found its own steady pulse and mining and manufacturing had moved away from the temperate and colder zones, making way for agriculture.

The man knew the district well. Indeed, he had memorized the full layout in great detail, all the ins and outs and what lead where, what was where, and how not to be seen if he so desired. He turned a final corner and began his walk down a wide, empty road. To his right rose the high sheet metal and concrete walls of office buildings and warehouses, with only a few windows between them. From even fewer of those light shone into the street below in quickly diminishing cones. On the other side of the road a set of three warehouses surrounded by lumps of freight containers – some new, some old and rusting – rose twenty meters into the night sky, bleached red sheet metal covered in the faded yellow logo of a shipping company. Floodlights illuminated the area, and heavily armed private security patrolled behind a metal mesh fence topped with coils of razor wire. Every once in a while, an inconspicuous industrial mech walked by. Nothing out of the ordinary, unless you knew what to look for.

Slowly walking down the road, the man began opening the buttons on his long coat with one hand. Private security was nothing special, however these here all carried standard Marian army assault rifles and body armor, and there was an awful lot of them. Surveillance footage taken by a small drone with the radar cross section of a bumblebee showed around a hundred heat signatures on the compound, with most of them hidden at strategic points where the owners of the warehouse complex had set up what the man could only describe as container forts, complete with infantry support weapons and makeshift, hidden pillboxes. The four industrial mechs walking around the area in seemingly random patterns also carried simple armor plating and, at least, a mix of SRM launchers, machine guns and medium lasers, clumsily covered from preying eyes. No, this was no ordinary setup.

Under his coat, the man felt the familiar weight and shape of a sphere right about the size of a toddler's head. He kept his gait steady so as to not arouse suspicion. They had done their due diligence and, through a mix of bribery, hacking, coercion and plain old rumor-chasing had tracked down the Marian lostech cache to the run-down warehouse district half a planet away from Camp Sulla, arguably one of the last places people ordinarily would expect it. The man was convinced that, if anything remained back at the Marian main military base, it was little more than a decoy.

Coming up, hanging a few meters above the sidewalk on his side of the street a square part of prefab concrete building marked about right the middle of the length of the warehouses. Soft blue light, barely visible if you didn't know how to look for it, shone through milky glass. The position gave a good overview over the warehouses. Which was why the Marians had chosen it as their impromptu command post, ready to lead the 'private security' in case a breach occurred. The man did not slow down. He had walked the same path for the past three weeks, several times a day, alone, among others, in various different sets of clothes. To whoever might look, he by now was a regular occurrence, a normal worker in the district. He and his companions had meticulously kept a tally of everything happening here. Everything they did had led them here. To this very moment.

From several directions, the sound of ICE engines rapidly grew louder, and, as one, a quartet of large, nondescript locally built vans burst into the streets around the warehouse. The man's last coat button gave way. In one fluent motion he pulled the safety pin from the bundle of explosives that had dropped into his hands and hurled the lethal package towards the milky windows ahead and above. It took barely a second the cross the distance. As it crashed through the tinted glass, the man noted with analytic satisfaction that its path perfectly mirrored those of his nonlethal brethren he so thoroughly had practiced with.

The thought vanished as quickly as it had appeared, seared away by shrapnel and fire. Thunder rolled across the district as a mix of high explosives, thermite and inferno gel turned the Marian command post into hellish furnace.

Like clockwork ballet dancers, the four vans stopped as one at positions predetermined in long planning and dry run sessions and disgorged groups of black clad operatives. Hatches flapped open, revealing SRM racks and grenade launchers. Roof coverages flipped to the sides. For the brink of a second the world seemed to hold its breath. Then pandemonium erupted.

From the top of the vehicles jump troopers soared into the night sky, two from each van. At the same time, SRMs roared from formerly concealed hatches, spitting a mix of high explosives and incendiaries aimed at the Marian container 'forts', piercing the thin metal casings and showering unsuspecting soldiers with shrapnel and gel that went up in flames the moment it touched oxygen. In between the carefully orchestrated onslaught black-clad operatives moved methodically through the breaches, heavy armor absorbing what little defensives fire rose to meet them as they dished out death in controlled bursts.

Up above, the jump troopers danced their deadly ballet. Rearing from the surprise assault the four Frankenstein mechs reacted only sluggishly. Their coms were aflame with contradicting chatter and panicked reports, and their own sensors were in no way comparable to the suites true military battlemechs sported. The first and closest to the unknown attackers had just flicked the safety off their bolted-on weapons when figure with a jetpack suddenly filled their field of vision. Something flashed. Hot pain seared through their body before everything fade to black, and they slumped over into their controls. The upgraded industrial mechs were nothing to sneeze at, but they had a glaring Achilles heel: their cockpits were open.

The first mech, called 'Able' went haywire when its pilot died, having a full clip emptied in their body at point blank range. Slumped on its controls, the mech began to walk in an irregular circle, slamming into containers and the warehouse behind, crashing through the thin sheet metal walls, all the while firing its single large laser in wild arcs.
'Baker' found itself plagued by not one but three jump troopers at once, clinging to its chassis like bugs. It flailed its stubby arms impotently, trying to throw them off, moving across the area like a child throwing a tantrum. When they finally let go as one the reprieve was short lived as three satchel charges blasted the machine into at least as many large parts – and countless smaller ones.

Down below, the man had joined his comrades in arms in their gruesome and methodical task. Their initial strike broken any coordinated response – and resolve – and what they did now was part hunting, part mop-up and part execution detail. His own submachinegun spat death in controlled bursts into an enclosed room that the Marians had been using as an impromptu office. Two men went down, their body armor doing little to stop the armor-piercing projectiles. Around him, others of his team had moved into the warehouse and had begun to set remote charges to the containers inside. They were a special brew his superiors had come up with some time ago, and tailored made to get rid of 'solidly made problems'. Here and there a black clad operative threw open some of the container doors to peek inside, doing spot checks to see if their quarry was actually present. The man nodded to himself in satisfaction. Recon had been good, but one of the iron rules of the trade was 'trust, but verify'.

At first, he and his companions had fixed their gaze on Camp Sulla, but after a few days of reconnaissance, bribery, picking up rumors, and maybe a decent amount of nigh untraceable hacking, the picture had become clear that whatever was stored at the Marian's main military base was nothing but a decoy. The neobarbarians had played it smart, and shipped off their grand prize, and had tried to erase their traces. A good move, but one by amateurs trying to play in the major league.

Inside the containers lay stacked crates and sealed boxes wearing the logo of the long defunct Star League Defense Force. Some were big enough that one of them filled the container as a whole. Good. That checked out with the intel they had on the stash.

Around him, the carnage continued unabated. A few Marians had entrenched behind some more solid debris and rained machine gun fire into the operatives' general direction. None of the bursts hit, and the resistance died unceremoniously to a grenade dropped from a jump trooper above.

The third of the Hegemony security mechs stood wreathed in flame from head to toe, inferno gel having found its way across its whole body. Like a fiery scarecrow it illuminated the night. Crumpled and smoldering, the wreckage of 'Delta' had crushed two containers beneath it next to it. Around him, gunfire started to die down.

Checking his watch, the man tapped his comm twice. One by one, affirmative replies reached back to him, and he allowed himself a smile. Time to go. As fast and orderly as they had come the attackers filed back into their vans and sped off. He watched the ruined warehouse shrink in the mirror, then pushed the button on the remote detonator a second operative wordlessly handed him.

The chain of explosions quite literally outshone everything that had happened in the prior minutes. With the horizon aflame, the man and his team vanished into the night.


MHAFS IULIUS CAESAR
en route to Alphard
Marian Hegemony
August 28th, 3010
"Deceleration phase ending in four… three… two… one. Drive boost off, main drive adjusting to one standard gravity. Remain in place until light switches to green."

Marius could feel three times his body weight rapidly lifting off his shoulders and chest. His fingers had been curled around the rest of the seat he had spent strapped in for the past hour or so, and trying to flex them before he unfastened his safety belt shot daggers of pain through his hands and lower arms.

The Overlord-class' lights flickered briefly, switching from a dull red to green before the normal cabin illumination sprung to life again.

His feet tingled as blood began to circulate normally, rushing back up through his body. Wearily, he got up and grabbed a bottle of water from a locker and a mix of pills meant to help spacers get over the side effects of high-G stress, painkillers included. His head throbbed, tortured by a dozen needle pricks starting from his neck and going all the way to his frontal lobes.

Gods, as much as space fascinated him, he was just too much planet bound to ever get used to the everchanging whims of gravity and acceleration. Gulping down the pills, and emptying the bottle for good measure, he briefly closed his eyes and had to steady himself, grabbing the edge of his desk with both hands.

The cabin was small, an ordinary officer's cabin, just a bunk, a tiny showering niche, a couple of lockers, two fixed chairs, and a desk. IULIUS CAESAR war a combat vessel first and foremost, and there was no place for luxury or special accommodations just for him. That's what IMPERATOR, or Hegemony 1 as it was called, was for. But that wasn't a warship and thus had not taken part in the operation.

Three beeps chiming from the pad next to his cabin's bulkhead notified him of a visitor, and he hobbled over, silently cursing his feet while they slowly returned to their normal size. "Yes?"

"It's me," Aidan Volkov's voice sounded tinny. Marius unlocked the bulkhead – locking things down was a standard procedure whenever the ship moved above speeds simulating standard planetary gravity – and let his comrade in.

"Did you spend decel strapped to the next bulkhead or how did you manage to get down here so quickly?" he welcomed him.

"Not living a totally namby-pamby palace life does have its perks," sun-tanned, dark-haired and bearing his mother's green-blue eyes, the younger Volkov stepped into the cabin with the grace of a leopard and slipped into the next best seat. "You look like crap warmed over… your majesty."

Marius grunted. "Careful, I've been doing full contact mixed martial arts for the better part of a year now. I could beat your lanky ass any day for that kind of disrespect."

"Yeah right. Probably." He watched Marius stretch and wince as joints cracked and the emperor grimaced. "Cripple."

Despite the discomfort Marius had to laugh. "Imperial cripple, please."

"Alright then, Imperial cripple. Seriously, you don't look great," Aidan's dark pony tail flipped back and forth as he shook his head.

"I feel even worse. Like, 'needing physical therapy once back on the ground' worse." Marius hissed, trying to stretch. "Suppose that's the advantage to active service, eh? Your body gets used to that sort of strain."

"Eh, it never gets pleasant, if that's what you're asking. So," he slapped his legs, "you wanted to talk to me before we make planetfall?"

"Yes. Care for a drink?"

"Right after that pill cocktail? Feeling adventurous, are we?" he chuckled. "Of course, Hawkbeak!"

Marius produced a bottle of single malt whiskey and two tumblers from a secure compartment of his desk and poured both of them a generous helping.

"Whiskey? Are we down to old man drinks now?" Aidan jokingly raised an eyebrow.

"It's an acquired taste," he rolled his eyes. "I'm stuck on Mount Caelius most the time, with Posca. Like I would have an idea what the hip kids drink!" The two shared a laugh. For a moment, Marius savored the warmth of the golden liquid as it ran down his throat before he spoke up again. "I'd like to get your appraisal of how we did."

"Mine?" Aidan was genuinely surprised. "I'm sure there are more senior officers in the flotilla, or the legions as a whole for that matter, that're more qualified than me."

"Everybody's more qualified than you, Vulture," he deadpanned. "But honestly, I'm asking you because you've seen direct action under the new paradigm, you've trained forces – and I can trust you not to bullshit me because you're my friend," Marius told him seriously. "I've got full confidence in your mother to handle the big picture, Vulture. But I need people on site that can talk to me without trying to butter me up."

Aidan blinked. "Thanks… I guess? Alright, where do I start? Legio I was a mixed bag. The mechwarriors are our most experienced soldiers, but they are all set in their ways, the good'ol Patrician mechjock mafia. Combat performance for them was good throughout the bank, and I would've been surprised if it hadn't been, given most of them have served as long as me or considerably longer. But," he leaned back, absentmindedly rubbing his fingers, "Cooperation between the Cohorts I to III and their armor and infantry regiments was lackluster at best, non-existent at worst. On all three planets they hit, they continually outpaced their support forces, often with disregard to the strategic objectives. On the flipside, cooperation between armor and footsies on their side was textbook, almost too good for green formations, to be honest, and that despite half of their officers being patricians. On Trondheimal, while II Cohort was busy stroking their egos, elements of the 4th Armored and 1st Infantry stopped a larger sized Palatinate counterattack comprised of mechs, armor, VTOLs and infantry cold, then enveloped the enemy and finally wiped it out when the rest of the 4th arrived. Much of the salvage taken on the ground can be pinned on the footsies and tankers. Now, that doesn't mean Legio I's mech did a bad job, the way I see it. Most the time they beat the Patties and achieved their strategic goals. Much of the important infrastructure across all four worlds has taken a hit."

"I sense a 'but' coming?" Marius took a sip of whiskey, swirling the glass in his hand.

"But it opened them up to unnecessary casualties, and we covered less ground in the end because they repeatedly got bogged down individually whereas they could have achieved victory as a united force. Now," he gulped down his drink in one go, eager to continue, "Legio II, or rather IV Cohort as that's all there is right now? They did fine. I've been training some of them between all my little extra tasks, so I'm absolutely biased," he chuckled, "but since ninety percent of them were new recruits they've all grown into the service together. They've all trained as a combined force from the very start. Not sayin' they are perfect. Trasjkis was the right spot for them to take, with the least resistance, and even then they appeared brittle sometimes. They are green, barely out of training, and for most of them it was the first time they had live ammo flying their way. And their casualty rate proves it. But even under pressure they remembered to act as a team. And they persevered."

Marius scowled. "Well great. So, basically you're telling me our sole full formation is too stiff to work as intended?"

"I'm not going to dunk on my comrades," Aidan shook his head. "Most of them are fine soldiers. But you can't easily overcome institutional inertia. They've been the unit for eighty plus years, and now they've been told to share the spotlight, with something as ordinary as tanks or, Jupiter's hairy balls, infantry!" he chuckled mirthlessly. "You want them to work as intended? Retrain the principle officers. Give those who don't adapt or perform the boot. Maybe break up the formation?" he shrugged. "Like, take out one cohort, divide it in three, then use the three companies as the nucleus for a new legion, and train it up as a combined unit from the ground. That way they'll have to adapt? I don't know, just a suggestion."

"Your mom's not going to like that. Legio I has been her home for decades now. Lots of emotional attachment. Gutting it and scattering it to the four winds? She's going to hate the thought.

"It's been my home, too, Marius," Aidan reminded him. "And my mom's a big girl. She knows how to take orders, should you pick up my suggestions. I mean, it's not like you'd explode the regiment in one go. Building up Legio II will take until when? 3011? 3012?"

"The last update was that we're on track for mid to late 3012, with armor and infantry, if everything goes according to plan," Marius explained.

"So, it's probably going to take until that year or so until you start to set up Legio III and IV. It's not like you're cutting up my home regiment in one fell swoop then." Aidan eyed his glass, and Marius took the cue to refill it.

"Legio II's the test run, Vulture. The plan's to look at how setting it up worked, then apply the lessons to the next ones. Taking your idea, we'd take II Cohort and III Cohort from Legio I, then use their individual companies to set up the nucleus of the next two legions. Anyway," he raised his glass, "bottoms up, old chap. You've given the imperial cripple something to think about. Cheers!"

The two men emptied their drinks and shared a moment of silence. Sighing almost simultaneously, Marius plugged the bottle and put the glasses away.
"You know, I'm going to give you your own cohort soon."

"Fuck me," Aidan ran his hands through his face. "You just want to make my life miserable, right?"

"Eh, it's one of my more refined qualities," Marius smiled before turning sober. "That you don't want it tells me you're exactly the right man for the job. Besides, you seem to have the right ideas. Be a shame if you didn't get a chance to apply them."

"There's no escaping you, is there?" Aidan sighed.

"Perks of being emperor."

They lapsed into silence again before the terminal on the small cabin's desk beeped and booped to life, signaling an incoming call.

"Well, that's my cue," Aidan announced and rose. "I'm going to get some more shut-eye. Talk to you on the ground then."

Watching the bulkhead close with metallic click and hydraulic hiss, Marius switched the screen on. A long row of code flashed down the side, a sign that the connection was encrypted. A second later, his sister's auburn mane filled the screen.

"Syv! How are you!" Marius' face lit up.

There was some delay before the younger O'Reilly answered with a smile. "Busy, big bro. Holding the fort for you, together with your grumpy old Posca. Just thought I'd give you a heads up on the situation."

Immediately Marius tensed. "Any more 'terrorist' attacks?"

"What? No!" Sylvana shook her head. "No follow-ups. But the warehouse is gone. Investigators say the attackers must have used some mix of explosives and highly volatile incendiaries. Not a bit of evidence regarding who did it. Local CCTVs were down during the attack and backups were wiped. No eyewitnesses left, and no blood or DNA. Whoever did it, they were like vengeful ghosts."

"Worrying, but that's at least something," the young old emperor exhaled audibly. "That nothing more's happened, I mean," he added.

"There's a parade planned for tonight. You'll be expected to make a speech, and look sharp," his sister told him. "Just wanted to warn you ahead of time."

"Thanks, sis."

"Don't thank me, thank Posca. He's written a speech for you. It's attached to the datastream of this call. You can check it later." She leaned closer to her screen. "So, how did it go?"

He quickly gave her a rundown of the campaign and his conversation with Aidan. "At the end of the day, transportation was a bottleneck," he explained. "There's only so many dropships and jumpships we have access to at the moment. We had to loan a few from the trading cartels to get by, and they don't have excess ships to spare either. And we don't have prime access to new production. Everything we can get is used or stolen. Interstellar transportation is a bottleneck for everybody." Even after Helm that would stay true for many years.

"We do have corporations building small craft and orbitals locally," she reminded him. "How about paying them to get into the game?"

"True enough. But we don't have infinite money. Even with all the riches we've plundered in the last century, settling three new worlds, funding a massive infrastructure program and increasing our military by a factor of ten or so leads to empty coffers eventually," he told her.

"You could run a tender, like Uncle Corv did with the weapons manufacturers. I'm sure the company at least would take the opportunity to flex its muscles," she suggested.

"It's a good idea. Your idea. So, you go and set it up," Marius yawned and rubbed his eyes. His sister set out to protest but he stopped her, raising his hand. "Maybe I should make you head of my department of finance and economy."

"You don't have such a department, Marius."

"No, but I really should. I took some time on the voyage to look at how seriously underdeveloped part of our executive is," he explained.

"Well, thanks, but no," Sylvana shook her head. "I'm nineteen, big bro. How about you give me a few years on the board of Alphard Trading before springing such a ridiculous idea on me?"

"Alright, fine, Syv. But for sure you know someone… ."


Outskirts of Dalmatia, Illyria
Illyrian Palatinate
September 5th, 3010
Captain Jackson Fletcher stepped over the body of the dead Illyrian noble and took a long look across the valley from the terrace of the large mansion. A few fires still burned in the distance, but not too many. The air smelled of fresh snow, ozone, smoke, and a hint of fear. The estate's entourage – what was left of it after the few men stupid or courageous enough to fight him had left for the afterlife – cowered in the yard. Maybe they'd fetch a good price. Or maybe…

He picked up a radio.
"What are you up to, Blaze?"
Leo 'Blaze' Mercer, captain of the Corpsegrinders was half a world away, a blunt tool doing what he did best: reave and destroy.
"That you, Scarface?" the big man's voice rumbled through a wave of static after a few moments. "Havin' a feast here! Those buggers brew a great bear, and man, I'm not complaining about the honkers on their ladies either!" he laughed. "And you, ya miserable cunt?"

Fletcher felt a shark-like grin grow on his face.
"Oh, this and that. You know, I think I like it here, Blaze. Just realized I always wanted my own planet."


Hilton Head, North America
Terra, Solar System
October 15th, 3010
"Now that next year's budgetary concerns have been settled, may I inquire how ROM intends to solve the quagmire it has driven us into in the Palatinate?"

Julian Tiepolo, lithe, calm, and by vote the Primus of the last vestiges of the Star League that had transformed themselves into ComStar, the seemingly neutral and objective arbiter of interstellar communication, watched the hologram of Mercy Waters spit proverbial acid into Vesar Kristofur's direction. Throughout the discussions he had observed the grey-haired, square-jawed Indo-Korean woman's mood turn from tense to sour to thinly-veiled-belligerent. But the question was more than justified to spend prime interstellar HPG bandwidth on.
"Vesar, what's ROM's take on this?" he inquired, acting superficially cordial.

"Given the size of the discovered cache and the uncertainty regarding how far the Marian Hegemony had been able to exploit its find ROM concluded that a robust intervention was the most favorable tactic to avoid whatever was hidden in Castle RICHELIEU from falling into the wrong hands. To that end I opted for a proactive approach, making do with forces in the vicinity. ROM recon teams were able to map the area of the Castle Brian, and the order's intervention was successful in securing the find. As far as ROM is concerned, the main goal of our blessed order has been upheld," the forty-one years old Precentor ROM explained himself smoothly.

"Your 'pro-active approach has turned a lostech find – significant as it may be – into a war, a national collapse, and an anti-spy witch hunt across eleven planets," Mercy Waters snapped. "Precentor Illyria's reports have gone from concerned to panicked to outright traumatized. Meanwhile, Precentor Alphard lets us know he is convinced Marius O'Reilly would've been amendable to a quiet and peaceful solution right from the start, seeing as the Marians are trying to stem a colonization program, a military buildup, and infrastructure initiative and an expansion of their education system, all at the same time. Surely that is a situation that'd made the Marians receptive to offers of financial support in return to letting us shepherd their findings?" Waters' hologram looked around the table. Both Alphard and the HPG station on Illyria were part of a chain of stations which primarily connected to the order's superluminal network through her area of operations. Thus, she was privy to the contents of the reports both local precentors had sent to Terra.

"ROM's operative qualities are well-established, and frankly beyond debate. Still, my reading of the situation is such that I must concur with my colleague on Atreus. Your approach, Precentor Kristofur, seems… particularly reckless," Precentor Dieron commented thoughtfully. Tall and broad-shouldered despite his years the man would not have looked out of place on any parade ground of the successor states. "A less panicked analysis of the situation should have seen the mission fronted by the Explorer Corps, and local officials of our blessed order. Given the sorry state of their economy and standard of living, the Illyrians could have been bought off with trinkets and the promise of economic aid. And one certainly could have found ways and means to satisfy the wants of an ambitious young man like Marius O'Reilly." He shook his head. "The plan you set in motion contains to many fault lines," his hologram briefly flickered as he picked up a sheet of paper. "By your own reports, the mercenaries tasked with securing the cache suffered disproportionate losses in their battle with the Marian legions. What if they had lost? What if the Marians had gotten to the bottom of this?!"

"Precentor Dieron, the very nature of my work makes it so that far-reaching decisions often have to be taken based on an imperfect reading of situations far removed from those making them," the slick-haired Kristofur looked from Mercy Waters to Precentor Dieron and, finally, to Tiepolo himself. "ROM studied the battle, and while the force we used emerged victorious, the greater cohesion of the Marian soldiers as well as their mechs individually higher tonnage seems to account for the lopsided kill ratios, despite the mercs force's technological edge. That being said, my actions were communicated to and signed off by the Primus in advance." A barely visible smile flickered across the younger man's face, but Julian Tiepolo caught it and its meaning. 'Ball's in your court'.

"Time was of essence, Mercy, Victor," the Primus admitted tersely. "I authorized Vesar's use of mercenaries due to the rapidly changing circumstances on site. We all strive to act in line with Blake's wisdom. However, sometimes circumstances have our hands bound."

"Chaos always carries with it the seed of opportunity," the younger Precentor ROM steepled his hands and smiled, as much to Tiepolo's as well as Waters' irritation. Before the Primus could act on his annoyance, the head of ROM dropped his cryptic smile and continued. "Between our first intervention and the return of the Marians in force, the mercenaries we employed and Palatinate forces on the ground were able to extract much of the remainder of the cache and ship it off world. What remains on planet is largely the base itself, whose impact is negligible. That's one loose end tied up." He held up one finger. "Our force has withdrawn from the planet in good order after beating a Marian pirate force, and all lostech items that may have had a tangible technological impact in the wrong hands have been evacuated."

But Mercy Waters did not let go. "Leaving this to hired guns was a reckless move, in contrast to all standards of security for an event of such potential impact!" the Precentor Atreus protested, the woman's square face red with barely contained anger. "Mercenaries cannot be trusted with tasks of such gravity, especially considering the sheer quantity of Star League era weapons and technology you so easily had go through their hands. Had I known of this in advance-."

"I assure you, Precentor Atreus, that the decision was not made lightly. For open confrontation, units of the Com Guards would've been my first choice, too, but none were close enough, and as the Primus correctly stated, time was indeed of essence. Waiting carried the risk of losing all of the Illyrian cache. Hiring disparate mercenaries and equipping them from a local warehouse while providing transportation maybe wasn't an ideal solution, but it was a solution made with the tools at hand, with a solid degree of deniability on our side of the equation," the forty-one years old Kristofur stroked his thin mustache, smiling placidly. "Middlemen and shell corporations provided recruitment and funding. Now, by sheer happenstance the dropship carrying the survivors of the mercenary command in our employ did suffer a catastrophic decompression accident two jumps away from Illyrian territory. Nobody survived. Space is just so harsh and unforgiving of accidents, I'm afraid, and these things happen," he gave Mercy Waters a cold smile. "Luckily, a jumpship operated by the blessed order happened to be nearby and salvaged the dropship and its contents. The second loose end tied up," he raised a second finger. ROM's reputation was well-earned, but Kristofur knew that what he did was just mastering the art of the possible. The trick was to keep up the image of having it all figured out. Not just towards the world at large, but to the people gathered here in particular.

An uncomfortable silence descended over the members of the First Circuit. After a few tense seconds Franklin Novoré, the eldest member of ComStar's de facto government and Precentor New Avalon cleared his throat. "Sacrifices have to be accepted in the pursuit of Blake's sacred vision. I think I speak for all of us when I say that is sad but adequate solution to this facet of the problem the discovery of Castle RICHELIEU has caused. Have you been equally thorough with the Marians, too?"

Waters snorted, an unceremonious grunt sounding more like a water buffalo than a woman, Tiepolo thought. Before Kristofur could speak Precentor Atreus had already begun.
"If you mistake subtle as a brick with thorough, I'm sure the honored Precentor ROM will answer in the affirmative."

"Covert operations teams on Alphard monitored the Marian movements and tracked the RICHELIEU cache to a civilian warehouse while the Hegemony pretended it remained at their main military base. ROM operatives then attacked the guard detachment and destroyed the contents of the cache with a mix of incendiaries and high explosives. No witnessed were left behind, and our people suffered no losses. They successfully exfiltrated the planet three weeks later via the Alphard HPG compound," Kristofur considered Waters coldly. "To the Marians it will look like an act of foreign terrorism, implicating either Illyrian radicals or actors that can be traced into the vicinity of the Canopians, alternately the League. Potential bread crumbs were left to both ends. So yes," he raised another finger, "tied up as well."

"Can we be certain that the Marian cache has been neutralized?" Precentor Dieron's hologram leaned forward.

"Reasonably so," Kristofur nodded. "Volume and quantity of the destroyed equipment correspond to roughly eighty percent of what the Hegemony could have transported off planet, and the remainder is so diminished that no danger of genuine proliferation exists."

"A few hundred infantry kits and two or three dozen salvaged mechs do not change the balance of power significantly," Jonas Stechlin – Precentor Dieron – mused and leaned back, apparently satisfied.

"What ROM is leaving out is that the order's operation is seen as the biggest terrorist attack on the Hegemony in the past decade, and it's turned into a proper witch hunt. Precentor Alphard has cautioned that, if the Marians keep up their digging, some of the order's informants may be caught in the crossfire," Waters leaned back, grinning like a smug cat.

"I see no reason for your satisfied demeanor, Precentor Atreus." For the first time a hint of annoyance slipped into Kristofur's voice. "Alphard's reaction was more or less what I expected it to be, and ROM's confidence is high that nothing will come from this."

"You cannot be sure of this!" Waters shot back, but the head of ComStar's secret service held up one hand.

"Quite the contrary. I can be as sure of this as any man in my position can. ROM's reputation is well earned, and Alphard, zealous amateurs that they may be, sorely lacks the means to endanger the blessed order's operations therein, even superficially. This I can, indeed, guarantee you," Kristofur nodded, not just towards the Precentor on Atreus but the Primus and the whole First Circuit.

Waters' frowned skeptically, but sensing she could not push the matter any further she relented. "Your words in Blake's ears, Precentor Kristofur," she scowled.

"This only leaves one further issue. What of the Palatinate?" Jonas Stechlin tilted his head inquisitively.

"Precentor Atreus initial statement about national collapse seems to bear out," Kristofur admitted. "Gamma reports – and the missives from Precentor Illyria support this – that central authority across the four systems of the Palatinate has collapsed in response to the Marian punitive expedition and the mass pirate raids in its wake. There's ongoing, unchallenged raiding by the Crimson Chalice, a conclave of pirate bands operating out of Hegemony territory," he explained, "in two systems, with Illyrian resistance regrouping on Reykavis, and the trading houses traditionally in control of that small nation seem to have consolidated enough manpower there to deter the Marian pirates from making any overt moves against them." He tapped a few buttons and the central holographic display showed an image of a cold planet flanked by a few portraits accompanied by biographic data. "These are some of the pirate leaders ROM has intel on, but the two on the upper right are of particular interest. Jackson Fletcher and Leo Mercer both command sizeable pirate bands. Mercer is a brute who can count on the loyalty of roughly a company of battlemechs. Between the two of them, Fletcher is the brain. Ex-mercenary, as ruthless as it gets. Murder, arson, kidnapping, he's done it all. And he's the big hitter among the Marian pirates. Putting it in military terms, he commands a combined arms battalion of mechs, tanks and infantry, and those criminals appear to know what they are doing."

"All of that us undoubtedly of interest to some," Precentor Tharkad spoke up, his tone making it clear he was not amongst those some, "but what does it have to do with the situation?"

"Everything." Kristofur met his eyes, then looked at Mercy Waters. Precentor Atreus withdrew deeper into her seat and crossed her arms, her hands vanishing in her robe's long sleeves. "Everything. By all accounts from Precentor Illyria, Fletcher and Mercer have taken over the planet and are taking steps to set that fact in stone. We may be witnessing the birth of a new pirate kingdom, this time right at the doorstep of a successor state. A development which we might be able to foster to ComStar's advantage."

For the first time in what felt like an eternity Julian Tiepolo spoke up again. The Primus weighed his words carefully.
"I understand Precentor Atreus' concerns about the situation. Pirates usually have enough common sense to stay clear of our order, but with the advent of a possible pirate kingdom in her proverbial backyard we have to keep an eye on the safety of our rimwards enclaves. That being said, I find myself in agreement with Precentor ROM: we may indeed be able to use the situation to our advantage." He straightened his back. "We have been looking with concern at Marik's growing economic and financial power. It's putting pressure on the C-bill, and by doing so, all of our operations." Everybody around the table new that this was not just about running the known universe's fax service. "A new pirate kingdom so close to the Free Worlds League borders might be a catalyst for introducing a factor of instability. Raids, disrupting internal trade, abductions… ugly options, but potent ones to put pressure on their economy. If action and reaction are held in moderation on both ends, by our well-meaning hands…" he looked around the table, and found receptive faces.


Corvinus O'Reilly Estates,
Merovian Highlands, Alphard,
Marian Hegemony
Some time earlier, 3010
"You look like a schoolboy thinking up his next prank!" Neeva Lee-O`Reilly called up at Posca.

"That would be the most wrinkled schoolboy on planet, domina!" he called back, his wrinkles this time just the effect of his broad smile.

The mistress of the large estates smiled back up at him as he dangled his legs, sitting on the edge of a large wooden crate. "You know you don't have to call me that, Posca."

"I know, domina," the older man chuckled, his muttonchops swaying with the motion and the soft south-eastern wind as he slid down the large wooden crate he had perched on, landing on his feet in a roll belying his age. "Well, that's the last of them," he patted the rough wood.

"That was a lot of agricultural equipment." The corners of Neeva's mouth twitched.

"Your family's lands are vast, and you do have the storage space," Posca answered her evenly, his smile more knowing than mischievous this time. "And it is not for long. A few months, perhaps, and it will be distributed again."

The athletic woman sighed resignedly, watching the workers who she knew were everything but transport a shipment of crates of various sizes into a nearby barn, using carts, forklifts and even flatbeds. "My husband isn't home just yet, but I'd be happy to have dinner with you, Posca. You can tell me about what's going on in Nova Roma, and how my grandnephew is doing."

"How could I say no to such an invitation, domina?" Marius O'Reilly personal tutor bowed his head respectfully. "Please, lead the way."
He patted the crate one last time. The rough paint read 'Fertilizer'.

It did not contain fertilizer.

 

[Culsu]

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.

 

[Culsu]

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.

 

[Culsu]

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.

 

[Culsu]

C h a p t e r 1 2: Foretoken​

Mount Caelius, Nova Roma, Alphard
Marian Hegemony
May 26th, 3011
"Good morning. Rise and shine!" Posca pulled back the blinds of Marius' bedroom to the latter's wordless protest. "You do look better, I must say. Less haggard, less haunted. Got some good sleep, I reckon?" Posca placed a tray of breakfast on the table and began to lay out the silverware.

"I did," Marius yawned, stretching his tired limbs. "Actually, I've been having sound nights for at least a week or so now. Still, wouldn't have minded a few more minutes," he complained.

"Good thing you are letting go of that paranoia of yours, boy," his mentor, personal slave, and old friend chuckled, unveiling scones, clotted cream, and strawberry jam on the one hand and scrambled eggs, crispy red sausages and bacon on the other from under a white table cloth.

"It's not paranoia if you know they're out to get you, old crow," Marius grumbled as he swung himself out of bed with the enviable ease of youth and trotted over to the adjacent baths. He sniffed the small of the food, and his stomach rumbled. "I am on my way," he muttered.

"Amazing what not spending the night awake in… negotiations with Lady Kimura can do for your overall well-being," Posca's voice followed him from his bedroom as Marius stepped under the shower.

"Oh, shut up!" the young-yet-old Emperor growled.
Their carnal meetings had taken a backseat to the crisis the Hegemony had faced, and even though the outlook for the future had brightened again, they had not met for weeks. He was not sure how he felt about that. On the one hand, it was clear as day to him that he would have to look for a wife, sooner rather than later, and Octavia would not be it, for all the obvious reasons. He did not need Posca's admonishments to know theirs was a doomed and dangerous relation.
On the other hand, the prospect of courting a woman in her early twenties held little promise to him, given that – in his mind, at least – he was a man in his sixties. Still, duty demanded he get the ball rolling on that front. He shoved the thought back into a folder that read 'later this year'. One step at a time.

Freshly showered he re-emerged five minutes later and began to fill his plate with food.

"Oh, I know that look. You are hatching something in that restless mind of yours. Again." The older man shook his head, sighing.

"I distinctly remember one uppity tutor telling me, again and again, 'If you don't use it, you lose it'." Marius rolled his eyes, shoveling eggs and bacon into his mouth with the voracious hunger only a young man possessed. "You don't get the luxury of buyer's remorse, Posca." He signaled him to let him finish his breakfast. Posca complied dutifully, treating himself to a cup of steaming coffee in the meantime.

When both men were finished, Marius rose and led his tutor to a secluded alcove on the other side of his personal chambers. At first glance it looked very much like a untidy office cubicle. A small desk, a computer terminal, papers, pens, and a larger number of books covered nearly every inch of it. A map of the Hegemony and its neighbors covered much of the wall. Marius sat down in an office chair and hurriedly cleared a wooden stool for Posca that he had been using as yet another improvised shelf space.
"Just one more moment," he murmured, producing the scrambling device Posca remembered from their trip to the Perfumed Alleys. Once activated, it filled the small room with a high-pitched whine just at the edge of hearing.

Posca looked puzzled. That changed when a few books were shifted and a safe box connected to the computer terminal was revealed, and Marius flipped a switch turning on the screen.

"The palace should be protected against electronic intrusion, but you can't be safe enough when dealing with Pandora's box," he pointed at the copy of Castle Richelieu's memory core. "Yes, I've been thinking. Reading a lot. Mostly history, military and otherwise," Marius pointed at the stacks of books. "But also the contents of core, so much so as they are not corrupted. Much is technical data, which I really don't get, aside from maybe a few base concepts. Readouts, schematics, construction details, medical data. And something much more directly useful, Posca." He swiftly maneuvered through a few menus and called up a long list of alphanumeric codes.

Posca leaned in. "The way those are structured seem familiar."

"Most likely from the first reports about Richelieu. Those used the same codes. They are the internal designations the SLDF and Hegemony did use for its installations, as well as for deployment orders," Marius nodded.

"A long list. A very long list. But most seem to be corrupted, going by their appearance," Posca remarked.

"Most are, to some degree," Marius agreed ruefully. "It's the ones that are not corrupted that have given me food for thought, though. I've spent much of my free time trying to cross-reference those that I could access, and I've come up with a few that seem to have been untouched so far."

"I would have thought that the avalanche your little adventure in the Palatinate put in motion would have been enough to sate your curiosity, dominus." Posca sounded in equal parts alarmed and skeptical.

"Admittedly, it's a risk-reward calculation, but with the current crisis averted I really have to find ways to strengthen our position that won't require two decades of slow, meticulous build-up, old friend." He clicked a number of designations, and files popped up. "For now, I've narrowed it down to three locations that arguably are in reach. Somewhat, at least. The first is an SLDF Castle Brian on Helm, a munitions and logistics depot. Probably memory cores and databases, too. The Kuritans tried to capture the base in the First Succession War, but didn't manage to find it. When they left with empty hands, they decided to glass the planet as a farewell gift. It's remained hidden ever since."

"The fate of Helm is a fairly well-known tale for League history students, one of the early and most pointless atrocities committed by the Kuritans against the Free Worlds League," Posca frowned, combing through his memory. "But even today, it is still a League world, dominus. Governed, garrisoned, populated. You do not seriously plan to attack it?"

Marius sighed wearily. "Helm may very well be the Holy Grail of lostech sites, Posca. Luckily for you, I'm not completely insane, though believe me: I am tempted. The Hegemony doesn't have the forces to attack a planet this deep inside a successor state, let alone one so close to major star systems. I mean, we do not possess the forces for an open, traceable operation against any successor state, period. No, I've mulled this over for what must've been a thousand times, Posca. Realistically, we probably even lack something as basic as the transport capacity to actually run off with the cache – if we were to find it, be able to enter it, and not get completely mauled by League forces called in from neighboring systems in the process."

Somewhat soothed, Posca stared at the data about the Nagayan Mountain Castle Brian for a long moment, sunken in thought. "Strategically, not looking for it may be all the better, dominus."

Marius quizzically raised an eyebrow.

"If we cannot realistically take it, not causing a stir may be our best course of action. It would be preferable not to find it rather than to find it, only for it to fall into the hands of the League. That would be akin to hopping out of the frying pan and into the fire," the older man explained.

The logic was hard to rebut. He could not risk the League to access the cache when his own strategy rested on keeping the League hobbled. "You're most likely right." He got up and returned with two fresh cups of coffee. Besides, maybe a certain continuity was not for the worst? It would give the Gray Death Legion their great moment in a few years, and then they would make sure the true treasure of the Helm cache was distributed. "There are two more, for now. Artru and New Dallas."

"New Dallas rings a bell. I have never heard of Artru, though," Posca admitted.

"And nobody can blame you for that, old friend. Neither had I, before I studied this data. It's an icy mining moon in the Aurigan Coalition. It holds an SLDF Outpost Castle, essentially a small-scale Castle Brian. It's still hidden; if the Aurigans had found it, the news would have spread like wildfire throughout the Periphery. Trying to get access there would carry a lot less potential risk than on Helm."

"It's still in another sovereign nation, boy," Posca reminded him.

"I know, I know. I'm not saying we should do it, but I'd like to keep the option open. Also, the Aurigans are interesting for another reason or two. If we were to manage to establish relations and a good rapport with them, it could serve as a counterweight to the Canopians' influence in the region, if we play our cards right. They also possess a jumpship repair and maintenance yard. If we establish ourselves as good partners, I reckon we could get some kind of engineer and technician exchange or training set up, hopefully."

"I suppose that little scheme very much depends on whether we can set up good relations with anybody, at all."

"You mean, preferably without it spiraling into a massive regional crisis every time? Yes, that would really be something," Marius chuckled. "I suppose we will have to give it a few years. Besides, it's a looong way to the Aurigan Reach. More than six-hundred lightyears."
It would be interesting to see if that nation still descended into civil war, only to fade into history afterwards. Admittedly, that neck of the woods had not been his biggest area of interest, back then.

"Which leaves only one point on your little list, dominus. New Dallas." He sighed. "Just like Helm, most who study history at least know the basics. A former Terran Hegemony world that Kenyon Marik coveted. The locals did not want to cooperate with his demands, gave him a bloody nose, and true to form he threw a gigantic temper tantrum. I believe at its height the world must have had a population greater than Alphard has now. And today...," Posca trailed off, shaking his head.

"A dead world," Marius nodded. "Picked clean, superficially at least. But this bunker here," he tapped the screen, "has not been found yet. It's a large mothball complex flagged in connection with Terran Hegemony intelligence. If Kenyon Marik's forces had found it in the years and decades after the planet's fall, it would have made headlines, if only to boost his ego. Of the three options available, it's the one I reckon carries the least risk. Dead system, no garrison, no curious eyes. Around the same distance as Helm, and a hundred and fifty lightyears closer than Artru."

"You really want to do this, do you?" Posca shook his head. "You will still need a big expedition for it to be worth it, and you will have to have them move through the League without raising suspicion. Besides, who do you have in mind to lead this little scheme of yours?"

"I've been thinking about giving command to Aidan."

Posca frowned. "General Volkova's son? Does the man not deserve some structure in his career? You have been pulling him from here to there."

"Good people are hard to come by, Posca," Marius shook his head. "I'll handle Aidan. He's always liked a challenge."

"You have been playing a high-stakes game ever since you recovered from your fever, dominus."

Marius glanced at the physical map of the Hegemony and its neighbors. "It's a high-stakes world, old friend."


Mount Caelius, Nova Roma, Alphard
Marian Hegemony
May 30th, 3011
A thick fog hung over the streets of Nova Roma as Marius O'Reilly observed his capital, standing at the panoramic window of the palace's briefing room. Above the gray-white layer, Alphard's distant sun bathed the city in a golden glow, casting long shadows that danced across the misty canyons below. Up here, the air was warm but carried a gentle breeze from the nearby ocean that surrounded the palace on three sides, rustling the leaves of the olive trees that lined the palace gardens. Living a second life, sometimes he had to just stop and take in the beauty the world had to offer.

Behind him, his inner circle waited patiently around a large mahogany table, upon which rested a holoprojector.

"Your Majesty," Corvinus called softly, drawing Marius's attention back to the room. "Shall we begin?"

Marius turned, offering a slight nod. "Yes, let's proceed."

The lights dimmed slightly as Corvinus activated the holoprojector. A three-dimensional image flickered to life above the table – a video recording from a recent weapons demonstration. The group watched intently as the scene unfolded.

The video opened on a sun-soaked testing ground in the arid plains south of Nova Lugdunum. In the center of the frame stood an array of targets: metal plates, old vehicle husks, and reinforced concrete blocks. A makeshift bunker shielded a cluster of engineers and observers, all wearing mismatched protective gear.
In a contrast hard to top, a woman sat under a colorful beach umbrella. She was tall and athletic, with sun-bronzed skin and short-cropped auburn hair. Clad in vibrant Hawaiian shorts and a white tank top, she reclined in a lounge chair, sipping a cocktail garnished with a slice of starfruit. Her relaxed demeanor contrasted sharply with the intense activity around her.

"That's Ana Firenza," Corvinus remarked. "Leader of the Fratelli Mechanics Gang—the 'Frat Gang' as they like to be called."

In the video, Firenza raised her glass in a mock toast toward the camera before gesturing lazily to the contraption behind her. "Doesn't look posh, but it works."

A compact but formidable-looking small laser on a makeshift turret swiveled toward the targets. It emitted a steady hum before firing a concentrated beam of coherent light. The laser struck a thick metal plate, leaving deep scorch marks. The beam then moved seamlessly to the next target, burning and pulverizing concrete. Corvinus hit the 'Fast Forward' on the recording. Racing through a time lapse, for hours, the laser continued its relentless assault, the only interruptions being when Firenza occasionally moved to refill her drink from a portable cooler.

"Impressive," General Volkova admitted grudgingly. "They've managed to maintain continuous operation without overheating. That's rather significant at this point."

Corvinus nodded, scratching his stubbly beard that did nothing to hide his double chin. "Indeed. The thing is still a prototype, pretty bulky, but they've got the documentation proving they've solved the heat buildup that plagued their earlier designs. Technically, it's sound. I've been informed that Hadrian Mechanized has taken notice and is offering substantial funding to bring this laser into mass production."

Marius stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Hadrian Mechanized Industries, from Pompey?"

"Yes," Corvinus confirmed. "They've been supplying us with tracked APCs and other light armored vehicles. Small arms, too. The current board has been eager to diversify into more military hardware. They're in the tender with for a couple different systems. With their backing, we expect the first production batches of the laser to roll off the assembly lines by early 3014. A bit more refined, by then."

"What about the other participants in the weapons tender?" Marius inquired.

Corvinus adjusted the holoprojector, bringing up a list of the competitors. "Several have shown promise. The team from Alphard Trading has made strides in developing a new loader stabilization system for autocannon and missile ammo, which brings them a good step closer to fielding viable LRM modules and domestic AC/5s, and a small outfit from Shiloh on Addhara has successfully tackled the power couplings for medium and large systems. Most other big competitors are still on the drawing board or early component testing. Barring any surprise breakthroughs, 3015 is probably the earliest we can see applicable results for the rest of the systems."

Marius glanced at Victor Blackwood. "Oculus, any concerns regarding the Frat Gang's background or affiliations?"

Blackwood shrugged slightly. "They're unorthodox, to say the least, but our investigations haven't revealed any red flags. If anything, their outsider status might work in our favor—they're not tied to any political factions and seem genuinely enthusiastic about contributing to the Hegemony's defense."

He had not really doubted it, but it was better to be safe than sorry. Security had been increased on all levels after the 'terrorist attacks' in Massilia. If anything, it proved to be a good pretextual reason to expand the Ordo Oculus' capabilities. "Very well," Marius concluded. "Ensure they have the support they need. If they manage to make it portable, this laser could be a game-changer for our infantry units, too." They didn't have mechs, and not enough tanks. But the Hegemony had people, and beggars couldn't be choosers. "You look as if you've got more, Mr. Blackwood?"

"My eyes have indeed brought me more news, Your Majesty. Movements along the League border have picked up speed during the past days," the spymaster produced a written report from his stack of folders.

A tense silence settled over the room. General Volkova's hand tightened around the armrest of her chair. "Do we know why?"

Blackwood nodded. "Yes. There have been reports of a significant Lyran assault against Dieudonné. The world has a substantial population, and houses some rather extensive military training facilities, making it strategically important for the League. It seems the attack has caught them off-guard, and they are scrambling to respond."

"Slow as they are, the Lyrans still must have sensed a weakness. Now, any kind of redeployment will only serve to bolster the Lyran-FWL border, but it'll be months until those units appear in theater," Volkova mused.

Posca, who had been quietly observing, leaned forward. "So, Janos Marik's attention has finally shifted. This was anticipated."

"Indeed," Blackwood agreed. "As expected, the attack has not done the Captain-General's position any favor. Public sentiment within the League has turned sharply against him, ironically coming from much of the same quarters as those that edged him to act on the Palatinate's behalf. Now the same factions in parliament are drumming up sentiments about condemning him for leaving their crucial border wide open."

Marius exchanged a knowing glance with Posca. "Your predictions were accurate. Janos can't afford to maintain a presence on our border while his own territories are threatened. Apparently, I need to send a communiqué to Tharkad to thank them for making Janos Marik follow through with his side of the treaty," he chuckled. Redeployment of FWL battalions along the Hegemony-League-Palatinate border had been a slow process, not least because of the scarcity of jumpships even the League suffered from. But with the urgent need to safeguard the border gone, nobody in the League had created a fuss about it. Until now.

General Volkova allowed herself a small sigh of relief. "This confirms reports from the past weeks, and truly eases the immediate threat to the Hegemony. We may finally be able to concentrate on raising Legio II and III again. I had my best people stuck in cockpits and tanks, ready to embark on dropships for the better part of half a year now."

"Is Legio I fully formed by now?" Marius wanted to know.

"All units are at full strength, personnel-wise, though equipment for some of the support elements is still lacking," Volkova threw a glance at Corvinus O'Reilly.

"Anti-ASF assets and artillery is hard to come by," the rotund man huffed. "We're looking at stopgap measures like AC/2 weapons carriers and mobile mortars in the meantime; things we can produce domestically. Once we've acquired enough Thumper pieces and dedicated AA gear we'll switch those out," he explained apologetically.

"In der Not frisst der Teufel Fliegen," Volkova sighed. "Something my Lyran-born grandma used to say. Basically, beggars can't be choosers. It'll do, sire. Same for the 1st Infantry Division. All cohorts are ready, though much of the support centuriae – armor, anti-air, artillery – is in a barebones state."

"It is what it is," Marius muttered, shaking his head before he straightened again. "Give Legio I eight weeks to rest again. In the meantime, I want you to set up a field exercise for later this summer. We've come within a whisker of a full-scale war this spring. I want to make sure if we're ever in the same situation again that we can move and deploy at least one full legion without a hitch. We've got to optimize our C3, transport and logistics, alongside of our overall combat efficacy. Anna, I want you to do this every year now, until we've ironed out the kinks."

"That'll probably keep most of our military transport assets occupied for that time," Volkova cautioned. "We'd be really thin on the ground if it wasn't for the droppers and ships we seized from the Illyrians."

"All the more reason to test how to make the best use of what we've got," Marius told her before returning his attention back on Blackwood. "Oculus, we've got the League moving out, but we've still got a shooting war on our doorstep. Now, what's the situation in the Palatinate?"

"Chaotic, to say the least, Your Majesty. Gundermann has been busy raising conventional troops from the refugees that fled the other three systems, and his people and the mercs in his employ have kept up the pressure on Trondheimal and Trasjkis. Both planets are still contested, with control over the landmasses looking like patchwork." He switched on the holoprojector again, displaying two cold, blue planets side by side, slowly rotating, with different sections of each world depicted in distinct colors.

"There are only six colors, dominus," Posca leaned in, whispering.

Marius frowned. Posca was right. "That's half as many distinct territories as there are members of the Crimson Chalice. What happened?"

A knowing smile flickered across Blackwood's immaculately styled face. "It seems that some of our pirate friends' self-preservation drives have begun to outweigh their greed. With the Bonecutters and Leo Mercer's thugs mostly absorbed by the Silver Moon Syndicate, of the remaining ten main pirate captains only half still have an appetite for trying to emulate Fletcher's success. The Grim Banshees have turned their attention to richer hunting ground – the Canopians – going by where their jumpship was last sighted. The Blackbeak Buccaneers and the rest are laying low back here on Alphard, either licking their wounds or counting their loot. Probably a bit of both." He pointed at the slowly rotating planets. "That leaves Trasjkis and Trondheimal with Harbingers Hellions, the Bloodmoon Corsairs, Chen's Cavaliers, the Bloodwraiths, and the Void Wyverns."

"That is still some serious firepower between those five, going by what we've come to know," General Anna Volkova nodded to Blackwood.

"True, but their situation is more tenuous than one might think. Not only are they trying to subdue the locals and fight off Gundermann's attacks. They are also vying amongst each other for control of these worlds, which weakens their ability to fend off the Illyrians and their mercs. Word has also reached my ears that discontent is beginning to blossom in the ranks of some of those five. The worlds of the Palatinate have never been the richest to begin with," Marius' spymaster explained, "and after months and months of fighting and raiding, the loot is starting to run dry. Also: they are pirates. None of them did sign up to become part in some kind of prolonged military campaign."

"Scum will be scum," Volkova quietly said through clenched teeth. "Useless."

"Not completely, Anna." Marius shook his head, studying the data presented to them closely. "Even scum can have its uses. They weaken the Illyrians, and Gundermann's people in turn neatly diminish the power the Thirteen hold. Which both suits us. We entered this whole mess with thirteen pirate gangs, who together probably outgunned all the troops we field. Two of those have ceased to exist. Five have been exhausted. Five more are busy trying to get rich and powerful – or dying in the process. None of them have the resources that Fletcher has been able to draw from. He's proven to be the only one smart enough to play the long game. Each day the Illyrians and the others of the Chalice squabble over Trasjkis and Trondheimal is a day he can use to cement his position."

"And he has chosen to play by our rules." Posca stated.

"In part, thanks to you, old friend." Marius appreciatively patted the slave's shoulder. "With Mercer out of the picture, Fletcher is less pirate and more occupying force." He turned to address the room and smiled. "Let's see how we can profit from that."


Above Landing Bight
Nova Roma, Alphard
Marian Hegemony
June 6th, 3011
The rays of Alphard's midday sun bounced off the gold and purple hull of the large airship slowly circling above Landing Bight, the wide bay leading to Nova Roma's harbor. On the southern end, Mount Caelius rose like a thumb into the bay, the domes and white buildings of the imperial palace sitting high above the ocean on a hill that transformed into steep rock cliffs on three sides. To the north, the coastline softly curved inwards, with beaches giving way to commercial areas, then vast swathes of industrial districts, before along hundreds of minor and major roads a seemingly infinite web of sleeper towns and smaller settlements arrayed like pearls on a chain.

Down below, fountains of floating platforms sprayed elaborate water figures into the air. Water ski ensembles raced across the turquoise waves, creating breath-taking formations and high-speed acrobatics. Yachts, both big and small, lingered in the wide bay, both to watch the spectacle and to be close to the senatorial airship drawing its circles above. Crowds lined the bay front and beaches, and the capital's street lanterns displayed banners showing the Marian and Stettin flag in alternation.

Inside, scores of local and planetary dignitaries mingled with the members of Stettin's delegation in a wide ballroom in the airship's highest deck. Dancers and acrobats performed above them, hanging on barely visible cables.

Standing alone at one of the large panoramic windows, a short woman wearing an elegant dark blouse, with dark hair and a sharp gaze, observed the spectacle, her face guarded.

"A bit much, isn't it?"

Irena Wyslawa turned to find the young Marian emperor standing next to her, clad in traditional white and purple toga and tunic adorned with ample gold embroidery. He was a good ten years her junior, but there was a maturity in his eyes she had recognized at their first meeting that gave him the gravitas of a much older statesman.
"It's more than I expected," she replied politely. "Though I am grateful that our arrival has brought so many people together." In truth, she scarcely remembered when she had last seen that many people in one place before. "Your capital city is several times larger than ours, Your Majesty, and by the looks of it I dare say more people line the bay than Nowy Stettin has inhabitants."

"I do hope you forgive me the overbearing display of luxury and pomp. I'm afraid my people have truly internalized our spiritual ancestors' foible for spectacle. I would have opted for something more... personal, probably, but, alas...," he made a sweeping gesture taking in the whole room.

"Politics," Irene smiled softly, realizing the spectacle was in equal parts for her people's and the local elite's consumption.

"Politics," Marius agreed with a chuckle.

"Your ambassador warned me of some of your people's more flamboyant traits," she said diplomatically, adjusting her amethyst necklace with one hand and grabbing a goblet of wine from a passing tray with the other. She'd been informed that all the entertainers and service staff were free people, that no slaves were present out of respect of her delegation's sensibilities.

"A lot can be said about Marians, but not that we let go of an opportunity to celebrate," he gave her a wink, and they clinked glasses. "I was told this is the first time you have traveled from Stettin? I hope your voyage was agreeable?"

Irena winced. "Ambassador al-Amin did his best to make the journey comfortable for me and my staff. Though I must admit I doubt I'll ever find jumping through hyperspace, or the strain of acceleration and braking, something to look forward to. But," she added, "the view from orbit is priceless."

"I've been told by a good friend that you'll end up barely noticing it if you just do it often enough. But he's a soldier, and thus constantly on and off a dropship, and my own experience stands at odds to his words," Marius chuckled before his face grew more serious. "Komes Wyslawa," he used the local title for countess, "let me please use the opportunity to tell you in person how grateful I – and all of the Hegemony – am that your people have decided to take the hand we have offered you. Senator al-Amin spoke highly of your world."

Irena's eyes were sharp, taking in every detail. She carried herself with confidence, a subtle aura of authority surrounding her, and Marius could see her mind working as she lowered her goblet. She inclined her head.
"Stettin is... a unique world," she began. "I can see that now, probably better than before. I'm not ashamed to say my people are proud, independent, and deeply rooted in their traditions. I understand that – from your point of view – establishing relations required delicate negotiations and, frankly, substantial concessions."

"And I understand that, understandably, you were wary of our intentions, given our reputation in the Periphery. Looking at us from the outside, I cannot blame you for being hesitant. Not one bit. What has happened between us and the Palatinate was a monumental misstep, one that has only served to emphasize the worse traits people see in us." The Marian monarch shook his head, a deep frown embedded on his face. "One thing my time on the throne has already proven to me is that trust needs to be earned. And I am grateful your people have offered us the opportunity to do so."

"That remains to be seen," she replied evenly. "The Rada and the Protector are keenly aware of the vast gulf in power between Stettin and your star nation, Your Majesty. But we are not blind, or dumb. We will be watching you closely, and, as Marshal von Rauffenberg does not tire to mention, our Gwardia, our forces, will be ever so vigilant. After what happened with the Palatinate, it was out of the question that we allowed Marian military personnel – or slaves, for that matter – on our soil."

"A fair point." If she had insulted him he did not let it show. "And maybe one where we can help you, in time, if you so desire. We do manufacture a lot of goods and weapons that your industry cannot – yet – produce, and tanks, mechs and ASF are still easier for us to acquire than for you. Trainers can be provided, officers can be exchanged. The best way to avoid undue conflict is to get to know each other."

"Not sponsoring pirates to raid a neighbor also may help," she replied dryly. "Upholding this stipulation agreed between your ambassador and the Rada will go a long way."

To his credit, the young Emperor winced. "Possibly, yes. Rest assured that those freelancers who were granted letters of marque vis-a-vis your home planet and star system have had those rescinded. Should future predation still befall Stettin, I expect – no, I demand you to come to my government immediately."

"I will, rest assured of that, Your Majesty," the short woman's eyes blazed fiercely for a moment before a genuine smile appeared on her face again. "Maybe in time, when we have learned to trust one another, you could come and visit my world yourself?"

A surprised smile flashed across the tall monarch's face. "I would like that, yes. Your home does look quite beautiful, Komes Wyslawa. No wonder Stettin was a breadbasket world when the Star League still existed. Green valleys, large oceans, snow-capped mountains, and yellow fields as far as the eye can see, with small streams and lakes everywhere. Quite different to what most my people are used to. Almost all of our worlds lean more towards hotter, drier climates." He tilted his head and smiled slyly. "Maybe tourism will become a source of income for Stettin. And I'm sure your fields' surplus will find willing buyers across the Hegemony."

"Always fiddling with the next deal, aren't you?" Irena chuckled.

"It's a vocational hazard, I guess. Marian industry will be all too eager to satisfy Stettin's needs, once the they've set up local trading branches. The rest?" he shrugged. "Only time will tell. In the meantime, our people will have ample opportunity to get to know each other." He spotted al-Amin in the crowd. "Please excuse me. I hope you enjoy yourself, and I look forward to meeting you more often, Komes Wyslawa."

He met the leader of the Mercantilists with a handshake.
"What do you think, senator?"

"She is undoubtedly sharp and ambitious," Malik replied, his eyes following the ambassador as she vanished into the crowd. "A reformer, so they say, close to the voice of the people. Undeniably one of the reasons why their Protector must have… promoted her away. Killing two birds with one stone."

"Politics," Marius said with a slight smile. "No matter where or who, it's always the same little games." And it was something to keep in mind.

"More or less," al-Amin nodded. "I must say, I quite enjoyed my mission. The negotiations were tough, especially because their society is so different from ours, but it was rewarding. We should not put this at risk," he added firmly.

"I don't intend to," Marius assured him earnestly before a mischievous smile began to play around his lips. "Say, what do you think about more missions like this...?"


Dalmatia, Illyria
Illyrian Palatinate
June 20th, 3011
As he entered his private chambers, Jason Fletcher stopped in his tracks, balked at the modestly dressed older man lounging on a recliner swirling a tall goblet of wine in his hands, then walked over to the low table and helped himself to a glass, huffing.
"You're an unwelcome guest here, Posca," the pirate become planetary leader growled through gritted teeth. "And now it seems you're trying to become an unwelcome, regular guest."

"Oh, please do relax, Commander Fletcher," the older man answered with the biggest shit-eating grin the pirate had seen in the last six months. "Your hospitality is better than its reputation, so I must thank my master for using me as the messenger for his clandestine designs. This vintage is quite excellent. I must admit, I was not aware the locals grew wine here on Illyria. And I had interesting company to keep me entertained. Oh, the things she told me...," he tilted his head towards the Still Sister in a corner of the large room.

The eerie assassin had not moved an inch since Fletcher had entered the chamber. There was a flicker in the slave's smile, but it was gone as soon as it had appeared.

"Yes, they barely ever shut up once they start talking," Fletcher replied sardonically, eyeing his ally warily. The assassin's black visor shifted ever so slightly, and he was suddenly convinced the woman was rolling her eyes. "It's alright," he added more softly, friendly. "I'll speak with the Reverend Mother later. Please leave us."

There was a pause that gave Posca the impression that something unspoken passed between the gruff pirate and his bodyguard before Fletcher nodded, and the woman left the chamber as gracious – and deadly – as a snake. He felt a cold shiver run down his spine as the door shut behind her. He looked at Fletcher. "I do not want to know where and how these 'Sisters' came into your employ. When I was alone with that one, it felt as if she was in my head."

"Of course, she was," Fletcher answered nonchalantly. Before Posca could follow up, he spoke up again. "What does the Emperor want of me this time?"

Posca's gaze shifted uncomfortably between the closed door and Fletcher before he straightened, and the smile returned to his face. "Everything, Fletcher. Dominus wants everything. But with you, he is in a giving mood today."

"And to what do I owe this honor?" the pirate frowned.

"It is your reward for being an obedient little puppet," Posca whispered more to himself than to Fletcher before he raised his voice again. "You have held up your end of the bargain, commander. No massacres, no tyrannical escapades, and you have gotten rid of the more unsavory… elements that have plagued Illyria." Which, given Fletcher himself was a pirate, was a very low bar. Posca put down his goblet of wine and focused fully on the man. "As we speak, shipments of humanitarian aid are being readied all across the Hegemony. Basic things that don't cost much, but will help these people through the winter. Volunteer agencies under the aegis of Comstar stand ready to distribute them, and see to the peoples' needs. And, to guarantee all is well, Marian peacekeepers will accompany them, to re-establish law and order and pacify the countryside. All according to the stipulations of the treaty we signed, of course." He gave Fletcher a wink. "We do know that your control over the planet is not yet absolute, commander." Posca filled his goblet back up and took a long sip. "I never thought Illyrian spiced wine would be to my taste. You will have to officially ask us for said aid, of course. That veneer of legality will have to be maintained."

"And what, pray tell, does your Emperor gain from this act of generosity? Other than placing troops on my soil to keep an eye on me, of course?" Fletcher locked eyes with Posca.

"Simple. The presence of our peacekeepers will free your assets to act against the Illyrian rump. We know that's your long-term goal. Your esteemed colleagues are still embroiled on two worlds, but their own greed and disunity will eventually see to it that Gundermann's forces and the mercenaries the League pays for him gain the upper hand. With Illyria proper secure, you can concentrate your efforts off planet," Marius' tutor explained. "You can sweep in with superior numbers once both sides have exhausted themselves."

"How very generous of Marius O'Reilly to make me fight a proxy war for him," Fletcher growled. "And all for the price of a few moldy MREs, and how many peacekeepers? Two-, three-hundred?" he took a deep gulp from his own goblet.

Posca watched him closely over the rim of his own drink. "More like ten thousand," he stated quietly.

Used to interstellar travel as he was, Posca had never liked the hyperspace jumps and long periods of transit under the pressure of several gravities. Seeing Jason Fletcher, pirate lord and ruler of Illyria nearly choke on his wine, was almost enough to compensate him for it.

 

[Culsu]

Today on Markham's Marauders: Sometimes you lose, sometimes the other guy wins.
&
Aidan Volkov leaves for New Dallas

C h a p t e r 1 3: Fortunes of War​

Leopard-class Dropship Hysteria
En Route to Trondheimal, Illyrian Palatinate
July 3rd, 3011
The hum of the Hysteria's fusion engines was a constant companion, a low thrumming that vibrated through the decks and provided a backdrop to the daily life aboard the dropship. In the mech bay, the air was thick with the mingled scents of coolant, lubricants, and the metallic tang of heated metal. It was a smell that only those who lived and worked among battlemechs could truly appreciate—or tolerate.

"Hey, Boomer, you planning to fumigate the entire bay with that stench?" 'Slicks' Malfou called out, his voice echoing off the cavernous-yet-cramped walls of the mech bay. He lounged on a folding chair, feet propped up on a crate, a cold beer in hand. His lean frame was relaxed, and his dark hair fell casually over one eye as he grinned mischievously.

Dijana 'Boomer' Ramitova shot him a withering glare from atop her Cicada's torso, her hands black with grease and grime. "If you think it's bad down there, you should try being up here," she retorted, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a streak of oil above her brow.

'Longshanks' Mueller chuckled softly, taking a sip from her own bottle. "I don't know, Boomer. From where I'm sitting, it smells like something crawled into your heat sinks and died—decades ago."

"Decades? More like centuries," Darius Oliveira chimed in, his eyes crinkling with amusement. He leaned against the massive leg of his Stinger, the Ice Queen, which gleamed under the overhead lights. They actually had had time to clean their machines. "I'm pretty sure Stefan Amaris himself shat out a whole Mongolian all-you-can-eat buffet in there."

The group erupted into laughter, the sound filling the mech bay. Boomer rolled her eyes dramatically. "Ha ha, very funny. You all can laugh, but when my beautiful baby runs cooler than any of your tin cans, you'll be eating your words."

"Hey, no offense," Slicks raised his hands defensively, still grinning. "We're just glad you're finally giving those ancient heat sinks some love. I was starting to think you had a personal vendetta against maintenance."

Boomer huffed, turning back to the open panel where the old, bulky heat sink waited to be extracted. "I maintain my mech just fine. Besides, these beauties have character. They don't make 'em like this anymore."

"Thank the stars for that," Lisa quipped, rolling her eyes, eliciting another round of laughter.

Darius took a swig of his drink, his gaze drifting across the bay to where their mechs stood in a row - gleaming, repaired, and ready. It was a sight that warmed his heart. "You know," he began thoughtfully, "it's nice not having to worry about scraping together enough C-bills to keep these beasts running."

Slicks nodded appreciatively. "No kidding. Between the payout from the Bonecutters job and the salvage rights on that Thunderbolt, we're sitting pretty for once."

"Speaking of which," Lisa added, "how's the old coot doing with the rebuild?"

They all turned their attention to the far end of the mech bay, where the hulking frame of the Thunderbolt stood like a skeleton awaiting new flesh. Surrounding it was a maze of scaffolding, cables, and equipment. At its base, their chief tech – really, sole true tech-, who everybody just called 'Gears', was hunched over a console, muttering to himself as he tapped away at the controls.

"As eccentric as ever," Darius remarked with a chuckle. "He swears he'll have it operational 'any day now'. Says he's got some ideas for 'enhancements'."

Boomer arched an eyebrow. "How about 'getting it to run' for a start. How's that for enhancements?"

"Hey, let the man dream," Slicks shrugged. "But I'll believe it when I see it."

Lisa leaned back in her chair, stretching her long legs out in front of her. "It's still hard to believe we managed to take down 'Bones' Ramirez and snag her ride. That's a story that'll earn us free drinks in any merc bar from here to Solaris VII."

"Assuming we ever get shore leave," Boomer grumbled good-naturedly, wrestling with the heat sink's mounting bolts. "Pass me that wrench, would you?"

Darius grabbed the tool from a nearby toolbox and tossed it up to her. Here you go. Need a hand with that?"

"Nah, I've got it. Just a little stubborn, like the rest of this old girl," she patted the Cicada's hull affectionately.

"Kind of like her pilot," Slicks teased.

Boomer stuck her tongue out at him before turning back to her work. With a final twist, the last bolt came free, and she carefully maneuvered the massive heat sink out of its housing. It was a behemoth of metal and fins, streaked with age and caked in residue.

"Wow," Lisa remarked, wrinkling her nose. "I think that thing predates the Star League."

"Feels like it," Boomer agreed, hefting the weight with a grunt. "But once I get it cleaned and reinstalled, it'll be good as new."

"Need help getting it down?" Darius offered.

"Please."

Using a number of winches, together, they carefully lowered the heat sink to the deck. Boomer wiped her hands on a rag, smearing the grease even further. "Now comes the fun part."

"Just make sure you dispose of whatever's growing in there responsibly," Slicks quipped. "We don't need any quarantine protocols."

She smirked. "I'll be sure to send any exotic lifeforms your way."

As Boomer wheeled the cart toward the cleaning station, Darius leaned back against the Ice Queen, a contented sigh escaping him. "You know, it's moments like this that make all the hard parts of this job worth it."

"Awww, the young one's getting sentimental. But, honestly? Agreed," Lisa nodded. "Good company, reliable mechs, and enough C-bills to keep us flying."

"And drinking," Slicks raised his bottle in a mock toast.

They clinked their bottles together and laughed, the sound echoing softly in the vast space.

A sudden crackle of static interrupted the moment, followed by the ship's intercom sparking to life. Biff Markham's gruff voice filled the bay.

"Attention all personnel. We'll be entering the braking phase in two hours. Yer all advised to wrap up any activities and get some rest. Mission briefing will be at oh-six-hundred. That is all."

Darius glanced around the mech bay, noting the scattered tools, open panels, and the general state of organized chaos that came with maintenance work. "Sounds like we've got some tidying up to do."

Boomer wiped her hands on her rag, leaving dark streaks. "I'll get the tools put away. Don't want a wrench flying across the bay at three Gs."

"Good call," Lisa agreed, standing up and stretching. "I'll double-check the securing clamps on the mechs."

"I'll help Boomer with the cleanup," Slicks offered, finishing off his beer and setting the bottle carefully into a recycling bin.

They moved efficiently, the ease of long practice evident in their coordinated efforts. Darius began closing access panels on the Ice Queen, running a quick diagnostic to ensure everything was in order. The mech hummed softly, lights flickering as systems cycled through their checks.

"Everything looks good here," he reported.

"Same with the Trebuchet," Lisa confirmed, her voice echoing from atop her mech.

Boomer and Slicks gathered up the remaining tools, storing them securely in the lockers along the bay walls. Boomer glanced at the industrial cleaner where her heat sink was still processing. "Guess I'll have to finish the reinstall after we land."

"Better safe than sorry," Darius nodded. "No point risking it coming loose during deceleration."

She sighed but nodded in agreement. "Yeah, you're right."
With the mech bay secured, the four pilots gathered near the exit hatch.
"Time to get some rest before the fun begins," Lisa said, her tone light but with an undercurrent of anticipation.

As they made their way toward the crew quarters, the ship's atmosphere seemed to shift subtly. The usual background noises of engines and systems were overlaid with the sounds of final preparations - crew members securing cargo, the clatter of equipment being stowed, and the distant murmur of conversations.

They reached a junction where their paths diverged.

"See you all in a few hours," Darius said. "Don't forget to strap in tight."

"Don't worry about me," Boomer grinned. "I've ridden out worse than a little deceleration."

"Keep your hayrollin' stories to yourself. Just make sure you're awake for the mission briefing," Slicks teased.

She rolled her eyes. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Two hours later, the Hysteria shuddered as the braking thrusters fired, the ship beginning its deceleration toward Trondheimal. In the crew compartments, the artificial gravity increased steadily, pressing everyone firmly into their acceleration couches.

Darius secured the last buckle of his harness, feeling the weight of increased G-forces settle over him. The familiar sensation was both comforting and mildly oppressive. He glanced around the small cabin, ensuring that all personal items were stowed away.

Over the intercom, Captain Markham's voice resonated. "All hands, we are now in deceleration. Remain strapped in until we reach standard gravity. Estimated time is forty-five minutes."

Darius took a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly. This was the calm before the storm—a time to center himself, to focus on the mission ahead.

In the adjacent cabin, Lisa lay strapped into her couch, her thoughts drifting to home. She wondered how her family was faring, what the fields looked like this time of year.

Slicks gritted his teeth slightly as the G-forces increased. "Always the least fun part," he muttered to himself. He tried to relax his muscles, knowing that tension only made it worse.

Across the hall, Boomer stared at the ceiling, her mind running through checklists for her Cicada. She was eager to complete the heat sink installation, to feel the improved performance in the field. The weight pressing down on her was a challenge, but she welcomed it—a test of endurance.

The ship continued its deceleration burn, the vibrations settling into a steady rhythm. Time seemed to stretch, each minute marked by the hum of the engines and the subtle creaks of the vessel's frame adjusting to the stresses.

After what felt like an eternity, the pressure began to ease. The artificial gravity systems compensated, bringing the sensation back to a more manageable level.

Captain Markham's voice came over the intercom once more. "Deceleration complete. We have achieved standard gravity. All personnel are free to move about the cabin. Mission briefing at oh-six-hundred. Markham out."

Darius exhaled slowly, unbuckling his harness. He made his way to the small common area, finding Slicks already there, stretching his limbs.

"Not getting any easier, is it?" Slicks commented.

Darius chuckled. "Not really. But at least it's not our first rodeo."

Lisa joined them, running a hand through her hair. "Everyone alright?"

"All good here," Darius replied. "Boomer?"

She appeared moments later, a determined expression on her face. "I'm heading back to the mech bay. Want to get that heat sink reinstalled before the briefing."

Slicks raised an eyebrow. "You sure that's a good idea? Shouldn't you rest up?"

"I'll rest when it's done," she insisted. "Besides, I work better when the ship's not shaking."

Darius exchanged a glance with Lisa, then nodded. "Alright. Need a hand?"

She smiled appreciatively. "Actually, yeah. That heat sink isn't going to lift itself."

"Count me in," Lisa offered.

Slicks shrugged. "Guess I'm outvoted. Let's get to it."



Leopard-class Dropship Hysteria
Trondheimal, Illyrian Palatinate
Early July 4th, 3011
The Hysteria shuddered as it breached the planet's upper atmosphere, the turbulent air currents buffeting its armored hull. Rain hammered against the bridge's wide viewport, streaking the glass and obscuring the dense clouds that blanketed the sky. Below, the planet's surface was a patchwork of swollen rivers, flooded lowlands, and mist-shrouded forests, a world caught in the throes of its spring rain season.

In the mech bay, Darius 'Persia' Oliveira sat nestled in Ice Queen's cramped cockpit, his Stinger gleaming under the harsh overhead lights. He adjusted the fit of his neurohelmet, the familiar weight settling onto his shoulders. Around him, the rest of Markham's Marauders prepared for the drop, each lost in their own thoughts.

"Looks like we're in for a soggy one," Slicks commented with one eye on a feed from the hull cameras as he fiddled with his cooling vest. His Javelin stood locked and ready, the missile tubes freshly loaded.

"Better than freezing our tails off like on Trasjkis," Boomer countered, her voice muffled as she checked the seals on her coolant lines. Her Cicada's recent maintenance had paid off as the mech's systems purred with newfound efficiency, the heat levels even in stand-bye notably lower than before.

"At least the rain might mask our approach," Lisa 'Longshanks' added as she tried to find the best position for her half-shaven head under the Trebuchet's bulky neurohelmet. "Assuming the intel holds up."

The intercom crackled to life. "All units, prepare for deployment," Markham's voice echoed through the bay. "ETA to drop zone is five minutes. Remember folks. You're to link up with Bryker's lot from Loki's Lance and a Palatinate lance to secure the transportation hub at Haverhill. Command expects resistance to be minimal, but we know how fickle things can be. So, stay sharp."

"Minimal resistance," Boomer scoffed under her breath. "They always say that."

"One medium lance, tops," Darius mimicked the by now memetic words every merc had at least heard once in their career, only for there to be a lot more than that.

"Ey, don't jinx it!" Boomer called out. "Ain't we singin' this time?"

"I doubt the other lances would appreciate our kind of rendition of 'Suns over Sian', honey," Slicks explained.

"Aw, bummer." Boomer sounded genuinely disappointed.

As the countdown ticked away, the mech bay's atmosphere grew tense. With a final lurch of its retro thrusters the venerable dropper set down. The hydraulic clamps holding the four mechs disengaged, and hangar doors and deployment ramps extended. Heavy rain battered the hull, the sound like a thousand drums heralding their arrival.

"All units, you're green for deployment," Markham announced. "Good hunting."

The massive doors of the Hysteria's belly yawned open, revealing the storm-wracked landscape below. Almost as one, the Marauders stepped outside, their mech's colossal forms dwarfed by the dropship's hull and almost immediately swallowed by the curtain of rain.

The world was a mire. Mud clung to the Stinger's legs as Darius led the lance through a shallow river that had burst its banks, the water reaching halfway up the mechs' calves. Visibility was poor; sheets of rain reduced the horizon to a gray haze, and the overcast sky pressed low upon them.

"Keep tight comms," Darius instructed, adjusting his sensors to compensate for the weather interference. "Longshanks, any sign of Loki's Lance or the Palatinate unit?"

"Negative," Lisa replied. "But with this soup, they could be a hundred meters away and we'd miss them."

"Stay alert, people," he cautioned.

They pressed on, the terrain gradually rising as they neared Haverhill. The transportation hub was a crucial nexus where rail lines and highways converged that allowed transport to most larger settlements on the continent. Securing it would deal a significant blow to the pirate operations on Trondheimal, and bring the loyalist forces one step closer to retaking the planet.

"Hold up," Slicks called out. "I'm picking up a beacon. Friendly IFF codes."

Ahead, ghostly silhouettes emerged from the rain. Four mechs materialized, their shapes resolving into the distinctive forms of Loki's Lance. At their forefront was a Centurion marked with a snarling wolf's head insignia.

"Good to see you, Marauders," Commander Julian Bryker's voice came over the shared channel. "Thought we'd lost you in this mess."

"Likewise," Darius replied. "Any contact with the Palatinate lance?"

"Crossed paths a few minutes ago. They're taking a causeway to the west from here."

"Alright, people," Darius addressed the assembled pilots. "Our objective is straight ahead. Intel says the pirates haven't fortified the hub yet. We move in fast, secure the area, and hold until reinforcements arrive."

"Copy that, Marauders," Bryker acknowledged. "Let's make it quick."

The combined force advanced, the mechs fanning out into a loose formation. The rain showed no sign of letting up, and the ground squelched beneath their feet.

"Something doesn't feel right," Boomer muttered over the lance channel.

"Always with the paranoia, girl," Slicks chided.

"Ain't paranoia when they're really out to get you," she muttered, then fell silent again.

As they crested a ridge overlooking Haverhill, the transportation hub came into view - a sprawling complex of warehouses, loading docks, and control towers, with the low buildings of residential areas spreading out around them in all directions. But instead of the expected quiet, the facility buzzed with activity. Battlemechs moved among the structures, and the unmistakable bulk of a Union-class dropship loomed on a nearby clearing.

"Contact!" Lisa hissed. "Multiple bogies. Eight, nine… damn it, that's a full company of mechs, and that dropper right in the middle!?"

Darius's blood ran cold as the contacts pinged on his sensors. There were armored units there as well. "This wasn't in the briefing. Command, this is Marauder One," he radioed urgently. "Intel was wrong. The hub is compromised! We've got a full company of pirate mechs, tanks, and support. Requesting immediate guidance."

Static crackled in response, the storm wreaking havoc on long-range communications.

"Figures," Slicks growled. "Let's be smart about this, people."

"I got a read on that enemy IFF," Lisa reported. "It's Harbinger's Hellions."

Darius's heart sank. He'd memorized all the memos on the main pirate bands they could face in their battles, and Alexander 'Harbinger' Vega was a particularly vicious one, his Hellions a battle-hardened unit with decades of experience.
"All units, we need to fall back," Darius ordered. "We're outgunned."

"Negative," Bryker cut in. "Our orders are to take the hub. We have surprise on our side. Besides, if we run now the payout will barely even cover fuel costs."

"Surprise won't count for much against that much firepower," Boomer argued.

"She's right," Darius agreed, flipping through the target profiles. Most of them were heavier than what the Marauders fielded. "We need to regroup and call for reinforcements."

"There's no time for that! If we leave now they'll have dug in fully by the time we get back, and this'll get all the more ugly," Bryker insisted. "We move now!"

Before Darius could protest further, Loki's Lance surged forward, their mechs breaking into a run down the slope toward the hub.

"Damn it!" Darius swore. "Marauders, we can't let them go alone."

"Agreed," Lisa said grimly. "But let's pick our targets wisely."

"Palatinate lance is following Loki," Slicks observed. "Looks like we're all in."

"Alright," Darius steeled himself, muttering a silent prayer. "We support them, but stay flexible. Priority is to get out of this alive. Hysteria, we're going in!"

They descended into the fray, the Marauders splitting up to provide flanking support. Longshanks lingered further back on the slope of the hill, the tree line in her back, to give her Trebuchet's LRM launchers ample room to play. As they closed the distance, the Hellions reacted swiftly.

"Incoming fire!" Boomer shouted as laser beams lanced through the rain, searing the air around them.

The battlefield erupted into chaos. Missile trails arced overhead, explosions blossomed among the structures, and the roar of autocannons filled the air.

Darius weaved the Stinger between the burning husks of vehicles, his sensors struggling to keep track of the fast-moving targets. He caught sight of a Hellions' Shadow Hawk bearing down on one of the Palatinate mechs, a battered Phoenix Hawk already in combat with a Vindicator.

"Hang on, I'm coming!" he radioed, firing his medium laser. The beam scored a hit on the Shadow Hawk's shoulder, but it barely slowed. But it got his attention.

The pirate mech turned its torso, the and AC5 burst meant for the palatinate attacker barely missed Ice Queen instead. Darius pushed his firing button again, scoring another hit with his medium laser while the bullets from his two machineguns harmlessly danced like fireflies around the larger mech. Instead, the Shadow Hawk fired its own medium laser, melting off the armor on Ice Queen's left arm.

Having bought the palatinate pilot a second of respite, the allied mech used it to dodge the Vindicator's PPC blast and land two laser hits on the Shadow Hawk, too. Darius pushed his jump jets hard and evaded a follow-up attack.

The feeling of accomplishment was short-lived. The enemy mechs retaliated with a burst of autocannon, PPC, and laser fire, catching the Phoenix Hawk in a crossfire. Shells tore into its torso. The Palatinate pilot ejected moments before the mech exploded in a fireball.

"One down," Slicks grimaced as he unleashed a salvo of SRMs. "This is bad."

"Stay focused," Darius urged, landing Ice Queen on the slippery ground and pushing her into a run immediately thereafter. "Boomer, on your left!"

A Hellions' Hunchback emerged from behind a warehouse, its massive AC/20 facing towards the Cicada. Boomer reacted instantly, firing her PPC. The blue bolt of energy struck the Hunchback's arm, damaging the actuator.
"Gotcha!" she crowed.

But the Hunchback fired, the colossal shell slamming into the Cicada's leg, almost taking it off. Alarms blared as Boomer struggled to keep her mech upright.

"Longshanks, Slicks, concentrate on my target!" Darius barked, bringing his own mech about. A Hunchback was more of a gun with a mech rather than a mech with guns. That was its greatest strength – and a tactical liability. "Keep it occupied. Boomer, status!"

"Leg's hit, mobility compromised," she gritted out. "But I'm still in it."

"Keep on moving, stay ahead of that fucker," he urged, pushing Ice Queen forward. "Slicks, let's flank him."

"Firing," Longshanks informed them, and while Slicks' Javelin arched down on the Hunchback's left side Darius steered the Stinger into the pirate mech's rear arc, opening up with what little firepower Ice Queen could bring to bear.

Caught in his own movement, the Hunchback belched another AC/20 round at Boomer, missing her by a whisker. The massive round slammed into a building, instantly turning the two-story house into rubble and flying shrapnel. Registering the impacts from Darius' attack on his lightly protected rear, the pilot turned right to face him, exposing himself to Slicks in the process. Twelve SRMs erupted from their launch tubes on fiery trails, finding a welcoming target in the turning behemoth's torso and back. Armor plating crumpled, myomers snapped, and actuators evaporated under the onslaught. A barrage of LRMs descended right onto the beleaguered mech, while Darius kept firing, too. Boomer turned her wounded Cicada around, hard. For a moment, time seemed to stand still. Then, the blue-white lightning blast of a PPC tore through the Hunchback's torso, and the workhorse mech popped like a gas-filled paper bag.
The respite was only brief. Above, the howl of aerospace fighters cut through the storm. Two aircraft streaked overhead, emblazoned with the Hellions' colors.

"Great, now they have air support," Lisa muttered. "Battlecomp reads a Seydlitz and a Lightning, folks!"

"Longshanks, see if you can keep them busy," Darius ordered. "Boomer, fall back and support Lisa with your PPC. Slicks, follow me in – and let's try and stay alive!"

"Copy that," Mueller replied, launching a volley of LRMs skyward. The missiles spiraled toward the Seydlitz, forcing the smaller ASF to break off its attack run. Having no wings, the small craft steered sluggishly through the rainstorm. The heavier Lightning was not impressed, blasting a Palatinate Wolverine with its AC/20. The mech staggered, having lost one arm, then pressed on.

The Seydlitz circled back, but Mueller sent a full salvo its way. The pilot fought to evade the missile swarm, turning and rolling as best as he could, but it was too much. Protected only by paper-thin armor the light ASF exploded in a fireball, spilling its guts across half of the city.

On the ground, the battle raged on. Loki's Lance was in trouble, too. As Darius and Slicks coordinated their light and mobile mechs to flank the pirate defenders, Darius watched in horror as Bryker's Centurion took a direct hit from two distant PPC, the mech collapsing in a heap.

"Bryker's down!" Slicks shouted.

Darius pushed the Ice Queen to her limits, darting between flooded craters and ruined structures. He fired his medium laser at an approaching Clint, scoring a hit on its left arm.

A Grasshopper leaped into the midst of Loki's Lance, tearing into another Phoenix Hawk with all its lasers. The mech exploded in a fireball, debris scattering.

"Mayday! We're being wiped out here!" someone yelled.

"Longshanks, provide covering fire!" Darius ordered, trying to evade further fire from the approaching Clint.

"On who?! I've got way too many targets!" Lisa snapped, locked onto the Grasshopper, and sent her missiles streaking toward it. The explosions rocked the enemy mech, but seventy ton heavy remained standing, its torso swiveling to search for new pray.

An alarm blared in Darius's cockpit: missile lock. "Missiles incoming!"

He jammed the controls, pushing the Stinger into a desperate sprint, a thumb hammering down on his jump jets. LRMs rained down, several impacting his mech. Armor plates buckled, warning lights flashing.

"Persia, you're hit!" Boomer cried.

"I'm alright," he lied, gritting his teeth against the pain of being jostled violently.

Boomer's Cicada hobbled across the mire and up the hill, her newly installed heat sinks allowing her to fire her PPC without overheating. She unleashed a bolt of azure energy at the charging Clint, the beam searing a gouge into its torso.

"Direct hit!" she cheered.

"Don't get cocky," Lisa cautioned. Her Trebuchet switched targets and launched a salvo of LRMs at a distant Shadow Hawk, the missiles arcing over the battlefield before raining down. Several found their mark, but the enemy mech pressed on. She switched to medium lasers, trying to help Boomer pin down the Clint.

"These guys aren't backing down," Slicks grunted, his Javelin taking a glancing blow from a Wolverine's autocannon. Warning lights flashed in his cockpit.

An enemy Dragon charged through the swamp, its autocannon and lasers tearing into a Palatinate Jenner. The lighter mech stood no chance, collapsing into the muck.

Slicks' Javelin staggered as another hit struck home. "I'm losing power! Left leg actuator's damaged!"

"Hang in there!" Boomer shouted, moving to support him. She fired her PPC at the Wolverine bearing down on Slicks, but the shot went wide as her mech stumbled in the mud.

The Wolverine returned fire, its lasers carving into the Cicada's side. Boomer's cockpit lit up with warning alarms. "Armor breach! This isn't good!"

"Screw this!" Darius decided. "Marauders, fall back immediately behind the ridge. Palatinate forces, Loki's Lance, get your asses out of there!" He switched channels. "Hysteria, come in. We need immediate extraction! Enemy outweighs and outnumbers us."

"Copy that, Marauder One," Markham replied, his voice grim and laden with static. "We're en route to your coordinates. Hold tight."

The Marauders regrouped, forming a defensive line as they retreated up the slope, the Hellions in pursuit.

"Watch out!" Darius warned as an enemy Jenner darted toward them, its lasers flashing. He fired his own laser, scoring a hit on its leg.

Slicks unleashed a salvo of SRMs, the missiles peppering the Jenner and forcing it back. Having come too close for its own good, Longshanks and Boomer finalized its fate, two medium lasers and a PPC slicing it up.

"Good shooting," Darius acknowledged.

"Not out of the woods yet," Slicks replied, dodging incoming fire from a Panther.

The Lightning fighter swooped in low, strafing the hillside. Explosions erupted around them, shrapnel pinging off their armor.

"Longshanks, any chance of taking that thing down?" Darius asked desperately.

"I'll try," Lisa responded, locking onto the fighter. She fired her LRMs, but only half of them connected, which the ASF tanked without breaking course. "Sturdy motherfucker," she cursed.

They crested the ridge, putting distance between themselves and the enemy. The Hellions halted their advance, regrouping, for now unwilling to overextend.

A burst of static came over the comms. "This is... Ensign Zeek Marlowe... Palatinate lance... anyone read me?"

"Ensign Marlowe, this is Marauder One," Darius responded. "What's your status?"

"All others are down," Marlowe's voice was strained. "My mech is heavily damaged. I'm falling back to grid seven-point-two."

"Understood," Darius acknowledged. "Link up with us if you can."

"What about the others?" Slicks protested.

"There's nothing we can do for them if we're dead! Move!"

Boomer struggled to get her Cicada moving, sparks flying from damaged joints. "Come on, girl, don't fail me now."

Slicks limped forward, his Javelin hobbling on a damaged leg.

"How long until evac?" Boomer asked.

"Ten minutes," Darius relayed. "Keep moving, folks, and eyes on your sensors!"

"That's a long time when someone's trying to kill you," Slicks muttered.

"There's a narrow corridor to the south east that we can use to our advantage," Lisa suggested. They fell back into the trees and moved to a stand of rocky outcrops, the terrain offering some cover. Rain continued to pour, thunder rumbling ominously.

"Diagnostics?" Darius inquired. "My Stinger's seen better days, but Ice Queen is still in one piece." He boosted the light mech up onto higher ground.

"Left leg actuator damaged, but functional," Boomer reported, carefully maneuvering the limping Cicada into a semblance of cover while trying to keep her field of fire open. "Armor breached on the torso. I can feel the rain on my skin."

"Javelin's taken some hits, but I'm good," Slicks said, but he sounded worried. His mech was half-hidden by the boulders, covered in scorch marks, it's armor plating dented and twisted in too many places to count.

"Trebuchet's ammo is low," Lisa noted. "Used a lot trying to keep those fighters off us. A couple more salvos, and I'm spent. Laser are still good, though."

A sensor alert drew their attention. "Get ready, people. The next minutes will be longest minutes of your lifes," Darius warned them.

"Here they come," Boomer warned, her mech's torso turning to prepare her PPC's field of fire.

Through the rain, the Hellions advanced cautiously. They had the numerical advantage, but the rough terrain worked in the Marauders' favor.

"Pick your targets," Darius instructed. "Make every shot count. And watch your flanks."

The enemy mechs opened fire, lasers and missiles streaking toward them. The Marauders returned fire, the exchange fierce.

Lisa managed to cripple a Spider, the nimble mech tumbling as one of its legs gave out.

An explosion rocked the area as Slicks' Javelin took a direct hit from an enemy Wolverine's autocannon. His mech staggered, smoke billowing from the breach.

"Slicks!" Boomer shouted, taking revenge with her own weapon as it sliced off the medium mech's right arm.

"I'm... I'm still here," he coughed. "But that hurt."

"Hang on," Darius urged, boosting Ice Queen up upon the boulders. "Just a little longer."

Time stretched as they fought, seconds feeling like minutes. The Hellions pressed harder, determined to finish them off. LRMs rained down on their position. The boulders and trees took the worst of it, but some always got through. Boomer and Longshanks gutted the incoming Wolverine, then the Trebuchet's missiles were out.

"Five minutes till extraction," Darius reminded them.

"Not sure we'll make it," Boomer said through clenched teeth. "Not sure if the wetness is just rain I'm feeling."

"Yes, we will," he insisted, jumping again while lashing the crumbling Wolverine with laser and machine guns. "We have to. Keep it up, we'll evac in no time!"

A new voice cut through the chaos, a deep, resonant tone filled with dark amusement. "Running already? But the fun's just begun."

Darius's blood ran cold. "Vega."

Ahead, a towering Warhammer emerged from the rain. Alexander 'Harbinger' Vega himself did himself the honor of joining the fight.

"Let's see how you dance," Vega taunted.

He opened fire, a torrent of PPCs searing through the storm. A beam struck Lisa's Trebuchet, melting armor and crippling her missile launcher. Only her empty magazines saved her from a catastrophic explosion. Short range missiles delivered a follow-up blow. Mueller gasped, fighting to control her damaged mech. "I'm hit! Systems failing... I can't-"

Her Trebuchet collapsed to one knee, smoke billowing.

"Lisa!" Boomer screamed.

"One little piggy went to the market…," Vega growled, his Warhammer stomping through the mire. He targeted Boomer, firing his other PPC. The beam sliced a cut across her torso armor, systems flickering and a wave of heat washing over her.
"The second little pig was naughty."

"Eject, Boomer!" Darius commanded.

"Not yet!" she snapped, pushing her mech to keep moving.

Darius gritted his teeth, steering the Ice Queen through the chaos. His mech was relatively unscathed, but he couldn't leave his friends behind. "Longshanks, can you move?"

There was a moment of static before her strained voice answered. "Barely... I'm trying."

"Slicks, cover her!" Darius ordered. He turned his mech, firing at the advancing pirates. His shots distracted a Shadow Hawk long enough for Lisa to get her Trebuchet moving again, albeit slowly. Jumping in a wide arc, he crossed Vega's field of view sending a volley of machinegun fire his way. The bullets bounced harmless off the massive war machine. Ice Queen shuddered as she hit the wet ground, stumbling. Darius fought to maintain his balance, but when he raised his torso again, Vega was barely a hundred meters away from him, facing him directly.

"The third little piggy would only make for a lean meal…," the pirate pointed one of the PPCs at the light mech.

Darius' jump jets were not yet ready again, and his footing unstable. Suddenly filled with a strange calm, he closed his eyes. So this was it.

A roar like a dragon's filled the air, pummeling Ice Queen's gyro. Flashes and explosions danced across his vision. Hysteria descended through the rain and clouds, it's PPCs and LRMs pummeling the pirate's heavy mech, forcing it to retreat, the dropship's its weapons firing to scatter the Hellions.
"All units, this is Captain Markham," the intercom blared. "We're providing covering fire. Get to the extraction point now!"

They broke from what little cover they had, sprinting toward the clearing where the dropship was descending. The Hellions fell back under the barrage from the Hysteria, unwilling to face its firepower directly. They reached the landing zone as the Hysteria touched down, ramps lowering.

"Get inside!" Markham ordered over the intercom, "we're taking off ASAP!"

"Wait, where's Marlowe?" Darius asked urgently.

"Here!" a damaged Jenner limped into view from another direction, smoke trailing.

"Cover him!" Darius instructed.

They fired over Marlowe's mech as he stumbled onto the ramp.

Darius just saw the flash of the PPCs from the corner of his eyes. Two lightning blue bolts pierced the light mech's already thin backside. Marlowe vanished in a cloud of fire and shrapnell only a few meters away from salvation.

"No, god damn it, no! "Hysteria actual, all aboard!" Darius confirmed. "Get us out of here!"

Magnetic clamps locked down the mechs, and not a second too soon as the dropship lurched upwards, the acceleration pushing all of them back into their seats, leaving the chaos of the battlefield behind.

The Lightning pursued them briefly before the Leopard's heavier defenses drove it off. It wasn't until they had broken orbit before they could leave their mechs. Not all did so by themselves.

Boomer had some severe burns and a concussion, though she complained more about the fact that her freshly cleaned heat sinks had all gotten shot to hell. Slicks got a few broken ribs. Longshanks had taken the worst of it. Shrapnel from the last SRM hits had cut into her torso and shredded her right arm. She'd been conscious enough apply a makeshift tourniquet, but the doc wasn't hopeful for the limb's future.

They had made it out alive. This time. Seven others had not been so lucky. And their mechs were all shot to shit. A bad day to be a mercenary.


--- --- --- C* Weekly News Bulletin, 32/3011
Field exercises under the codename OPERATION BARCA have begun across the Marian Hegemony, scheduled to last for six weeks. The exercises had been communicated in advance by the Marian government, but have still seen the protest of its immediate neighbors, the Magistracy of Canopus and the Lothian League, condemning the military moves as 'destabilizing' and 'aggressive'. Sources on Alphard however have reacted with irritation to the accusations, countering that by being transparent about the details of the exercise before launching it, all their actions were overt and set up in such a manner as to minimize concerns. The forces occupied by taking part in OPERATION BARCA – the 1st Legion – will not leave the territory of the Marian Hegemony, but will instead take part in a number of transport and deployment maneuvers across the nation's eleven star systems, analyzing…


Romulus L2 Lagrange Point
Alphard System
July 7th, 3011
The modified Mule-class dropship Amber Peregrine glided silently through the void, its thrusters firing intermittently as it approached the rendezvous point. Aidan Volkov stood on the bridge, arms holding on to metal handrails in the low-gravity environment, watching the display screens. At the edge of his vision, the gray, pockmarked surface of Romulus hung in front of the ocher and turquoise of Alphard itself. Both looked small, and distant. The vastness of space never ceased to humble him.

Humble. If there was one thing to say about the ideas of the man who sent him, that word would not make an appearance. Marius O'Reilly, both as his friend and as Emperor, had great designs for the Hegemony. Which Aidan would not mind, if it wasn't for the fact that he kept getting pulled into them. It'd been barely a year since he had returned from Illyria, finally with a command of his own to train and set up. Only to be pulled out of that sense of stability again.

Marius had given him the option to turn down the mission, but that had been an illusion. You did not say no when the Emperor came asking. Marius probably wasn't even aware of that. In the end, he had agreed.
"I'll do it," he had said with a sigh, his shoulders sagging. "But on one condition."

"Name it."

"After this mission, I want a stable posting," Aidan had stated firmly. "No more of this cloak and dagger horse shit."

Marius had extended his hand, and Aidan had clasped it, sealing the promise. Now all he had to do was get to that point.
"Captain, what's our ETA to the jump point?" he asked.

Captain Elena Voss, a seasoned MHAF spacer with iron-gray hair pulled into a tight bun, glanced over her shoulder. "We'll be docking with the jumpship in ten minutes, Centurio."

"Thank you," he replied, swinging his body over to a viewport, where the looming silhouette of the Invader-class jumpship Wayfarers' Odyssey came into view. Docked to its spine were a Leopard-class and another Mule, giving the mission almost seventeen thousand tons of cargo capacity, on paper.

Voss activated the ship's intercom. "All units, all personnel, prepare for docking procedures. Mechwarriors, ensure your machines are secured and ready for transit. Odyssey, requesting docking clearance."

"You're cleared for docking port three," came the response. "Prepare for hard seal in ten minutes."

"Copy that," Peregrine's captain confirmed. She turned to the helmsman. "Proceed as instructed."

The almost perfectly sphere-shaped cargo dropship maneuvered gracefully into position, thrusters firing in precise bursts. Magnetic clamps engaged with a solid 'thunk', securing the Amber Peregrine to the jumpship's docking collar.

"Docking complete," the helmsman announced.

"Good work," Aidan said. "Captain Voss, please inform the others to assemble in the Odyssey's briefing room in one hour."

"Aye, sir."


An Hour Later
Wayfarer Odyssey's Briefing Room, Grav Deck
"Ladies and gentlemen, I suppose introductions are in order," Aidan's voice rose above the murmur of the crowded briefing room. Feet shuffled, chairs scraped across the floor, and in a few moments all were settled as well as the small room permitted. "I'm Centurio Aidan Volkov, and I'll be in command for the duration of this mission. Our task is to reach a star system by the name of New Dallas," he pressed a button and a holographic display of the mission route came to life. "Our journey will take us deep into Free Worlds League space. Almost up to Terra and the Lyran border. That's more than four hundred lightyears. You can all do the math, but needless to say we'll be spending a lot of time together here." He highlighted the planned jumps on the map. "Our route includes several stops at known trade hubs. We'll resupply and gather any intelligence that may aid our mission. Remember, discretion is our shield. Avoid unnecessary conflicts. We have secured legitimate transit documents identifying us as an independent lostech prospecting company. This should allow us to move without drawing undue attention. Captain Reyes?"

"Welcome about my ship, everybody. Due to the duration of our voyage, you'll all have to spend a substantial amount of time here on the grav deck and in hydroponics," Captain Sophia Reyes of the Wayfarer Odyssey with lithe and pale, with long limbs shaped by decades in micro-gravity. "There's about a hundred and fifty souls aboard and docked to my collars, so I expect you to behave. Space is not a forgiving mistress, and neither am I if you break my rules. Listen to my crew when you're onboard the Odyssey, and we'll all have a pleasant trip."

"You've heard the Captain," Aidan picked up again. "No shenanigans. The last thing I want is some kind of accident that could've been avoided by applying slightly above room temperature intelligence, alright? Now, Captain Elena Voss commands our second Mule, the Amber Peregrine, which houses the mechs of our security team, and which will provide us with additional cargo capacity." He left it unsaid that said eight mechs were SLDF-specced models carefully rebuilt from components found in Castle Richelieu. He hoped they wouldn't need them, but the universe had already shown him once that, if something could go wrong, it would go wrong, eventually. "Centurio Marcus Hale commands the security complement, both footsies and mechs, so if you've got any concerns, you talk to him first."

A tall man with ebony skin and a clean-shaven head, Hale appeared entirely too large to fit in a standard mech cockpit. He nodded in acknowledgment at nobody in particular.

"The man over there with a face only a mother could love is our ace in the hole. Captain Antoninus Graves commands the Vanguard. That's the Leopard-class docked on Collar Two.

"She doesn't look like much," Graves's face was lined with angry red scar tissue, and his voice sounded like a gorilla chewing gravel. "But she carries almost twice the firepower of a regular Leopard, and instead of mechs there's a surprise of five ASF hidden in her belly. That should keep any prospective pirates at more than an arm's length."

"We're travelling through 'civilized space', folks, but it's definitively better to be safe than sorry," Aidan explained. "Standard pirate activity is always a risk. But our cover should prevent most entanglements. Our greatest threat is discovery by League authorities. If challenged, refer them to our transit documents and avoid escalation. Though, again, the best security in our case will be not to create and attention in the first place. Which brings us to the heart of our little gathering here."
He pointed to a rugged group of men and women who had been silent so far. "Dr. Torres?"

"Thanks, Centurio," Teresa Torres had a slight drawl that hinted at time spent in the Taurian Concordat. Tall, with auburn hair and a sharp face, her blue eyes took in the whole room. "My outfit has been doing lostech salvage for the better part of ten years now. What we do is a team effort! Lostech salvage is one part hard labour, one part meticulous research and archaeological digwork, and one part luck. Once we're on site, I expect all your people to pull their weight."

"Listen up, folks. While I'm in command of this operation, Dr. Torres and her team will be the voice and face of this mission. To the universe at large, she will be the one calling the shots. Not the least because none of us know much about lostech salvaging. Part of the mission parameters is to act as unsuspiciously as humanly possible."

"What the Centurio means by this is if we come across legit lostech job offers that won't take years to finish, we will try and take them. It'll help us maintain a solid reputation, give my people time to train yours on the job, and will hopefully lead to less scrutiny when we reach our main goal."

Hale spoke up. "And once we reach New Dallas?"

Aidan's expression hardened. "Once on-site, the salvage team will begin their work. Our role is to secure the area, provide protection, and assist as needed. Be prepared for anything. The planet has been abandoned for centuries, but we can't assume it's completely uninhabited or devoid of danger. For everything concerning the search and salvage I will defer to Dr. Torres."

Torres inclined her head. "My people are experts in archaeological recovery and lostech salvage. We'll be handling the on-ground detection and extraction operations, but the extra muscle and machinery you can provide will be a godsend. The more we find, the higher our profit, and the better for our employer."

"What's the meat and potatoes here, sir? Why are we going to all this length?" Hale remained inquisitive.

"Through reliable sources we've learned of a large, suspected mothballed armory on the planet, hidden under the location of New Dallas' former militia barracks. We don't know for sure what's in it, but the probability is high that we're looking at vast quantities of weapons, equipment and supplies," Aidan explained. "Our task will be to retrieve as much useful equipment as possible. Even if what we find is obsolete, it'll still be a boon to the Hegemony's strategic situation. Any further questions? Good." He turned to face the room. "We'll depart as soon as possible. Get settled in, and start with your assignments. Dr. Torres? Care to join me for a drink to go over the mission again?"

The lostech prospector shrugged. "Sure, why not. Better to be on the same page."

Three hours later, the Wayfarer Odyssey's KF-drive was fully charged. With a blinding flash of light, Aidan started his months-long mission.


We've already learned so many things from being deployed on Illyria. For example, we've found out that it'd be really neat to have climate-appropriate camouflage and clothes. That the gold-trimmed helmets and feather bushels of our officers' helmets work like a charm to attract enemy sharpshooters. Or that the lorica segmentata parts of our armor are decent against shrapnel, but not against much else. They are also really shiny. Yes, we have learned and are learning so many things – unfortunately, we're doing it the hard way. [General Anna Volkova, MHAF, in private when asked about the state of the Marian peacekeeping mission on Illyria, Late Summer 3011]

 

[Culsu]

Chapter 14: Ghosts of New Dallas
​

​

Aboard the Invader-class JumpShip Odyssey
Zenith Jump Point, New Dallas System
March 14th, 3012
The stars snapped back into pinpoints as the Odyssey completed its final jump. A pregnant silence followed on the bridge, broken only by the soft beeping of instruments. Captain Sophia Reyes, lithe and pale, with limbs elongated by decades spent in microgravity, unstrapped and floated beside her command console. Her sharp features were cast in soft light as she adjusted the overhead controls.

"Jump complete," Reyes announced after long seconds of silence in her quiet, clipped tone. "Astrographic data is set, New Dallas system confirmed. Zenith point achieved."

Aidan Volkov, standing nearby, let out a breath. His boots were maglocked to the deck, his body upright in the simulated zero-G of the jumpship. He glanced at the starfield on the main display, his shoulders taut. This was it.
"Scan for activity," he said, his voice steady. "What do we have?"

"Running passive scans now." Reyes' long fingers danced over the console. The Odyssey emitted no signals of its own, remaining as silent as the void around them. It was nothing more than a precaution; had someone been out there looking for them, the jumpship's emergence signature would have been as good as a beacon.

"No active signatures within ten light seconds detected," Reyes reported after a few moments. "No long-range emissions on scopes. The system looks as dead as they said it would be."

Aidan nodded, the tension in his chest easing slightly. "Good. We don't want any surprises. Keep to low-emission protocols. The moment something moves in this system, I want to know it. Communication via tight-beam only. The Leopard stays docked unless we need it. Captain Graves' boys will be our ace in the hole if shit hits the fan."

Reyes tilted her head in acknowledgment. "Understood. Your dropships have clearance for departure."

"Thank you, Captain,"" Aidan said. Turning toward the Peregrine's commanding officer, Captain Elena Voss, he gestured for her to follow. "Let's get to work. And get the other ship ready, too."


Aboard the Mule-class DropShip Amber Peregrine En Route to New Dallas
The Peregrine began its careful descent toward New Dallas. Inside the dropship, gravity returned to the crew as the ship accelerated, maintaining a steady 1G thrust. After long periods of microgravity on and attached to the Odyssey the crew welcomed the return of solid footing, even though when gravity settled in again it made them feel every pound on their bodies. After one and half days, the metal globe did a flip and entered deceleration, with New Dallas slowly growing in their sights.

Ignoring his aching muscles, Aidan moved briskly through the corridors, checking preparations. Around him, the salvage and military teams made last-minute adjustments to their equipment. Amid the organized chaos, a familiar figure caught his eye.

Dr. Teresa Torres stood at her workstation, a data pad in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. She was tall and athletic, with auburn hair tied back in a loose ponytail. Her blue eyes narrowed as she studied the incoming telemetry. The sharp lines of her face softened briefly as she glanced up and caught him watching her.

"You're hovering," she teased, her voice carrying a slight drawl. "Shouldn't you be off intimidating someone with all that military authority?"

Aidan leaned against the bulkhead, arms crossed. "I could say the same for you. Shouldn't you be buried in analysis, or making sure all your gruff space dwarves have all their shovels polished and ready? Or are you just pretending to be busy?"

Her lips curved into a smirk. "It's called multitasking, Major. Not all of us get to stomp around in fancy machines and bark orders." She sipped her coffee, her gaze playful. "Besides, if you must know, I've indeed got my hands full babysitting an entire team of engineers and eggheads. You are just here to look pretty."

"And here I thought you appreciated my charm," he shot back with a grin.

"I appreciate a lot of things," she said, her tone suggestive. "Doesn't mean I'm not counting the days until this mission ends."

He chuckled. They both understood what this was. No promises, no strings. Just two people finding ways to pass the time. They'd shared these moments countless times over the months. Neither expected more than what it was, and neither seemed to mind.
"Careful, Doc," he said. "People might start thinking you like me."

She raised an eyebrow, her expression mocking. "Oh, I like you just fine. You're tolerable when you're not micromanaging." Aidan shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "Just don't let it go to your head."

"Me? Never. I'm as humble as it gets," he agreed, straightening. "So, what's our ETA to orbit?"

"Approximately seven hours," Teresa replied. "Plenty of time to double-check our gear."

"Or," he suggested with a mischievous grin, "we could take a break."

She considered him for a moment, then tapped a few commands into the console, locking it. "I suppose we've earned it."

"Meet you in my cabin?" he asked.

She smiled. "Give me ten minutes."


On the Bridge
"Any updates from the sensors?"

"Passive scans show minimal activity. Some debris in orbit, but no signs of active defenses or recent habitation," Captain Voss reported. "Twenty minutes until stable orbit."

"Let's keep it that way," Aidan said as he strapped in for the last phase of deceleration. "Once we're closer, we'll switch to active sensors for a better look."

Almost exactly twenty minutes later, the Peregrine and her sister ship, the Trailblazer settled into a stable orbit around New Dallas. Coated in ochre dust clouds and a thousand shades of dirty yellow, the planet looked nothing like the historical data they had at their disposal. At its height, New Dallas had been a breadbasket world for nearby systems, home to as many people as Alphard, the Marian Hegemony's capital. Aidan gave Captain Voss a curt nod.

"Initiate active scan," she commanded. "Let's see what we're dealing with."
The ships' systems hummed as radar, lidar, and other detection equipment swept over the planet below.

"Data coming in," Teresa reported from her workstation. A holographic image of the planet materialized, the surface details emerging in patches. The planet appeared as a swirling sphere of orange and dirty ochre, its atmosphere tainted by centuries of decay. Massive dust storms raged across its surface, and the temperatures exceeded seventy degrees Celsius.

"Active scans initiated," she reported. "Atmospheric composition confirms high toxicity levels - sulfur dioxide, carbon monoxide, particulate matter. Equatorial temperature levels are in excess of 90° Celsius."

Aidan leaned over her shoulder, eyes scanning the data. "Any signs of active defenses or orbital platforms?"

"Negative," Voss reported from her station. "None detected."

He pointed to several objects orbiting the planet. "What about those?"

"Old satellites," she confirmed. "Most are inactive, but a few are still transmitting weak signals. Their orbits are decaying, they'll eventually burn up on re-entry."

"Would've really surprised me to find something armed and active up here, after all the fighting that world went through. It's testament to Star League engineering that they're still up here and working, after all this time," Teresa Torres murmured. "The planet is effectively dead; they are the last 'living' systems here."

"You're looking to salvage them?" Aidan shot her an inquisitive look.

"Maybe on the way back up, if we've still got time and storage space. If they're up and running after two and half centuries, they'll be worth their weight in gold," she shrugged a bit sheepishly.

"Guess we'll cross that bridge once we get there. Captain, what's the status of the landing site?"

"As Dr. Torres said, the planet's dead. Radiation levels are consistent with multiple nuclear strikes, but most hotspots have decayed to tolerable levels." Voss brought up a detailed image of the planet's surface, zooming in on one section. "Caddo City is our best option. There's what looks like an old military airstrip on the outskirts here. Sensor data indicates it should be intact enough for our purposes. It was designed to handle heavy traffic back when that meant magnitudes more ships landing and starting than nowadays. Place should support the weight of the dropships."

Aidan straightened. "Good. Prepare our approach vector accordingly. Everybody else, let's make some last checkups. This is the real thing. This is what we came here for."


Surface of New Dallas
Ruins of Caddo City
The dropships descended through the thick atmosphere, heat shields glowing as they cut through layers of dust and toxins. The Peregrine and Trailblazer touched down on the cracked tarmac of the abandoned military airstrip, landing struts settling into the fractured concrete. Up close the state of the place was worse than expected. Most hangars were mere shells of rotting and rusting steel and concrete. Impact craters from battles two and a half centuries in the past scarred the fields, including one big one that had taken out the large base's main buildings, and which one didn't need much imagination to recognize as that of a nuclear weapon. Lucky for them, the isotopes' half-life meant proximity no longer was lethal, even though setting up shop right in the middle of it would still by ill-advised.

Aidan stood at the base of the ramp, environmental suit sealed and helmet visor reflecting the desolate landscape. The air outside was a hazy orange, the sky choked with pollutants that filtered the sunlight into a perpetual twilight, and the suit's cooling systems had their hands full with the place's ambient temperature. Even at max settings he was still sweating.

"Remember," he addressed the team over the comm, "keep your gear on at all times. This atmosphere will kill you in minutes without it. No solo adventures, no spelunking. Stick to Dr. Torres folks at all times; this is their area of expertise. Remember what you've learned these past months!"

In its heyday Caddo City had been home to millions, a metropolis built by and for the Terran Hegemony's most steadfast. Now, it was a blasted wasteland. Massive skyscrapers stood as hollow shells, their steel frames warped and rusting. Entire city blocks had collapsed into rubble, the streets clogged with debris. A slight stench of something lingered, even through their respirators.

"Welcome to paradise," Teresa quipped, her voice tinged with a mix of anticipation, curiosity, and unease.

Aidan didn't respond. He was transfixed by the sight before him. In his mind he transposed the image of Caddo City with that of Nova Roma, and the skyscrapers looked eerily similar. Only this here was a tomb.

Industrial mechs lumbered down the ramps of the dropships, piloted by members of the salvage team. Heavy excavator and sealed all-terrain vehicles followed.

"Begin setting up the base camp," Teresa directed via radio. "We need to establish a secure perimeter before we start excavations. Set up the mobile hangar next to the droppers; we'll need it for cleaning and decontamination. Franklin, get our drones up in the air. We have a rough idea where our target should be; I want aerial recon asap! Washima, check on the ground-penetrating radar. Flint, you've got Team 2. I want you and your guys out there, first light of the morning, for regular salvage duty. You know the drill. Move it, folks! I want this camp set up before nightfall!"

The industrial mechs set to work, deploying barriers, sensors, and equipment. Portable shelters were erected, their clean lines contrasting starkly with the devastation surrounding them. Lights were set up, decontamination tens, and pressured workspaces. Aidan watched with slight satisfaction that his own people were not completely in the way; the small tasks they had taken on during their journey paid their dividends.

For now, Aidan's military mechs remained in their hangars aboard the Peregrine, ready but unseen. He preferred to keep them in reserve, not wanting to attract unnecessary attention—even on a dead world.


Dead City
As the all-terrain vehicles crested a ridge of shattered concrete and twisted rebar, Teresa brought the rugged vehicle to a halt. The other two followed suit, same as the two modified loadermechs that followed them, engines idling amidst the almost physically oppressive silence. Aidan was no stranger to war, but the picture that presented itself to him immediately put everything he had seen and lived through so far into perspective.

Before them stretched a panorama of desolation. Towers that had once reached three-, four-hundred meters now were jagged stumps, their upper stories sheared away, leaving open wounds of exposed girders and crumbling masonry. The few structures that remained intact rose like solitary tombstones, their glass facades long since shattered, leaving empty eye sockets staring vacantly into the toxic haze that shrouded the horizon.

"Allah be merciful," someone – Aidan didn't know if it was one of his people or of Teresa's more experienced crew – whispered over the comm, the words carrying a weight of awe and dread.

Aidan didn't respond immediately. He sat next to Teresa Torres, his eyes sweeping across the ruins. The atmosphere filters in their suits and the seals on the vehicles shielded them from the worst of the it, but there was no escaping the palpable sense of death that lingered here. Centuries of decay had not been kind to Caddo City, but even time seemed hesitant to claim this place entirely, as if the violence inflicted upon it had scarred the very fabric of reality. It wasn't even the smell of rot. Whatever had died here had long since vanished completely, thanks to the atmospheric conditions and the bacteria still present. It was just the place in and by itself.
"Let's proceed," he said finally, his voice steady but low. "Stay alert. We've got a job to do, but we don't know how stable the structures are."

Teresa nodded in agreement, and they continued on. The vehicles rolled forward, their tires crunching over debris that had once been the lifeblood of a thriving metropolis. Street lamps stood bent and twisted, fragments littered the streets, interspersed with the rusted hulks of ground cars, some fused to the pavement by the heat of explosions. They passed beneath the remnants of an overhead maglev track. The rails hung precariously from fractured supports, swaying slightly in the toxic breeze.

"Radiation levels spiking in this area," Aidan noted from the passenger seat beside her, consulting a handheld scanner. The glow from its screen reflected off his visor, casting his features in an eerie light that made him look gaunt and tired.

"Noted," Torres replied curtly, her eyes on what passed for the remnant of a road. "Cab 2 and 3, adjust course to minimize exposure."

They veered onto a side street, navigating around a collapsed building whose upper stories had pancaked onto the thoroughfare below. As they did, the terrain opened up into what had once been a public square. A cracked and faded mural stretched across the side of a nearby building, the vibrant colors celebrating unity and progress now dulled and peeling. Bullet holes and scorch marks marred the artwork, stark reminders of the close-quarters combat that had raged here before the final cataclysm.
"Hold up," Aidan ordered, touching Teresa's arm, and they brought the convoy to a stop once more.
In the center of the square stood a statue, or rather what remained of one. The figure had been crafted from gleaming metal, now tarnished and corroded. Its outstretched arm pointed accusingly toward the sky, though the head had been sheared off, lying in fragments at the base. Around it lay the scattered remnants of battlemechs and armored vehicles. Aidan dismounted from the vehicle, his boots crunching on shattered glass as he approached the wreckage. The others followed, their suits' servos whirring softly in the heavy air. One of the mechs - a Warhammer by its frame - lay slumped against the facade of a collapsed structure, its armor pockmarked and scorched, the paint peeled off almost everywhere, replaced by rust. The cockpit canopy was blown open, hanging by a single hinge.

"Looks like it took a direct hit," Teresa joined him, pointing and the wide black hole in its torso, her voice filtered through the comm.

"More than one. The big one's probably from a PPC," Aidan agreed. "Kinda ironic, given it's a Warhammer. But look here."
He pointed to the mech's torso, where jagged holes penetrated deep into the internal structure. "These entry points—autocannon fire at close range. They must have been fighting in the streets, point-blank."

"Must have been chaos," one of the engineers muttered, sweeping his scanner over the wreckage. "Hard to imagine mechs battling it out in such tight quarters."

"Desperation does that," Aidan said quietly. "Besides, if you know what you're doing it's good ground to deny an enemy's advantages, break them down into smaller groups, negate whatever range advantage they may have had. Though," he rose from where he had knelt, his eyes sweeping the scene, frowning, "I've never seen anything like this here."

"Neither have we," Dr. Torres' ordinarily upbeat voice was somber. "We've dug through some ruins, alright, but never something on this scale." She took in the panorama for a few more silent, oppressive seconds before she spoke up again. "Flint, get your guys to work. Mark what can be salvaged, even if it's just the scrap value. And call up the mechs to clear the path; we'll make this our first waypoint."

Half a dozen operators spread out across the plaza, checking the wreckage, placing green plastic flags where they thought salvage was possible. Five minutes later the small trek of vehicles was mobile again. But progress was slow, cautious, and littered with stops. They had the rough direction to where they suspected the boneyard bunker – hard to tell as it was in this chaos – but the roads were cluttered, and prospective salvage on the way had to be checked and marked. They moved on, weaving between the carcasses of destroyed vehicles. A tank sat half-submerged in a crater, its turret blown clean off. Nearby, the skeletal remains of a VTOL aircraft protruded from the side of a building, nose-first, as if it had attempted one final, futile assault before being swatted from the sky. Aidan dutifully tapped commands into his wrist console, guided by Teresa, adding salvage and its location to their shared 3D map, highlighted in amber.
"Let's keep moving," he said. "We have a lot of ground to cover."

They continued deeper into the city, the ruins towering over them like the crumbling walls of a labyrinth. The light began to fade as the toxic haze thickened, casting the streets into a perpetual twilight. Shadows stretched long and twisted, playing tricks on the eye.
"Does anyone else feel like they're being watched?" one of the younger technicians asked nervously.

"It's just the atmosphere," Teresa reassured him. "High particulate levels distort light—makes the shadows seem to move."

"Still creepy," he muttered.

Aidan understood the sentiment. There was an oppressive weight here, a sense of something otherworldly that seemed to seep from the very stones. As if the dead lingered. The toxic environment had accelerated the decay, but in some places, it had also preserved moments frozen in time. In a café, cups sat on tables, their contents long evaporated, chairs pulled out as if the patrons had just stepped away. Behind a tight plexiglass frame, a poster's headline proclaimed news of the war's escalation - a dire warning that had come too late for Caddo City and New Dallas. They skirted the heart of the city. New Dallas' government had resided here amidst a cluster of buildings that had been the epicenter of leadership and administration. It was here that the final decisions had likely been made, where hope might have flickered even as the end drew near, as the Terran Hegemony fully collapsed and its ravenous neighbors came for their pound of flesh. The structures were unrecognizable, melted and fused by the intensity of orbital strikes. The ground was scorched black, the very soil turned to glass in places where the heat had been most intense. Craters overlapped in chaotic patterns, evidence of the relentless bombardment that had sealed the city's fate. Even after more than two centuries, residual radiation was still high enough to warrant only short-term exposure. They passed what had once been a residential block. The facade of the building was scorched black, windows shattered, balconies hanging by threads. A child's toy - a stuffed bear made from everlasting synthetic fiber, missing an eye - lay abandoned on the steps leading up to a warped doorway.

Ahead, they drove right through a massive crater that had obliterated an entire intersection. At its center was a fused mass of metal and glass, likely a building vaporized by the intensity of the blast. Around the edges, the remnants of vehicles and mechs were strewn like discarded toys.

"Residual radiation is high," Aidan warned Teresa as the ATV scaled the opposite slope again. "We shouldn't stay here long."

"Agreed," she agreed, but her attention was caught by a series of markings scorched into the pavement. "Do those look like... footprints?"

They were, in fact, the impressions left by a battlemech's feet, melted into the asphalt by extreme heat. The stride suggested the mech had been running, fleeing from something - or toward it.
"Cab 1 to Franklin, do you have our position?"

"Roger, Cab 1, we've got you on the feed from Eagle 3," came the answer through a crackling connection.

"Send an excavator to my current position. We're still on the most likely route to target, and I need that crater reasonably filled, both to dampen residuals and get a better path," Teresa ordered, her eyes already on the road again.

They moved on, each new sight adding to the mosaic of destruction that painted a picture of the city's final hours. Here, the skeletal remains of a defensive barricade hastily constructed from overturned vehicles and debris. There, the collapsed entrance of a subway station, the stairs leading down into impenetrable darkness. They came upon a playground, its equipment warped and sagging. Swings hung motionless, chains corroded and seats disintegrated. A merry-go-round rested at a crooked angle, one side sunk into the ground. The silence was overwhelming, the absence of laughter a stark reminder of the lives extinguished here. The remnants of human life were everywhere, yet no bodies remained, consumed by fire, decay, or time. Shadows burned into walls hinted at final moments, silhouettes captured in an instant of blinding light. It was as if the city itself mourned, bearing silent witness to the atrocities committed.

"Franklin to Cab 1, we've got you two kilometers out from target on aerial recon. Maintain course for another eight-zero-zero, then turn 25 degrees north-west. Your route's bumpy, but other approach vectors look even worse from here," the team's drone operator reported via radio, the connection worse than before.

Teresa stopped the vehicle to get a new bearing.
"Cab 1, got it. By the way, getting increasing interference. Get a note to the clearance team to set up a signals' repeater."
A sudden gust stirred the air, swirling dust around them. It carried a faint sound—a distant creaking, followed by a low rumble. They looked up to see a building several blocks away beginning to collapse, weakened supports finally giving way. The structure crumbled in slow motion, sending a plume of debris skyward.
"Time is erasing this place," Aidan quietly observed.

"Well, if we don't find the bunker, we could probably still make a killing with all the ordinary salvage -- and all that endo steel in those buildings?" Teresa, to his surprise, quipped lightly.

"Why'd there be endo steel in buildings?" he gave her a puzzled look.

"Oh, you poor, poor normies," her auburn hair bobbed under her protective environmental helmet. "I tend to forget you don't see the universe through the same lens as we lostech diggers do. You see this as a scarce magic metal, Major. The Terrans – and the Star League, too – built millions of tons of endo steel. Annually. In space forges. Because they could. There probably isn't an official Hegemony building raised after 2500 without endo steel."

"But why?!" he tried to wrap his head around the idea. Some of the mechs they had taken from RICHELIEU had endo steel skeletons, and none of the eggheads back home had any idea how to replace or repair that stuff.

"Typical Terran hubris, I guess," Teresa shrugged non-chalantly. "Allows you to build higher, bigger, more opulent for the same load-bearing pressure. You wouldn't believe how much people with too much money and not enough sense pay to get some endo steel beam in good condition for their mansions nowadays, just so they can brag about it to their pampered friends in some club on Tharkad or so."

Aidan sighed, shaking his head. "Well, I'll go and tell the Emperor then for the next pissing match with the Senate."

They continued toward the coordinates where the military barracks once stood. The journey took them through industrial zones, where factories and warehouses had been leveled. Massive machinery lay in ruins, conveyor belts frozen mid-cycle, assembly lines halted indefinitely. What could be used easily had long since been salvaged. Pipes protruded from the ground, some still leaking noxious fluids that pooled in toxic lagoons, not that it made any difference to New Dallas biosphere. The air here was heavier, the smell acrid even through their filters. Franklin's two kilometers took them just as many hours to traverse. They reached the remains of the barracks, identified by the crumbling perimeter walls and faded insignia barely visible on a collapsed gate. Vehicles, likely military transports, were scattered about, their armored hulls pitted and scarred and rusted beyond recognition. A couple of old domes, broken and cracked like raw eggs, dominated the area, remnants from the time before New Dallas had been terraformed. For New Dallas had not just been bombed into the hellscape it appeared as now: it was merely reverting to its original state.

"According to the maps, the bunker should be somewhere beneath us," Aidan said, studying his data pad.

Teresa stepped out of the vehicle and surveyed the area. "That's a couple of square miles we'll have to comb over with a looking glass, Major. First, we'll need the road fully cleared, then the second camp fully set up. We'll need the industrial mechs to clear this debris, all the drones to set up a fine raster from the air, and all our GPR systems in place. The entrance could be anywhere under this," she gestured at the mountains of rubble. "Alright, Cab 2, set up temporary shelter here, get the pressurized tents up and secured. Cab 1 and 3, let's dismount and take a first look as long as we've still got daylight."

"You intend for us to spend the night here?" Aidan leaned in close, frowning.

"It'll be hours until we make it back to the dropships, and we'll get in the way with the rest of the teams trying to set up everything. Besides, a stitch in time saves nine. Let's look what we're up against here. Besides, money or not, I don't want to spend more time here than necessary. This place?" Teresa added softly. "It's a graveyard without headstones. An entire world silenced." She thought of the abandoned teddy bear, and a shiver ran down her spine. "I've seen abandoned outposts, empty space stations, or cellars full of Star League era products, forgotten in time. But this? I think I'll be happy when I get to leave again."


Excavation, Day 1
They spent a night with little sleep, hot and howling winds whipping clouds of dust and dirt against their pressurized tents and ATVs, life support system straining to keep up with the rapid changes in temperature. With the first smudgy light of the morning, work began in earnest. While teams kept clearing the road to create a runway between the landed dropships and the ruined barracks, drones began their close-by flights over the area, creating a detailed 3-D image. Small excavators cleared away piles of rubble, progressing slower than Aidan would have liked.

"This is a hot zone, Major," Teresa had explained. "We've got no idea how many hazardous munitions are strewn across this area, so I'd rather lose a minute than a man." Even then, they had set off explosions twice. Small ones, luckily, but that had shut Aidan up.

Windows were shattered, their jagged edges glinting ominously. Vehicles - transports and armored units alike - lay strewn about like discarded toys, their metal frames melted and fused from nuclear airbursts and orbital strikes that had obliterated the place centuries ago.

"Watch your step," Teresa cautioned her team of engineers and archaeologists. "There's no telling what's buried under this debris."

As if to underscore her warning, a section of wall had crumbled nearby, shaken loose by the vibrations of the heavy machinery, sending a cascade of rubble clattering to the ground. The team flinched, instinctively ducking even as they scanned for further danger.

"Area seems unstable," one of the engineers, a stocky man named Harris, observed dryly.

"That's the understatement of the century," Teresa muttered, consulting her handheld scanner. The device pinged softly, mapping the subsurface anomalies.

Around noon, Aidan's soldiers and a few of the road teams joined them, bringing more of the heavy equipment and the loadermechs with them.

Regardless, the work was slow, painstakingly so. Every piece of debris shifted threatened to unbalance others, and the ever-present risk of unexploded ordnance added an extra layer of peril. The soldiers and salvage team moved in concert, their efforts coordinated and methodical. As they cleared away the rubble, more of the devastation became apparent. Scorch marks overlapped bullet holes on the surviving walls, telling a tale of fierce combat before the final annihilation. Here and there, the remnants of personal belongings - dog tags fused to scraps of uniform fabric, a melted photograph frame, the twisted remains of a child's toy unearthed from below a boulder - emerged from the ashes, silent witnesses to lives abruptly ended.

Teresa picked up a tarnished insignia badge, its once-sharp edges smoothed by heat and time. She rubbed it gently between her gloved fingers, revealing the faint outline of the planetary militia's emblem.

"Find something?" Aidan asked, his tone neutral but eyes attentive.

"Just a reminder," she said softly, "of who they were." She rose abruptly and cleared her throat. "This place is getting to me. Before I know it, I'll start drinking and cultivate depressions," she grimaced.

The camp grew during the afternoon, as Sergej Washima and his team arrived with the GPR equipment and got to work immediately. The sun was already beginning to dip below the horizon, with floodlights set up, when one of those teams radioed in. "Major Volkov, Dr. Torres, you'll want to see this."

They arrived at a collapsed intersection where the industrial mechs had uncovered a hidden access tunnel.

"GPR pinged back a cavity, and we cleared the top layer with the 'mech," Washima explained. "Ground gave in, and here we are. Space is too small for the main haul, but it might lead there."

Aidan and Teresa descended into the darkness, their suit lights casting beams through the dust-laden air. The tunnel opened into a large chamber, rows of benches and makeshift beds lining the walls. Teresa gasped softly as her light fell upon the remains of those who had sought refuge here. Mummified bodies lay huddled together, some embracing, others curled in on themselves.
"Children," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "There are children here."

Aidan placed a hand on her shoulder. "They must have thought they'd be safe."

She knelt beside one of the figures, a small teddy bear clutched in its arms. "They deserved better."

Aidan wasn't religious, but then and there he offered a silent prayer. "There's just this one way in. Let's document everything, and seal up this place again," he said gently. "They deserve to be left in peace."

What remained of the day lay under a cover of glumness. When work stopped and they retreated to the camp that had been set up in the meantime, Teresa slipped into Aidan's bunk and snuggled up against him. "I don't want to be alone tonight." She fell asleep in his arms.

They found the bunker the next day.


Boneyard -- Excavation, Day 2
The morning sun, a hazy orb filtered through the toxic atmosphere, cast a dim orange glow over the ruins of Caddo City. Temperatures were already well into the 70ies as Aidan stood atop a mound of rubble, the remnants of a collapsed dome structure looming behind him. Below, Dr. Torres directed her team of LosTech salvagers, her shape almost comically small between all the heavy equipment that scurried around in organized chaos.

"Careful with that beam!" Teresa called out, her voice crisp over the comm channel. "We don't want another collapse."

The bunker gates they sought lay somewhere below. Ironically, the nearby impacts had probably saved the bunker from destruction, the rubble from the structures above having buried the access. He felt a surge of anticipation mixed with unease. This was his second rodeo with hidden, massive, secret bunkers from a universe long since gone.

"Major Volkov," Teresa's voice cut into his thoughts. "We're making progress. I estimate we'll reach the gate within the next few hours."

"Understood," he replied. "I'll have additional personnel ready to assist."
He climbed down from his vantage point, switching comm channels. "Hale, speak to me. How are we looking?"

"All clear," a gravelly voice answered him without delay. "All perimeter checks are complete. No signs of any unwanted guests."

"Good," Aidan nodded. "Maintain heightened alertness. Would be a shame if we fumbled this after the lengths we've gone to get here."

"Understood, Centurio. Anyone caught slacking, I'll whip them personally. Hale out."

Aidan caught up with Teresa, who was reviewing a crude wireframe map on a sturdy noteputer. Her auburn hair was pulled back tightly under the environmental suit's hard helmet, accentuating the sharp lines of her face. Sweat dripped down her brow. But even beneath the grime, exhaustion, and sweat her blue eyes sparkled with a mix of curiosity and determination.
"Any issues so far?" he asked.

"Nothing we can't handle," she replied, glancing up at him. "Though this rubble isn't making it easy. The dome's collapse has fused some of the debris together. Guess they got a near hit, given the heat needed to melt that stuff. Luckily, residual radiation's within bearable parameters, but I'd recommend against making it a vacation spot," she smiled wryly. "Worried?"

"Always," he muttered, meeting her gaze, then shrugged sheepishly. "But that's my job."

"Well, my job is to find hidden treasures, and I have a good feeling about this one."

By midday, the sun hung high in the sky, its light diffused by the perpetual haze. The team had finally cleared the last of the rubble and bulldozed a solid ramp, revealing the massive metal gate. Protected by a layer of soil and debris, it was unmarred by rust. Faintly, the crest of New Dallas – the Cameron star framed by fields of red and blue – still persisted on it.

"Would you look at that," Teresa purred, awe in her voice. "Now comes the fun part, folks!" she exclaimed, pulling up schematics. "We need to get it open."

The gate's locking mechanism was a complex system designed to withstand both time and force. With an auxiliary generator hooked to it, Teresa's team set to work, interfacing with the ancient controls and bypassing security protocols. The circuits had fared worse than the gate itself, but there was a manual override they could still access. After roughly an hour of careful tinkering, large metallic locks snapped back, releasing both parts of the giant bunker door. The gate shuddered, emitting a deep groan that reverberated through the ground. Slowly, it began to part down the middle, the two massive doors sliding inward to reveal a yawning darkness beyond.

"Lights," Aidan ordered. Floodlights snapped on, piercing the shadows to reveal a tunnel stretching into the depths. The air that wafted out was cool and dry, untouched by the toxic atmosphere above. "Well done," he nodded to Teresa.

She exhaled, relief evident. "Just doing my part. Now, the rewarding portion of the job gets going. Remember," she addressed both her salvagers and Aidan's soldiers, "we don't know what condition the interior is in. There could be structural damage, radiation pockets, or automated defenses. Stay alert."

They moved into the tunnel, footsteps echoing off the metal walls. The passageway was large enough to accommodate heavy vehicles, its design utilitarian yet imposing. Conduits and pipes ran along the ceiling, often in surprisingly pristine condition.

"Look at this," Teresa said, pausing by a wall where a large map was mounted. Though discolored and peeling, it displayed a detailed layout of the underground complex.

"That'll be useful," Aidan remarked, amused. "You can count on the military to make things plain and easy to understand, no matter the century. Always set up things with the dumbest idiot in mind. Let's take it there," he pointed ahead.

They reached the first junction, where the tunnel split into multiple directions. "This way leads to the main depots," she indicated. "The armories are deeper inside."

As solid as the original engineers had built the place, the boneyard was not untouched. While some sections were pristine, sealed off from the outside world and preserved as if in stasis, other areas bore the scars of time and violence. Walls buckled inside, ceilings had collapsed and tunnels blocked, and some corridors were flooded with corrosive seepage. Still, with Dr. Torres' experienced team in the lead, Aidan felt a soothing absence of being on edge in the way he had been while exploring RICHELIEU. Nobody needed to tell them to be on the lookout for boobytraps and dangers – that was simply part of their job.

Entering a cavernous chamber labeled 'Depot 3' in faded yellow letters, they found rows upon rows of tarped shapes. Teresa approached one, carefully peeling back the heavy covering. It rushed to the ground with a heavy thud, dozens of square meters of synth-cloth whirling up countless motes of dust, revealing the angular form of a battlemech beneath.

"That's a Mackie!" she breathed. "An original model."

Aidan stepped closer, inspecting the mech. It was painted in an earthen armor scheme, unmarred by rust. "A 7A model, by the looks of it. And in remarkable condition." He walked to the next one. "That one's a 6S – the grandfather of all assault mechs! And over there," he swiftly closed the distance, "I think that's a 9H-model. That's royal spec technology," he whistled, greatly impressed. "Seems like they always put their older stuff here once they got newer models. Forgot one. Good for us," he grinned.

"Boys and their toys," Teresa chuckled. "Do you want to unwrap all your presents right now, or can we hand that part to the teams tasked with cataloguing our finds? We've barely started exploring this place, and," she squinted, the light of their torches broken by so much dust that it looked as if it was snowing inside the depot, "there's probably a battalion worth of gear in here alone."

"You're a terrible spoilsport, Doctor Torres," he replied, acting as if he was pouting.

"Just keeping the kids in check," she wagged a finger. "Come on, let's go."

Not all discoveries were so fortunate. They came across other depots, just as cavernous as the first one, where the bunker's structural integrity had been compromised, with mechs rusted, corroded, or buried beneath broken concrete and rocks.

In one storage bay, they discovered ranks of mothballed tanks – various hovertanks, light Galleons, ancient Merkavas, and even a few rare Alacorns. Towed artillery pieces stood silent, their barrels pointed toward the ceiling as if awaiting orders from commanders long dead. Infantry equipment filled storerooms: weapons, armor, and supplies, all relics of a bygone era, some vacuum-sealed, but much rotten and beyond repair.

"Careful with the munitions stocks," Aidan warned. "Battery packs might just be spent, but you don't know how much shells and grenades have suffered from atmospheric corrosion."

"Understood," an engineer surveying an armory replied, signaling his team to proceed with caution. "We'll try to avoid blowing us all to kingdom come."

Deeper into the boneyard, it became apparent that the bunker had taken more serious damage than they had first assessed. Radiation readings spiked in places, forcing them to reroute. In one collapsed corridor, they paused to reassess.

"There's supposed to be a command center beyond this point," Teresa said, frustration creeping into her voice. "But this blockage..."

Aidan examined the debris. "We might be able to clear it, or at least find another way around."

"Wait," one of the engineers said, scanning the wall. "I'm picking up a cavity behind here. It might not be as solid as it looks."

Using jackhammers and muscles, they surprisingly quickly opened a hole into the hidden chamber. Dust and debris trickled from the ceiling, with everybody warily eyeing the ancient concrete above. But the bunker held.

Teresa shone her light inside. "It's a room. Looks intact."

They entered cautiously. The chamber was smaller than expected, lined with consoles and displays, black and covered in dust.

"This isn't on the schematics," Teresa said, perplexed.

Aidan approached the central console, its surface covered in layers of dust. "A hidden command center?"

"Possibly," she replied, moving to another terminal in front of a milky cylinder. Her eyes widened as she wiped away the grime. "Aidan... I think this is a memory core!"

He felt a jolt. "Are you certain?"

"Yes," she confirmed, excitement tinged with disbelief. "I'd have to boot up the mainframe to check it, but by the looks of it, it's intact."

Before she could react, Aidan signaled to his soldiers. "Hale, get in here. Black box is confirmed." He turned to Teresa's engineers. "Everybody else stays right where they are."

"Aidan, what's going on?" Teresa asked, a hint of apprehension in her voice.

He faced her, his expression unreadable. "This was the true objective of our mission. I'm making sure we can take possession of it."

She glanced between him and the two other Marians whose hands hovered awfully close to their weapons, realization dawning. "You knew this was here?"

"I had information suggesting its existence," he admitted.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she drew back a bit, her tone accusatory.

"Because the fewer who know, the safer we all are."

She bristled. "So what happens now? Are we expendable liabilities?" Her own people moved uncomfortably.

Aidan frowned, then held up a hand. "Teresa, it's not like that."

"Isn't it? Because the vibes I'm getting suggest otherwise," she challenged, her gaze hardening. "People have killed for less than what's probably on that core."

"People have killed just for a Star League core's hardware alone, Teresa," he replied sardonically. He took a step closer, lowered his voice and kept his hands in plain sight. "I'm well aware of the value of what we've found here. So is the Emperor. But you and your team? You are not in danger. In fact, part of your payment will include a copy of the core data."

She blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

"It's never been the plan to keep this to ourselves. We intend to share this knowledge," he explained patiently, calmly. "The Emperor knows we don't have the means to make use of most of whatever will be on that core. So, we'll disseminate copies of it. But that must be done carefully. If word gets out too soon, it could spark conflicts beyond imagining."

She studied him, suspicion giving way to curiosity. "Why would you share something so valuable?"

"The simple truth is we can't use it on our own. We don't have the industrial base, we don't have the knowledge base, we don't have the people. We… just want a bit of a head start. Just in case," he shrugged.

She considered his words. "You need to control how it's released." He nodded. She exhaled slowly. "You could have told me sooner."

"Not really," he replied quietly.

She was surprised by the finality of his words; to her, Aidan had always shown a playful quality. Before she could linger too long on the thought, Hale and a few others climbed through the opening, carrying sealed hard boxes and battery packs.

"Hale, assist Dr. Torres in getting access to that core. Teresa, there are empty cores in those containers. Have your people set up a steady energy supply for this facility, then start making copies."

An hour later, the hidden command center's mainframe hummed to life, fed from a portable generator. One after another, the chamber's systems reactivated again, including the memory core. It was intact.


Boneyard -- Excavation, Day 19
The underground hangar echoed with the sounds of machinery and muffled voices. Floodlights cast stark shadows over the ranks of battlemechs that filled the cavernous space. Aidan stood beside Dr. Torres on a metal platform suspended by hydraulic lifts, both of them gazing up at the rusting hulk of a Mackie.

The engineers below maneuvered a lifting cart into position, their movements precise and practiced as they adjusted the stabilizers for the hundredth time. One of them – Harris – shouted instructions over the din.
"Easy now! Bring her up slow!" he called out. The lifting cart ascended, carrying a portable x-ray scanner and a noteputer bristling with cables.

Teresa leaned on the railing, her eyes following the ascent of the equipment. "You know," she said, her voice barely audible over the background noise, "I used to dream about finds like this. Entire caches of untouched tech, just waiting to be rediscovered."

Aidan glanced at her, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "And now you're living the dream."

Above them, the engineers began scanning the Mackie's torso. This one was an early Model 7. The x-ray scanner emitted a soft hum as it moved methodically over the mech's surface. Harris consulted the noteputer, watching the live feed of the internal structures. "No fissures on the skeleton," he reported. "This one looks like a good catch under the hood."

"That's what I like to hear," Teresa replied, tapping data into her own noteputer. "Make sure to catalog all findings. We need detailed records for the appraisal."

Aidan observed the process with a practiced eye. "How many does that make now?"

"With this one, we're up to one hundred ninety-eight mechs loaded," she said. "Not counting the tanks and artillery pieces."

He nodded thoughtfully. "We'll need to prioritize the last few slots."

"I know," she said. "I've got my team working on it. The more intact the chassis, the better. We've been chafing off weight and bulk by cutting off the armor of the oldest and least intact models. You can always replace that later, if you chose to rebuild them, and it saves us up to 25% of weight now."

Aidan looked around the hangar. The sheer scale of their operation was staggering. Weeks of relentless work had brought them to this point, their dropships filled to capacity with invaluable salvage. "Time's running short," he remarked. "We should start preparations to depart."

Teresa glanced at him, her expression momentarily shadowed. "You're eager to leave? My people have been digging deeper into the bunker. We're pretty confident we can stabilize some of the collapsed tunnels to get to the depots that have been cut off."

"I'm just cautious," he replied in a conciliatory tone, smiling warmly. "Don't believe for a second that this isn't exciting for me. But the longer we stay, the greater the risk of being discovered. Besides, we barely have any capacity left, no matter what those other depots may hold."

She sighed softly. "I suppose you're right. We'll need roughly another 48 to 72 hours to get the rest wrapped up. Another day to tear down the base camps, and we'll be ready to go." She straightened. "I'll have my team begin sealing the bunker once we've finished loading."

He nodded appreciatively. "You know, I think I haven't told you yet how happy I am to be able to work with professionals," he smirked.

She shrugged modestly. "We know what's at stake. This haul is going to set us all up for life."

Aidan's expression grew serious. "Speaking of which, have you considered what you'll do once we're back in the Hegemony?"

She met his gaze, a hint of caution in her eyes. "We'll collect our payment, of course. After that... lay low for a while."

"So, you did listen," he smiled mischievously. "That's wise."

"I do that surprisingly often, you know," she stubbed a finger against his chest.

Aidan remained somber. "The core makes you a target." He lowered his voice. "Keep it secure. Study it discreetly, if you have to. The Emperor intends to distribute copies strategically, but until then, it's imperative that no one knows you have it. Wait until other copies are in circulation. Everything else will just paint a star-sized bullseye on your back."

Her demeanor softened. "I know. I won't make myself a martyr for knowledge."


Boneyard -- Excavation, Day 21
With the last of the salvage secured, the team began the process of sealing the bunker entrance. Heavy machinery pushed debris back into place, and engineers rigged controlled detonations to collapse sections of the tunnel. The goal was to conceal the entrance as effectively as possible, preserving the site for a potential return.

Teresa supervised the operation, her attention to detail ensuring that no traces were left behind. As the final charges were set, she joined Aidan at a safe distance. He signaled to the demolition team. A series of muffled explosions reverberated through the ground, followed by a cloud of dust billowing upward. When it settled, the entrance was obscured beneath tons of rubble.
"That should do it," she said, pleased in her team's work.

"Let's hope no one else stumbles upon it," Aidan replied.

She gave him a sidelong glance. "Not unless they know exactly where to look."

"I suppose you're right." He took her hand. "Let's get the hell out of here."

She squeezed it and lean closer to him. "Yes," she replied quietly. "Time to get home."


Aboard the Mule-class DropShip Amber Peregrine En Route to Zenith Point, New Dallas Star System
In the ship's mess hall, Aidan and Teresa watched the sickly ochre globe of New Dallas shrink on a monitor, a palpable sense of relief washing over them.
"I hope I'll never have to set a foot on a world like this again," Aidan sneezed. "Can't get the damn smell out of my nose."

"It's a long way home, Major. Your nose will be fine. Besides," she leaned closer. "Plenty of time to... debrief."

He caught the subtle emphasis in her words. "Indeed."

She turned to face him, her gaze direct. "Care to join me for a drink? I've got a bottle of something resembling wine stashed away."

He arched an eyebrow. "Smuggling contraband, Doctor?"

She shrugged lightly. "Perks of the job."

Aidan allowed a small smile. "Lead the way."

They kept… busy for the three days it took the Peregrine to reach the Odyssey.
Then, on April 14th 3012 they began their long journey home.

 

[Culsu]

Chapter 15: Dynasty​

Mount Caelius,
Nova Roma, Alphard
Marian Hegemony
November 19th, 3011
Marius barely deflected a vicious elbow strike aimed at his temple. His forearms stung from the impact, but he had no time to register the pain. Cassius, his personal defense trainer for the past two years, was already launching a knee toward his ribs.

Marius twisted, feeling the rush of air as the knee grazed past his side. He countered with a swift jab toward Cassius's jaw, but his coach weaved aside, the blow missing by a hair's breadth.

"You're hesitating," Cassius barked, his eyes fixed and unyielding. Built like a – as Posca has said – shit brick house, and gifted with lightning reflexes, the veteran was one of the best close-quarters fighters the Hegemony had birthed in the last generation.

Marius gritted his teeth, sweat dripping down his brow. He was under no illusions that he could truly beat the man. Despite his grit and efforts, the gulf would always be as wide as Landing Bight. He surged forward, feinting a low kick before snapping a high roundhouse toward Cassius's head. Cassius raised an arm to block, but Marius anticipated it, shifting mid-kick to drive his heel toward Cassius's unguarded shoulder. The strike connected, sending Cassius skidding back a step. A flicker of surprise crossed the coach's face before it hardened back into focus. "Better," Cassius admitted, rolling his shoulder. Without warning, he closed the distance, lashing out with a barrage of punches aimed at Marius's torso. Each blow was a test, probing for weakness.

Marius deflected the first two strikes, but the third slipped past his defenses, slamming into his sternum. He gasped, the air driven from his lungs, but forced himself to stay grounded. Drawing on his training, he trapped Cassius's arm against his side, pivoting to unbalance him. Cassius reacted instantly, using the momentum to spin into a backfist aimed at Marius's face. Marius ducked just in time, feeling the wind of the missed strike ruffle his hair. He released Cassius's arm, dropping low to sweep his leg in a wide arc. The older and more experienced man leaped over the sweep, his agility defying his solid build. As he landed, he launched a front kick at Marius's chest. Marius crossed his arms in an X-block, absorbing the impact but sliding back on the sandy ground.

"You're holding back," Cassius accused, his voice a growl.

Marius's eyes flashed. "You want me to hit you harder?"

"I want you to fight like your life depends on it."

Marius's muscles tensed. He steadied his breathing, centering himself -- and darted forward, unleashing a flurry of strikes - elbows, knees, punches - each delivered with calculated intent.
Cassius met him head-on. They moved in a sort of improvised, deadly dance, each pushing the other to new limits. Marius feinted a punch to Cassius's left, then spun into a spinning back kick aimed at his midsection. Cassius anticipated the move, catching Marius's ankle and twisting sharply. Pain shot up Marius's leg, but he used the momentum to his advantage, launching into a flying knee with his free leg. Caught off guard, the combat master released his grip, barely managing to sidestep the knee. Marius landed lightly, immediately closing the gap to drive an uppercut toward Cassius's chin. The coach tilted his head back, the punch grazing his jawline. A glint of respect shone in Cassius's eyes. "That's more like it. You're learning," Cassius remarked, a hint of a smile playing at his lips.

"Good teacher, I suppose," Marius replied, panting, not lowering his guard.

Without further words, they clashed again. Marius combined the direct strikes of krav maga with the fluid kicks of muay thai, his movements becoming more instinctual. Cassius matched him, their styles mirroring and countering. Marius threw a hook at Cassius's temple. Cassius ducked, driving a knee toward Marius's abdomen. Marius twisted away, grabbing Cassius's extended leg and pushing upward. Cassius lost footing for a split second, enough for Marius to capitalize with a swift elbow strike toward his shoulder. Cassius deflected the elbow, spinning to deliver a roundhouse kick. Marius brought up his forearm to block, the force jarring his entire arm. He gritted his teeth, countering with a straight punch aimed at Cassius's center mass. The combat master dodged, slipping away. Marius' own momentum pushed him forward unsteadily, and Cassius seized the opening, delivering a swift jab that stopped mere millimeters from Marius's throat.

"Dead," Cassius stated, lowering his hand.

Marius exhaled slowly. "Noted."

Cassius's expression softened slightly. "You've improved, but you need to trust your instincts. You're analyzing when you should be feeling."

Marius considered the advice, rolling his shoulders to release the tension.

"Impressive display," Posca remarked with a sardonic smile, stepping into view as he walked down the gravel path to where his master and the legionary had been buys pounding each other into a pulp in the shadow of ancient olive trees. "But if you two are quite finished trying to kill each other, there are matters that require the emperor's attention."

Marius shot him a glance. "We're in the middle of something, Posca."

"Yes, I can see that," Posca replied dryly. "However, the affairs of state wait for no man, not even one intent on getting himself bruised and battered."

Cassius stepped back, inclining his head. "I'll take my leave, sir."

Marius reluctantly lowered his guard, his muscles protesting as the adrenaline began to fade. "Very well. We'll pick this up tomorrow."

Cassius nodded. "As you wish, sir. And remember what I said—trust your instincts."

As the combat master left the gardens and Marius slumped down on the grass, panting, Posca approached, arching an eyebrow at the disheveled state of his charge. "You know, most rulers prefer less... hazardous hobbies."

"You were very keen on me giving up rock climbing, Posca. Now that I've chosen something else to take the edge off me, in a controlled environment, even, and you're still complaining!" Marius objected, his eyes closed as he took deep breaths.

"Where is the benefit of that if you just switch bashing your head in on some rocks with having Cassius bash your head in, dominus?" Posca shot back wryly.

"You're such a clucking hen, old man," he muttered. "It's either this or shooting up the Senate with a shotgun, and I guess we can both agree the latter to be in bad form."

"Be that as it may," Posca sighed, handing Marius a towel. "The universe is not standing still, and there are reports and your schedule to consider -- and you look like you've been wrestling wild beasts."

"Feels like it too," Marius admitted, wincing slightly as he dabbed at a forming bruise on his jaw.

Posca's tone softened just a fraction. "Take care of yourself, dominus. The empire needs you whole."

Marius met his gaze, appreciating the concern beneath the sarcasm. "I will, old friend. Now, what do you've got for me?"

"Your daily briefing," Posca pointed at a folder under his arm.

Wincing, Marius pushed himself to his feet again. "Alright, no sense in putting this off. Give me the gist of it, please."

"Komes Wyslawa of Stettin is ready to negotiate the finer points to sign several trade agreements. There is also a rising interest in tourism, from both sides It was hoped you would be in attendance with her and the honorable al-Amin tomorrow."

"Not that I mind meeting with Komes Irena-"

"Easy on the eyes, she is," Posca nodded sagely.

"That, too," Marius frowned, "and she's more pleasant and productive company than most of the Senate. However, avoiding that kind of micromanaging was why I wanted al-Amin in the first place," Marius grumbled.

"And I am sure the honorable senator will do just that, dominus. Still, it will look good for the cameras and the news zines. After last year's crisis people love to see this kind of peaceful progress. Marius, the Builder," the older man shrugged.

"And here I was, hoping my little tour around the Hegemony these past three months would've been enough," Marius sighed, rubbing the sweat out of his hair with a towel.

"Your people were very happy to see their Emperor visit their home planets, dominus. Public support is up, as is stability," Posca explained, glancing at another document.

"Fine," Marius sighed. "I'll be there. In the background."

"Noted, my boy. On to the next issue. Going by recent census data, both Horatius and New Venice have seen the arrival of their five hundred thousandth colonist in the last month. A celebratory address to the nation would be in order there, too." Posca stroked his whiskers with one hand while thumbing through the stack of papers with the other.

Marius rolled his eyes. "Fine. Can you write me a speech and schedule the broadcast?"

"Already did," he waved a staple stack of papers. "Three days from now; news channels have been informed, and ComStar will manage distribution to local networks."

"You're a lifesaver, Posca. I could kiss you," Marius smiled tiredly.

"Unless you turn into a buxom petite female, I do prefer not to be kissed by you, dominus," his tutor and advisor replied dry as a desert.

"No can do," Marius shook his head and grabbed an energy drink from a nearby ice-filled pitcher. "Anything else?"

"Abroad, Marik troops have been able to dislodge the Wolf's Dragoons from both Wallacia and Scarborough, but League casualties have reportedly been steep. Blackwood's sources mention the delay and losses have put a halt to Janos Marik's offensive." Posca took a seat on a nearby stone bench and sorted his papers again.

"If it hurts the League it's good for us," Marius mused. "Besides, the more they are embroiled elsewhere the less a threat they are here. I'd rather they try to breathe down Liao's neck than mine."

"Just so. Then there are matters closer to home. The 1st Infantry Division continues to engage resistance on Illyria, but the terrain and climate still pose problems. General Volkova reports that uniforms, protective gear, and arms are inadequate. Casualties are mounting, and so far the Illyrians do not seem to be running out of steam." Posca flipped a page. "The General and your uncle are prioritizing the transport of climate-adequate uniforms, and they are fast-tracking the trials and acquisition of better armor and gear. Still, they do warn that it will be months until these can be fielded in greater numbers."

"Nothing we can do about that right now," Marius ruefully shook his head. "But Fletcher better make the most of what our people's blood is buying him."

Posca snorted. "As much as I do hate to admit it, Fletcher is on the move. Blackwood reports he has landed on Trasjkis with substantial forces, securing much of the planet's northern hemisphere. Certainly by sheer coincidence, Morgan 'Storm' O'Connor of the Bloodwraiths has been assassinated, alongside her personal bodyguard, by people who just happen to look exactly like those Deep Periphery killer-nuns in Fletcher's employ," he reported flatly

"Well, what are the odds," Marius commented sardonically, shaking his head. "The one thing this whole affair has been good for so far is pirates getting rid of each other. I take it O'Connor's people flocked to new masters?"

"Half went to Fletcher, half did go to Chen's Cavaliers," Posca acknowledged.

"I guess only time will tell if she's smart enough to throw in the towel."

"Admitting defeat has never been the strong side of any pirate I ever had the displeasure of meeting," Posca wrinkled his nose as if he had stepped into something foul-smelling. "That being said, there is one more thing. The matter we discussed earlier remains unresolved."

Marius sighed, tossing the towel onto a bench. "You're relentless."

"It is part of my charm," Posca retorted. "But in all seriousness, boy, the Hegemony needs an heir. The senators are growing restless, and alliances are-"

"I know," Marius interrupted, holding up a hand. "I can't ignore my dynastic duties forever." Even though the prospect was more than daunting. He'd failed spectacularly the first time, deposed and assassinated on his firstborn's command. To say the challenge to avoid a repeat performance was daunting would have been an understatement. Countless nights he had considered the problem, and had very little to show for it.

Posca raised an eyebrow. "Then perhaps it's time to consider ending certain... entanglements."

Marius met his gaze, a flicker of resignation in his eyes. "You're referring to Octavia."

"She's a formidable woman," Posca acknowledged. "But not exactly empress material."

"You're right," Marius admitted, sighing. "I suppose I've delayed the inevitable long enough."


Mount Caelius
The same day, later
Later that evening, Marius stood on the balcony of his private chambers, gazing out over the city. The lights of Nova Roma stretched to the horizon, accompanied by the silhouettes of dozens of ships traversing Landing at the foot of Mount Caelius. The door behind him opened softly.

"You wanted to see me," Octavia Kimura's voice floated through the warm night air. "It's been some time."

He turned to face her. She was as striking as ever, poised, elegant, alluring, her blonde hair loose over her shoulders. He felt himself drawn to her, yet stood his ground. The feeling was more unpleasant than he had imagined.
"Octavia," he greeted, offering a slight smile rather than an embrace. "Thank you for coming."

She approached, a hint of curiosity in her expression. "So... formal. Is something amiss?"

Marius took a deep breath. "I wanted to speak with you about… well, us."

Her eyes flickered, but she maintained her composure. "Go on."

Screw this, he thought, and took her hand, gently leading her to his bed. He took a seat on the edge and motioned her to sit next to him. He met her gaze steadily. "We've had... an understanding for some time now. A good time. One that I've enjoyed, probably more than I've realized. And since you've been back again and again, I've got some reason to assume it wasn't half bad for yourself, too." He gave her a lopsided grin. "But circumstances require that I consider my duties to the empire."

Octavia tilted her head, her face unreadable. "You're ending our affair."

"It seems necessary," he said gently. "For both of us."

A moment of silence stretched between them. Then, unexpectedly, she laughed softly. "I wondered when this day would come."

"Not the reaction I was expecting, but alright," he furrowed his brows. "You did?"

She took his hand and pressed a kiss on it. "We both have roles to play, Marius," she said softly. "Yours requires a wife, a family, heirs, duty. Mine requires loyalty, but not to the point of self-abandonment. I like you. A lot. And I've enjoyed every minute we've spent together. But that's all this ever was, ever could be."

He relaxed slightly. Despite that, he felt sad. Objectively, he knew it was the right step to take, and of course, she was correct. And yet… "I'm glad you understand," was all he said, a touch of sadness in his voice.

She sighed and placed her head on his shoulder. "We've had our moments, haven't we?"

"We have," he agreed, a genuine smile returning to his face. "And I value them. I won't forget them."

"You know", she continued, a glint in her eye, "I might have a proposition that serves us both."

He raised an eyebrow, tilting his head towards hers. "I'm listening."

"What if I suggested a union that strengthens both our positions?" Octavia looked up at him. "My daughter Ava."

He drew back a bit, the surprise apparent on his face, but his mind racing. All things considered, Ava Kimura would be a perfect match, on paper: young, beautiful, heiress to one of the most influential families in Marian politics. Marrying her would guarantee the continuation of his line – and he'd probably never have to fear opposition from the Traditionalists again.

Still, the idea felt… incestuous, given what he and her mother had shared during the past two years. Marius recalled the young woman from the New Year's festivities, tall, beautiful – and seemingly bored to death with the event. "Ava... she's spirited, I guess."

"That's one way to put it," Octavia smiled wryly. "She's got my intelligence, her father's stubbornness, and the good looks from both our bloodlines. A perfect match, and of appropriate lineage."

Despite a certain degree of internal resistance, he found himself considering the proposal. "Do you think she would agree?"

Octavia's expression turned thoughtful. "Ava values her independence, but she understands duty. With the right approach, she might be persuaded."

Marius, feeling a sense of finality settling in, nodded slowly. "Very well. Arrange a meeting. We'll see how it goes."

Octavia rose from the bed. He held on to her hand for a moment, then let go. "I'll send you a message once it's done," she told him as she opened the door to leave.

"Octavia!" he called after her, and she stopped. "I…," he shook his head. "I wish I could have met you fifteen, twenty years ago, as the man I am now."

"No, you don't, Marius," Lady Kimura smiled ruefully. "I wouldn't have been the woman that you've… grown fond of and-" She cut off her sentence and blinked something away. "We'll see one another under different stars now. Goodbye, Marius."

The door closed, and he was alone in his chambers.


Imperial Gardens, Mount Caelius
A few days later
"Emperor O'Reilly," came a voice behind him.

Marius turned and rose from the stone bench he had sat on to see Ava Kimura approaching. She undeniably had her mother's beauty - and probably also her temperament was striking as her eyes held a hint of defiance as she walked towards him on the gravel path, her silken dress clinging to her body. It was a simple cut, but there was nothing simple about the way she carried herself.

"Lady Kimura. Please, call me Marius," he replied, offering a warm smile. "Thank you for agreeing to meet. Come, take a seat."

She inclined her head slightly. "As you wish." She settled on a cushion on a bench opposite to him. "I wasn't given much choice," she remarked, a hint of sharpness in her tone.

He inclined his head. "I appreciate your candor." Silence settled between them, the ambient sounds of the garden filling the void. He glanced at her, noting the tension in her posture. "I realize this situation is... awkward?" he offered.

Ava Kimura pushed a strand of her deep black hair back over her bare shoulders. "Let's not pretend, shall we? We both know why we're here." She met his gaze directly. "You understand that I'm being offered as a political pawn."

He glanced at her. "I imagine this situation isn't easy for you."

She let out a soft, acidic laugh. "Being presented like a prized mare at auction? Why would that be difficult?"

He winced. "That wasn't my intention," he told her quietly.

"Wasn't it?" she snapped, but her retort lacked a bit of her prior anger.

This time he didn't flinch. "No, not at all. Believe it or not, I wasn't the one who thought this up. But I'm not going to lie to you either. A marriage between you and me? That'd check a lot of boxes; it'd be beneficial to both your family, to me, and to the Hegemony." He smiled mirthlessly. "You know, before I ascended the throne, I did all sorts of really thrilling activities. Sky diving – with a wingsuit even -, mountain climbing, high-speed racing. Now the only thing I'm permitted to do is try to beat up a man ten times more deadly than me," he rotated his shoulder and winced as pain shot up his arm. "That's one of the ugly little truths of rulership; others take away your independence for the Greater Good." He looked directly at her. "I'm not going to pretend me losing hobbies is anywhere on the same level as what your family and I have agreed upon. But I can understand what you're going through; a tiny bit at least. This... union between us, it isn't about us, not really, but about what benefits the realm."

"Nice little sermon," she chuckled not with humor. "But what about what benefits me?" she challenged.

"I won't argue that point," he admitted. "But perhaps we can make the best of it."

She crossed her arms. "And how do you propose we do that?"

"By getting to know each other," he suggested. "Finding common ground."

She studied him for a moment. "You think charm and a handsome face will make this easier?"

He chuckled softly. "I've been told they're assets, but I see they won't suffice here."

"No, they won't," she replied, calmer now, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

He took a breath. "Ava, I won't force you into anything. If you choose to walk away, I'll respect that."

She laughed, full, but mirthless. "Sure. I would defy my family, you, and the deals and expectations of the Senate. And what would I do then?" She shook her head, a bitter note in her voice. She looked out over the gardens. "So, let's see where this takes us, I suppose."

Marius smiled back at her and rose, offering her a hand. "I guess that's all we can do. Walk with me."


Kimura Estate
Later That Evening
Ava strode through the grand hall of her family's estate, her footsteps echoing off the marble floors, her face dark. Servants bowed as she passed, aware of how explosive the Kimura scion's temper could be when she looked like that. Ava paid them little mind. Her thoughts were a chaos of anger, irritation, defiance - and maybe a touch of intrigue.

Entering her private chambers, she closed the door firmly behind her. Unlike the conservative, classic splendor of her parent's mansion her own chambers were colorful, chaotic, unconventional; exactly the way one would expect from a young, headstrong socialite. Unconsciously grinding her teeth brusquely poured a drink from a decanter and downed it in one go, stepping out onto her personal balcony, gazing out over the city lights of Nova Roma in the distance.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

"Enter," she called without turning.

Her mother, Octavia, stepped inside, almost looking like a slightly more mature copy of her, the only difference being Ava's ebony hair. "How did it go?"

Ava's shoulders tensed, and she kept staring straight ahead. "As expected."

Octavia approached cautiously, her voice like silk. "Girl, you must at least admit he's handsome, is he not?"

Ava scoffed. "Mom, you know better than most there isn't a handsome man on this fucking planet that I couldn't have if I wanted to. That he's not ugly? I'm not blind; I watch TV, I met the man already. Is that bare minimum supposed to make this arrangement more palatable?"

Octavia sighed. "Ava, hon. You knew a day like this was eventually coming. This is an opportunity-"

"An opportunity for what?! For you and father to secure more power?" Ava snapped, finally spinning to face her mother. "What about what I want?"

Octavia's expression hardened slightly, and she lowered her voice. "That's the cost for the kind of privileged life you've been allowed to live. A life millions envy you for."

"Spare me the platitudes, mom!" Ava retorted. "I won't be bartered like a commodity."

Octavia's eyes softened, and she sighed quietly. "I know this isn't easy, Ava. Trust me, your father and I, we also weren't each other's first choices." She touched her daughter's cheek. "But Marius is a decent man. Intelligent. Driven. Good looking. Nobody's asking you to fall head over heels for him. But, in time, he could make you happy."

Ava shook her head, withdrawing from her mother's touch. "We both know my happiness isn't part of this equation."

Before Octavia could respond, Ava brushed past her, heading toward the door.

"Where are you going?" Octavia called after her.

"Out," Ava replied curtly. "Don't wait up."


Perfumed Quarters, That Night
Neon lights bathed the narrow streets in a kaleidoscope of colors. Music spilled from doorways, mingling with the laughter and shouts of the crowd. The air was thick with the scents of exotic spices, smoke, and the subtle undertone of illicit substances.

Ava navigated the throng with practiced ease. Here, she was just another face in the crowd, anonymous and free, one of thousands that flocked to the sinful parts of Nova Roma every night. She entered a dimly lit club, the bass of the music thrumming through the floorboards. The atmosphere was electric. People danced half-naked and unbound with abandon to rhythms with hard bass lines, lost in the moment. Ava made her way to the bar, ordering a drink that glowed faintly in the low light.
She grabbed a colorful drink from the bar. Drink in hand, she moved onto the dance floor, letting the music wash over her. She danced with reckless energy, her movements fluid, graceful, sensual, uninhibited. Strangers became temporary partners, their faces and bodies blurring in the haze of lights and sounds. Time lost meaning as she gave herself over to the experience, letting go of the anger and frustration. Eventually, she stepped outside to catch her breath, the cool night air a welcome relief.

"Looking for someone?" a voice drawled from the shadows.

A tall man leaned against a lamppost, his arms crossed. He was every bit as she remembered – only a few years older than her, with tanned skin, mischievous eyes, and dreadlocks that framed his rugged features. Dressed in a worn jacket and boots, a gun in a hip holster, he exuded a carefree confidence.

"Maybe I am," she replied, a teasing note in her voice. "Maybe that someone's you, Blue."

He pushed off the post, sauntering closer. "Fancy meeting you here, Ava."

She raised an eyebrow. "Is it just fancy?"

He chuckled. "Care to find out?"

They stood close now, the air between them charged. "You're trouble," she breathed, her smile wide and coy.

He grinned, leaning closer. She could see amber and obsidian pearls braided into his dreadlocks. "And yet, you don't seem to mind."

She tilted her head. "Maybe I like a little trouble."

He brushed a strand of hair from her face. "Care to join me for a walk?"

They turned down a quieter alley, the sounds of the main streets muffled. Her companion produced a small vial from his pocket, offering it to her. "Something to help you relax," he said lightly.

She hesitated, then took it. "Why not?"

They each took a small dose, the substance bringing a warm, euphoric sensation. Ava felt the edges of her tension blur, a sense of lightness enveloping her.

The tension between them wasn't subtle. He didn't bother with pleasantries, and she loved it. His hand cupped her jaw, rough and possessive, pulling her toward him until their mouths collided. The kiss was feral, all teeth and tongue, the kind that made her toes curl as heat ripped through her body.

"God, you're a tease," he growled, his hands already under her shirt, palms rough as they raked over her bare skin. She gasped when his fingers found the curve of her waist, then moved lower, bold and unapologetic. He pressed her back against the wall. His body pinned hers effortlessly. They kissed again. This time, the kiss was messier, wetter, the kind that left her gasping for air and clinging to him like her life depended on it. His hands roamed, claiming every inch of her he could reach, and she welcomed the roughness, the barely controlled hunger that made her head spin.

"You're trouble," he muttered against her mouth, his voice gravelly and thick with desire.

"Then stop holding back," she shot back, her lips curling into a defiant smirk, and her legs wrapped around him instinctively.

This was her.

This was what she wanted.


Mount Caelius,
Nova Roma, Alphard
Marian Hegemony
November 30th, 3011
"The Lady Irena has been exceptionally rewarding to work with," Malik al-Amin stroked his well-trimmed beard. "We have signed several trade concessions on behalf of Stettin and Marian companies during the past months. Fashion, luxury goods, delicacies; upper classes on both planets are intrigued. Consumer electronics is another blossoming field. Stettin's domestic products are sturdy and functional, but lack variety, and are almost a century behind ours with regards to versatility and computing power. Komes Irena has been advocating for joint ventures with domestic producers. Which brings me to the next point. We've got the first small defense sector cooperation. Marian Arms Inc. has sealed a deal for several battalions worth of basic APCs to boost the Gwardia's aging motor pool; half to be built in the Hegemony, the rest via a license deal on Stettin. There's also the issue of tourism." He slid a glossy brochure across the polished mahogany table. "The people of Stettin have been quick to pounce on rich Marians as a source of income. We're following up with adverts of our own."

"As much as I'm happy for the prospects of our defensive industry, it's not like we're producing a massive surplus ourselves," General Anna Volkova, a head taller than the already tall Mercantilist senator, rumbled irritated. "The material requirements for the conventional parts of Legio II and III are substantial, and then there are the losses suffered by the infantry on Illyria."

"Looking at the numbers in question, what we are doing with Stettin is surface-level at this point in time," Posca, sitting to Marius' right, spoke up in his clipped accent. "The Hegemony is a fifteen billion people economy. Surely we can keep up the demand for a few dozen domestically produced APCs?" he raised an eyebrow at al-Amin.

"No, it is not. At least not in that particular case. If there is an issue, it's our chronic lack of transportation, but there's nothing to be done about that in the short and intermediate term." He turned to Marius. "Still, it begs the question of what our next step for Stettin is, sire."

Living a second chance at life, Marius found himself in a perpetual struggle between patience – a virtue learned in decades of political maneuvering – and the need to act, now and decisively. There was so much, so many opportunities the small planet offered, plans and strategies he had and wanted to see in action. But sometimes, patience was the better option.
"Nothing. We'll do nothing, senator. Restraint is our best currency here. Leave it to the Stettinans to set the pace, for now. Once a solid foundation is in place, we can make constructive offers that increase our stake and foothold." He rose from his seat and activated a large screen on the wall. Automatically, the lights dimmed. "However, Stettin proves a point, a solution to the strategic conundrum we're finding ourselves in. We need to grow; new markets, new spheres of influence, new territories, eventually. But to our relative north is the League. Fat chance we'll get anywhere there, given it'd be David versus Goliath, only that David would die an inglorious death. Spinward expansion is blocked by Canopus. On the other side are the Lothians, but given our current scrutiny from neighboring states, open moves there are unwise." He turned to his close advisors. "That leaves only one direction open." Marius pointed to the wide open and empty black space rimward of the Hegemony.

Posca shot him a curious glance but said nothing.

"The barbaricum?" al-Amin straightened in his seat, the his eyes narrowed. "Yes, I can see it. Trade routes, resources, new markets. If we expand where nobody else does, it'll leave us in a dominant position."

General Anna Volkova, sitting opposite him, scowled slightly, her short-cropped hair and sharply tailored uniform giving her the appearance of a blade ready to strike. "Economic dominance is all well and good, Malik, but trade routes and markets mean little if we lack the strategic means to protect them. We're just barely on schedule with our current force expansion, and we're neck deep into supplying a war – oh, excuse me," she rolled her eyes dramatically "- a 'peacekeeping mission' across a seventy-lightyear gap. Right now the Legion simply doesn't have any troops to spare for additional, ahm, adventures." She scowled. "Not that I don't see the military and strategic benefits doing so could yield. Right now, we have precious little strategic depth. If the Hegemony is ever pressed by a larger power, we'll need fallback positions. Worlds to retreat to, regroup from, resupply from, and potentially use as staging points."

Al-Amin smirked slightly, his tone measured but pointed. "Worlds that will need to be placed on solid economic foundations, General. Foundations only an expansion in trade can create."

"Enough," Marius interjected, his voice calm but commanding. He gestured for them to settle, and both leaned back, though neither looked entirely mollified. "I can already see this has the potential to turn into a merry-go-round, amici. Let's not waste our time on that, shall we?" He raised an eyebrow that silenced both of them. Each of them had positions that were valid in and by themselves. "Posca," Marius continued, turning to his old tutor. The silver-haired advisor sat with a faint air of amusement, his hands resting lightly on the table. "You've been uncharacteristically quiet."

"That is because I agree with both of them," Posca replied, his tone dry. "Which, of course, means they are both wrong." Al-Amin raised an eyebrow, and Volkova crossed her arms, waiting for him to elaborate. Posca sighed, gesturing lazily at the screen. "The barbaricum is vast, yes. But it is not a blank slate. Fletcher's Deep Periphery allies proved that much, and not in a way that does inspire confidence. They have proven lethal here, and it stands to reason that what we know of them, and the Deep Periphery at large, is but a fraction of a fraction of what is out there," he cautioned. "Whatever polities or factions we find out there will not simply roll over because we arrive with a handful of trade goods or a lance of battlemechs. And if we do push too hard, we risk creating enemies in regions where we currently have none." He turned to Marius, his sharp eyes glinting. "I do see great merit here, dominus. Certainly greater one than in confrontation with our direct neighbors. Yet, if the Hegemony is to put out feelers into the great void, we need to do it carefully. Cautiously. We need to build relationships before we build empires. Otherwise, we'll find ourselves overextended and vulnerable."

Marius nodded slowly, his fingers tapping against the armrest of his chair. "You're advocating for a slower approach."

"A deliberate approach, dominus," Posca corrected. "Start with exploration. Vet the worlds we find. Make sure we can maintain trade routes. Decide what we want from each, whether it is trade, alliances, or potentially annexation. But we decide individually, based on the circumstances. And based on the means available to us."

Volkova leaned forward, her expression skeptical. "That's all well and good, Posca, but what happens when we find a world that resists? Or one that poses a threat to us?"

"Then we deal with it," Posca replied evenly, shrugging. "But we deal with it on our terms, not theirs. Rushing into the barbaricum with guns blazing is a good way to turn an unknown into an enemy. We do not have the resources or need for military adventurism right now - not with our security situation as precarious as it is."

Marius's lips tightened at the mention of security. It was a sore point, one he could not deny. The Hegemony's fleet of jumpships was limited, and every vessel was a strategic asset. Sending forces deep into the barbaricum without a clear plan or sufficient support would be reckless.

Al-Amin broke the silence. "I... think I have an idea that may work in our favor. If we're to follow this 'deliberate approach,' as Posca calls it, then we need to prioritize trade. But," he held up both hands to stymie a retort from the Hegemony's head of the armed forces, "the onus does not need to fall squarely on just our shoulders. Maybe the journey is the destination?" he smiled cryptically. "We don't have any significant forces to spare, and maybe we don't even need them. Cautious exploration. Not setting up great bases or major colonies, but establishing small fortified waypoints between our territory and whomever we want to do business with in the Deep Periphery. Places where people can safely travel, trade, and we can gather intelligence."

Volkova nodded grudgingly. "Fortified waypoints...could be possible. Small deployments, largely self-sufficient, with enough fixed firepower to fend off your average pirate lance. It'd probably cut down costs if we set up an identical design for all of them. We could call them 'custodia'. That's old Latin for watchtowers."

Al-Amin's eyes lit up. "Custodia. Figurative lighthouses in the darkness of the barbaricum. They could become centers of trade and eventually grow into settlements or colonies. For a relatively small investment, these outposts could offer places for our traders, but also others out there – explorer, merchants, travelers - to meet, repair, exchange news, navigational data, and establish relations with nearby systems and traders."

"Any idea how you'd set up such a place, Anna," Marius tilted his head towards the gray-haired officer. He could see the clockwork turning behind her stern forehead.

"It'd need to be something part fortress, part spaceport," she mused. "Equipped with defensive systems, basic repair facilities, communication arrays, a medical wing, and living quarters. Ideally environmentally sealed, or at least capable of being. With supply stores for at least a year for the garrison, and facilities for passing ships."

Posca nodded. "And strategically placed to extend our reach into the barbaricum without overextending our resources."

Al-Amin rose and walked over to the screen, pointing at several spots along a line. "We could place one every twenty-five to thirty light years, like pearls on a chain, between our territory and whomever we do business with. Pick one planet to start with, work from there. Inertia could do the rest. Those custodia could then serve as hubs for economic influence. Traders from the Deep Periphery could converge there, bringing goods and information. And we, in turn could use them to branch off into new directions in time, depending on how trade flows."

Marius tapped his chin. "That covers the journey. What about the destination, amici. How do we deal with the planets we might find? Posca?"

The plainly-clad tutor and adviser smiled subtly. "I do suggest a careful, multi-phased approach. First, we establish diplomatic contact. We shall present ourselves as allies, not conquerors. We simply wish to trade, to get to know them better. Then, through trade agreements, investments, we gain economic influence, then dominance. It stands to reason our economy and corporations are magnitudes more powerful than whatever small planet out there may possess. At the same time, we introduce Marian culture - media, language, and traditions - gradually increasing our influence. We identify and build relationships with key members of their elites, fostering dependency. Depending on their overall situation and need, militarily, we offer defensive treaties, integrate their forces with ours, provide Marian arms and training. Eventually, peaceful annexation becomes a natural progression." He held up a hand. "This will be a slow process, make no mistakes. But I reckon it will be a process where we get the most with the least input."

Volkova nodded slowly. "Slow is good. It'll allow for us to expand our force projection organically. Also," she lowered her voice, "this allows us to circumvent the force limitations imposed by our treaty with the Free Worlds League. Deploying a maniple here, a maniple there out into the unknown? Doubtful Marik has the means or even the will to keep track there."

Al-Amin leaned back. "Once we've established that sort of relations out there, a few mechs here and there, over time, might amount to significant numbers. A growing custodia here. Training an allied force there. Loaning a few machines to a friend," he winked.

"The waypoints, these custodia, can also serve as early warning stations. Even if that sounds unlikely: should any threats emerge from the barbaricum, we'll have advanced notice."

Marius watched his advisers discuss with quiet satisfaction. He needed people who thought for themselves, who weren't afraid to explore new options, even if it always took him a bit of willpower to consciously overcome the old ways of thinking his past life had forged. There were days when he wished he could just relive his life of old, though. It had been, for the most part, predictable. Comfortable. But the universe – and whatever fluke of fate that had happened to him – had different plans. He smiled.
"Very well, my friends. It seems we have a general idea. Now it's up to you to put it into motion. Malik, coordinate with your faction, and with the free traders you have access to. We'll need to identify potential planets with which to establish contact."

Al-Amin inclined his head. "Consider it done, sire."

"Anna, whatever information the senator digs up will provide the basis for the necessary overall force disposition for this first stage of our venture into the barbaricum. Get your staff to work on the general blueprint for a custodia. Logistics, personnel, defense capabilities - the works. Once you and Malik have communicated we can check how we can go about making this a reality without making a mess of our existing commitments."

"We'll have preliminary plans ready, regardless of what Senator al-Amin provides," the general shot the Mercantilist a challenging look.

"One more thing," Marius said. "We need to be prepared for the unexpected. We call the Deep Periphery barbaricum for a reason. We don't know what's out there."

Al-Amin smiled wryly. "That's half the adventure, isn't it? No risk, gain. One of the iron rules of business."

Volkova's eyes hardened. "Adventure is for fools. We need solid intelligence and contingency plans."

Posca shrugged lightly. "Agreed, but a little boldness can yield great rewards."

Marius suppressed a smile. "Then I suggest we channel both caution and boldness appropriately."


Three weeks after New Year's Eve of 3028, and two jumps out from the Marian Hegemony we enter a seven planet system, circling around a K-type star. To our surprise, there are two other JumpShips recharging their drives, solar sails unfolded. Independent ships, not registered in the Inner Sphere. Out here, I have been told, you always have to expect the worst – pirates, slavers, cultists – but soon a radio signal from the fourth planet puts us at ease. And makes me curious. It's a Marian transmission, requesting our ID and asking if we are in need of assistance. It's polite, friendly even. After we tell them we are with ComStar and on a mission of exploration, we receive an invitation. I'm curious, and order a shuttle to be sent to the surface. The planet is a cool dustball, with a breathable atmosphere, but little surface water, and barely any vegetation besides lichen and moss. My sensors pick up a number of satellites in orbit, and I identify them as comm relays, allowing the ground station to contact ships regardless of the planet's rotation. My shuttle touches down on one of three large landing pads, simple fields of hardened concrete. A Leopard dropship that must be older than the Order itself sits on another pad. A Marian centurio with the family name Valerius is already waiting for me. Probably in his early forties, tall, humble, and would probably have been really attractive were it not for his scarred face. I get the impression he is genuinely happy to meet me, and he leads me to their base that he calls a custodia [watchtower]. The name is well-chosen. A massive tower, maybe sixty meters tall roughly shaped like an obelisk, sits on a nearby hill. At its base, it's probably twenty meters wide. It's spiked with antennas and a communication dish, and plenty of armed turrets dot its surface. I'm no military girl, but I know lasers and autocannons and missile emplacements when I see them; I reckon you'd need a small army to take this custodia. Prefab houses sit at the base of the hill, and next to them stand sheet metal warehouses, and a group of people are busy building another house from natural stone. The nucleus of a small village. Unbidden, the centurio explains to me that the former are the property of several Marian corporations, where they 'park' staff waiting to be transferred along one axis or another on some of the trade routes they ply. The latter construction is by Deep Periphery traders setting up shop. Inside the custodia is a miniature town, divided into a part all travelers have access to after screening, and the Marian garrison. There are doctors, machine shops, depots, greenhouses. Centurio Valerius tells me he can hold this place with his company pretty much infinitely. Notice boards cover many walls in the spaces that are open to all. In the communal mess hall a surprise awaits me. Other travelers crowd some tables and the space in front of a wall. That one is filled with screens, displaying news from dozens of words, and not just that, but commodity prices, warnings, rumors. The jackpot is a data exchange. Valerius tells me every passer-by can feed it updated navigational data, and for a small fee, others can download whatever they need for themselves. Curious, I ask how many ships make a stop here, and to my astonishment he tells me the mine is the ninth – just this month! The custodia are safe havens, and foster trade and exchange, he explains, and for some of the more contentious folk they provide neutral grounds. I'm invited to dinner, and I end up spending the evening in polite company. Valerius is familiar with Blakist philosophy, and the meal is a delicious relief after weeks of JumpShip rations. I leave the next morning with a surprise gift: a data slate with all nav data from the base's exchange, as a sign of goodwill towards ComStar and its people...
[Voidborn – Emissaries in White. My Time in the Explorer Corps] New Avalon Press Ltd., 2nd Edition, 3072 C.E.

 

[Culsu]

Chapter 16: Beers and Battlemechs​

Alphard
Marian Hegemony
January 5th, 3012
Taking steady steps the Battlemaster descended down a a low grassy rise, the wind murmuring through wildflowers and wiry shrubs, as the late afternoon sun bathed the countryside in amber hues. Up here, a hundred-plus kilometers north of the capital, rolling grasslands stretched toward low hills and stony outcrops. Alphard's rain season had turned the endless yellow prairie into a freshly blossoming green. The air was fresher here, too, a welcome change from the capital. The breeze was warm, but not the ordinary Alphard hot. The sky stretched, infinite and pale blue, with only a few streaks of clouds to offer texture.

Marius brought the mech to a halt close to the nearby dirt road and flipped it into idle mode. There was a small team waiting down on the ground; palace security and a few technicians. He slipped out of the seat and opened the lower hatch, letting a rope ladder fall down almost ten meters. The prairie breeze flowed into the cockpit, bringing some much-appreciated cool with it. Battlemech cockpits were notorious furnaces, which was the reason he wore barely more than short, boots and his cooling vest.

Looking down through the hatch, he flexed his fingers absently, wondering if this was a good idea. Their first date had been awkward, polite but strained. Ava Kimura was, on paper, perfect: patrician stock, beautiful, and politically advantageous due to her parentage. Marriage to her meant as much as direct control over her father's - Marcos Kimura's - traditionalist faction in the Senate, and thus easy sailing. Or, he reckoned at least easier sailing for most of what he wanted to do. Yet reality had proved much less agreeable. She was independent, hedonistic, and disinclined to be anyone's pawn.

The distant hum of an approaching engine caught his ear. He turned, shading his eyes, and saw a dust plume rising from the dirt track. A dark SUV emerged, sleek and civilian, handling the uneven terrain with ease. He felt a tug of tension in his chest. Whatever this meeting brought, he had to be honest. He owed her that much, at least. He couldn't fake charm and hope to win her over with empty flattery. That ship had sailed. Besides, there was still the question of whether she was the right choice in the first place.

The SUV pulled up about twenty meters away, received by Marius' security detail. The engine whined to a stop, and without much ceremony, Ava stepped out, slamming the door behind her. She wore practical boots and form-fitting dark pants, paired with a neon green top and a pair of sunglasses perched on her nose. Her hair was pulled back into a low ponytail. She looked less like a court-bred noble and more like a traveler, a free spirit who cared little for pomp. Still, you could probably put her into a burlap sack and she'd still look attractive. Part of him appreciated the straightforwardness of her attire. At least she'd been willing to take him at his word there.

She ignored the technicians and bodyguards and walked straight up to the mech. "Marius," she tilted her head back and greeted, pushing the sunglasses up onto her head. She didn't bother with titles. He didn't mind.

"Ava," he called down with a nod. "Thanks for coming."

She shrugged, looking around the empty prairie, the low hills, and the towering Battlemaster in front of her. "So that's your idea for a date?" she yelled.

"Yeah, why? Thought you were the adventurous type, so I said to myself: why not something different? Or are you chickening out?" he challenged with a broad smile.

Ava moved closer, craning her neck. She was tall, but next to the hulking machine she looked like a puppet. "Different is good," she called up, ignoring his challenge. "Better than sauntering through some gardens. You going to let me ride shotgun in that thing?"

Marius smiled, genuinely this time. "That's the idea. Figured you've never been in a mech cockpit. If you're up for it, hold tight to the rope ladder and I'll pull you up."

Ava turned her head slightly, considering. "I'm not dressed for a parade," she warned, as if suspecting a trick.

He shook his head. "No parade. Just us. The inside's cramped, but I've set up the secondary seat. Just the two of us, the prairie, and plenty of space to talk, in private. If you're interested."

She glanced at him, crossing her arms. The wind plucked a few strands of hair free from her ponytail. "Well, now that I'm already here, I guess I can give it a try!?"

"Great. Now hold on tight. I won't hear the end of it if you fall down and break your neck," he told her dryly. "Ready?"

She gave him a thumbs up and he flipped a switch. An electric winch started to pull up the ladder. When she was close to the hatch he grabbed her hands and pulled her in. If she was anxious she hid it well. The cockpit was a snug compartment dominated by the pilot's seat and control consoles. He'd added a secondary jump seat behind and to the side. It wasn't luxurious - just a padded seat with harness straps - but it was a far cry from the ASF-like cockpit most civilians associated mech cockpits with.

Inside, it smelled faintly of machine oil, ozone, and old upholstery. Marius took the pilot's seat, powering up the systems. Ava strapped herself into the jump seat, eyeing the displays as they came to life again, a soft female voice listing off the boot-up process

"Comfortable?" he asked with a glance over his shoulder.

"Not really," she answered, trying to place the seat straps more comfortably, "but I'll manage."

He nodded, running through the rest of the startup sequence. Outside, the horizon line stabilized on the HUD. "Get ready," he warned her. "The start can get you seasick, if you've got bad luck." Marius nudged the throttle, and with an electric hum, the Battlemaster's legs flexed. The mech took a careful step forward into the thigh-high grass of the prairie.

Ava's eyes widened slightly. "That's…smooth. I always imagined a lot more shaking."

"Common misconception, really," Marius explained casually. "Modern myomer bundles make it smoother than you'd think, and the connection with the neurohelmet mixed with gyrostabilizers helps the system to maintain balance. Humanoid-type mechs like this one are easy to learn on for basic moving as you're basically looking at a scaled-up human muscle package. That's why I picked this one for our little outing. Not my usual ride."

"Whose is it then?"

"Well, mine, too," he chuckled somewhat sheepishly. "Inherited it from my father. A custom Battlemaster assault mech, all 85 tons of condensed mayhem. Been in the family since, eh, probably before Johann Sebastian O'Reilly. Half the important stuff in here is probably lostech, from the lasers down to the heat sinks. Hell," he knocked on his neurohelmet, "if you peel off the duct tape on this here you can still find the name tag of the SLDF colonel it originally belonged to."

"Yeah, I was curious about that," Ava leaned forward, still surprised at how smoothly the mech moved. "In the vids the mechwarriors always have these really weird helmets on that look like spaghetti pots, like, kinda ridiculous, really."

Marius shot her a lopsided grin. "Best humanity can do after two and half centuries of bombing each other into the stone age, Ava. Big, uncomfortable, and so heavy you actually have to place them on your shoulders, which means you can't really turn your head worth shit."

"So what's your usual ride then?" she asked.

Marius wasn't really sure if she was really interested, but he was glad she was making conversation. That made their situation a slight bit less awkward. "A Marauder," he answered truthfully. "One of the chicken-walkers, you know? Would have been a bit too wobbly for someone who's never been in a mech before, and we can't have you puke out your lunch inside the cockpit. I'd never get rid of the smell," she added laconically.

"You're in luck then, Emperor. I've got a pretty sturdy stomach," she leaned back with her arms crossed.

The mech left a wide plain and crested a low hill topped by dead, gray trees. Up on top, Marius stopped again, turning in his seat as good as he could. "Do you wanna give it a try?"

"Me? Do you think I can do that?" she sounded reserved, doubtful.

Marius shrugged. "There's a first time for everything. Besides, if you fail, I'm the last person to rat you out. Bad form to let civilians get behind the wheel of an 85-ton war machine," he grinned wryly.

He could see the wheel turning behind Ava's eyes, but after a second her face turned into a mask of resolve. "Let's do it," she said. There was a note of curiosity now. Perhaps he'd scored a point.

They switched seats, and she took on the neurohelmet, ignoring the stench of old sweat and worn leather.

But he already knew she was not faint of heart. He keyed in a sequence.

Vibrations resonated through the cockpit floor, and she adjusted the helmet, unsure where to put her long black mane.

She inhaled sharply as the machine came alive, status indicators glowing ready. He guided her hands to the controls, showing how to pivot the torso, how to step forward. At first, she was clumsy. The 'mech took a hesitant step and wobbled.

"Easy," Marius said, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Gentle inputs. The gyros do the heavy lifting, but your steadiness matters. Even an SLDF helmet still needs some time to adjust to your brainwaves."

Ava pressed her lips together. After a few tries, she managed a steady walk, the massive war machine trudging across the grass at only a few kilometers per hour.

Gradually, carefully, Marius adjusted the throttle, until the warmachine reached a stead 20 kph.

Ava hesitated, then gripped the joystick. She moved it gingerly, and the torso responded, twisting left, then right. The cockpit rocked gently with the motion. She smiled, a real smile, not the guarded smirk she often wore. "This is insane," she murmured. "I'm controlling it. I'm really effin' controlling it!"

His date put all her concentration into steering the Battlemaster, Marius noted with the pride of a teacher, and she was doing well for a first-timer. After a few minutes, she became confident enough to move the torso around without hesitation while walking, getting a hang of coordinating the different parts of the mech under his calm guidance.
"Are you ready to add some fireworks to your walk in the park?" he asked.

"I can? Fuck yeah!" This time she answered more eagerly, a viscous smile on her face.

"Sure," he said lightly. "Just be gentle on the triggers. They're sensitive. See those rocks over there?" he pointed at a gray formation rising half as high as the mech. "You see that reticle on your HUD? That's your aiming point. We've got no missiles loaded, but I've grouped the medium lasers to the button under your right thumb. Just press when you're lined up."

She exhaled and did so. Six thin beams of coherent green light flashed out, striking the rocks. Fragments flew, and a grin spread across her face. "That's… neat," she admitted, sounding younger and more genuine than he'd ever heard.

"Try the PPC next, that trigger on the other stick. Careful, it's got a kick in terms of heat."

She tried it, and the azure bolt crackled forward, scorching a group of dead tree trunks into a cloud of sparks and ash. Ava laughed, startled and delighted. The sound surprised him, sweet and free. "That's it? Just a tap and gone?"


He nodded. "Pretty cool, eh?"

They moved the Battlemaster around for a while, finding stable ground, blasting a few more inert targets. The tension that always seemed to hang between them eased somewhat. Ava actually began to ask questions about weapon ranges, how a mechwarrior managed heat, what the Battlemaster's top speed was. There was an innocent quality to her genuine fascination with what she did that, for a moment at least, managed to wash away her reserved cynicism, and Marius found the tension between them easing.

After a few more tries, she reluctantly settled back, switching back seats with Marius. "Okay, that's… I get why you mechwarriors swagger around. That's power."

"Can't argue with that. Up in here, you start to think you can do anything, be anyone," Marius said gently. You could also be just yourself, he thought with a hint of melancholy. His time in training, with Aidan and the other three members of his maniple? That had been some of the best months of his life, months where they had at least managed to maintain the illusion that he was just another mechjockey, and not the future heir of the Hegemony. "A mech can level a city block with the right loadout. But it's also a burden."

She shrugged, shaking out her damp hair with a frown. "You talk like a schoolteacher. Let's skip the lecture."

He chuckled, but ran a hand through his face, shaking his head a bit. "Fair enough. This shit ages you, Ava," he sighed, suddenly feeling a bit weary. "I'm an old man trapped in a young man's body." Marius guided the Battlemaster again, heading toward a low cliff he'd scouted earlier. It overlooked a wide valley, grasses bending in the breeze, and far off the silhouette of distant hills framed the horizon. After a short walk, he parked the mech at the cliff's edge. The land fell away a dozen meters below, giving a stunning panoramic view of the wilderness. The sun was lower now, the sky streaked with gold and pink.

Ava peered through the cockpit glass. "Beautiful," she admitted.

Marius powered down to standby mode, leaving minimal systems online. "Wait here," he said, opening a small storage panel and withdrawing a cooler bag. He led her to the emergency roof hatch. Clambering up through a narrow ladder, they emerged atop the assault mech's torso, standing on a flat, armored plating. The wind was firmer here, tousling their hair, and the scent of green things and distant water reached their noses, mixing with the smell of coolant and machine. They settled on a relatively flat section of the armor plating, warm to the touch. Marius handed her a beer can from the cooler and took one himself. Ava took it, cracked it open, and took a long sip without any ceremony.

Marius opened his own can and joined her at the edge, both sitting with their legs dangling over the curved armor plating. Below them, the cliff and the valley. Above them, a sky turning from gold to a deeper orange. They drank in silence for a few moments.

Ava belched unexpectedly, just a small, accidental burp. She froze, then smirked. Marius raised an eyebrow, amused. "Excuse me," she said, not sounding sorry at all.

He decided to play along, making a deliberately loud, theatrical belch. She laughed, surprised at his willingness to engage in silliness.

"Is this the famous Emperor's decorum?" she teased, wiggling her can as if to salute him.

He shrugged. "I've had a long day. And anyway, who's here to judge?"

"No one," she agreed, and then forced out a longer, more resonant burp, grinning wickedly. Marius tried to top it, failing spectacularly. She smirked, declaring herself the champion, and he conceded with a slight bow, his smile hiding his melancholy. To be young again, not just in body, but in spirit. A dream, unattainable.

They drank quietly for a minute more, watching the horizon darken. Eventually, Marius turned toward her, expression turning serious. He needed to address the elephant in the room: the marriage proposal, her parents, their political alliance. He grabbed another can for himself, and for her, and crushed the old one in his hand. Mustering all his strength he threw it off the mech, but, light as it was, a gust of wind picked it up and landed it down in the ravine, not far away.

"That was a failure," Ava quipped, already popping open her new can.

"Like half the shit I do," Marius muttered, staring into the distance for a moment before he sat down next to her again. "Ava," he began softly, "I know this situation is… not ideal. For either of us. On paper, you're an excellent match. Patrician lineage, strong political ties. Our families' union would stabilize a lot of tension in the Senate, give me a stronger position, and ensure your parents gain influence too. Perfect on paper."

She snorted. "On paper, I'm a saint. In reality, I like sex, drugs, and living without a care. Not exactly the image of a prim Empress-to-be, is it?"

He sighed, taking another sip of his beer. "I'm not looking for a saint. Gods know I'm not going to find one in any Patrician family," he rolled his eyes. His first marriage had not been filled with love, and even though his wife had been... boring, she had had her kinks and oddities. "I'm looking for someone who understands the stakes. But if you don't want this, I won't force you."

She blinked, surprised. "Just like that? You'll let me walk away?"

Marius nodded, gazing into the distance. "I'm not going to drag you to the altar. What do I have to gain from that other than misery? That being said... what do you really want from life?" He tried to keep his tone light, but the question hung heavy.

She took another sip, looking into the distance. "I want to live. Like, really live. No constraints, no expectations. Just… pleasure, excitement, and being true to myself. Is that so hard to understand?"

He shook his head. "Not hard to understand. Just...childish. Life isn't solely about pleasure. It's about struggles. Obstacles. Overcoming them. Failing. Trying again. Succeeding." He gave her an amused look. "You're what, Ava? 23? By my reckoning, your mother was 21 when she had you. Yeah, I know, it's the old man talking again." He mirrored her eyeroll. "Your parents… well, they won't just let you roam free forever. Just a matter of time until they cut you off, or find some other ways to tighten the thumbscrews on you."

She scoffed. "They're always meddling. I've avoided it by indulging them juuuust enough, but they're running out of patience."

"Of course they are!" Marius snorted. "You're the daughter of one of the richest and most powerful men within a sixty-lightyear radius, Ava, and you're of marriageable age. You think Marcos and Octavia will let you run free forever when they could have you married off to secure relations, to secure power?" He raised an eyebrow and looked down on her. "C'mon, you're smarter than that. If not with me, they'll arrange another marriage, one that's less…compromised by my sense of honor."

"Nothing in this seems all that honorable," she replied quietly and took a long sip, staring out into the distance.

He leaned back, then nodded. "You're right. Maybe honor was the wrong word. How about honesty then? If we were to marry, I can't promise you unlimited freedom. But it wouldn't have to be a golden cage either. More like," he frowned and paused to think, "a golden circus, maybe?"

She scowled. "You know how to make a proposal sound romantic," Ava said sarcastically.

"We both know this isn't about romance. It's politics. You and I? On paper: the perfect match. In reality? Not so much. I won't force you. If you say no, I'll find another solution." He allowed himself a small smile. "You're not the only person on this mech with more suitors than they can count, you know."

She shot him a wary glance. "Assuming I'd agree to an engagement, then what?"

Marius put his can down and turned to face her fully. "No more Perfumed Quarter escapades, no more liaisons with pirates. No more drugs. That would have to stop."

At the mention of the Perfumed Quarter, Ava stiffened. "You know about that?" Her voice was low, dangerous.

Marius met her gaze levelly. "Ava, think about it. You're potentially going to marry an Emperor. Do you honestly believe I wouldn't have your background checked thoroughly? Also, I've seen you there myself. I visited the Crimson Chalice incognito months ago. I remember a woman half-naked on a table." He shrugged. "Didn't know it was you at the time, but when we met last New Year's Eve, I think it clicked."

Her face darkened, knuckles whitening around the beer can. "You spied on me?"

"You're overestimating your importance," he said calmly, coldly. "I was there on other business. You just happened to be part of the scenery."

She hissed out a breath. "So what now? You going to shame me into this?"

He shook his head. "No. I don't care about shaming you. I care about reality. That's who you are. I'm not passing moral judgments right now. But I'm not blind either. Marrying me means no more of that. The Empress of the Marian Hegemony can't be seen barhopping and cavorting with a fucking pirate lord in the seediest district of the capital. Politically, that'd be suicide."

Her eyes narrowed into furious slits. "Did you enjoy the show?" she asked, voice mocking and defiant, pushing him to some emotional edge.

Marius's lips curled into a humorless grin, and his voice dripped with sarcasm. "Oh, yeah, sure. What man doesn't enjoy watching a potential marriage partner get raw-dogged by a pirate in the seediest part of town?" His words were brutal, cynical. It hung there like a slap in the face, and he watched anger flare in her eyes.

"Bastard," she whispered, fists clenched. The silence crackled between them, charged and bitter. The wind pulled at their hair, at their clothes, as if trying to disperse the tension.

Marius kept his voice calm. "You get to chose what you do. You don't get to chose how others see you for it. This is what honesty looks like, Ava. Hurts, I know. But better to have it now than after a wedding. You asked if I liked what I saw. There's your answer. I'd prefer not to have any illusions between us."

She looked away, breathing hard. The sun had dipped low, turning the sky a bruised purple. The distant hills were silhouettes against the dying light. They were alone out here, caught in a scenario that seemed both absurd and momentous: an Emperor and a Patrician daughter discussing on top of a battlemech's torso, with beer cans and half-snorted insults.

"What is he to you? Blue Bonnet, I mean?" Marius asked after a pregnant silence.

She struggled with an answer. Her knuckles whitened around the beer can. "He's a lover. A thrill. A man who doesn't cage me or demand I become something else. He… I don't know, it's complicated."

Marius considered his words carefully. He had to be honest. "If we marry, that's over. I won't sugarcoat it. The scandal would be unmanageable." Controlling the press would be easy; the Hegemony had none of the enshrined rights that, say, the League or the Federated Suns claimed to have, at least on paper. But politically, the Thirteen, or rather, what was left of them, were his enemies. The larger the Hegemony's regular forces grew, the better the nation's standing, and the more of a liability they and their de facto private armies were. He shook his head. "If we don't grow to love each other? Maybe I'd quietly look away for certain dalliances in a discreet setting. Maybe. But an affair with a pirate lord in the seediest part of town? That's too public, too messy. You'd have to give him up."

She scowled but avoided his gaze. "So, it's a cage after all."

"A golden circus, I said, remember?" he tried to lighten the mood but found no humor in her eyes.

After a long, silent minute, she spoke again, voice tight. "So what do you expect from me if I do marry you? To become a nun? Lock myself in a palace and never have fun again?"

He shook his head. "Not a nun. But more... discretion? More boundaries. You can still enjoy life, travel, attend parties. Just not the seediest ones, and not with criminal lovers. It'll shock you to hear that, but I kinda also do like sex and adventure. Either way, it'll be less freedom than you have now, certainly. But probably more than you'd get with any other husband your parents pick. At least I'm willing to talk about it honestly."

She barked a bitter laugh. "Honest conversations while you have me watched and know my secrets?"

His expression turned serious. "I won't apologize for security. But I can promise that I won't use your secrets against you. I brought them up now only to lay the cards on the table. You're not stupid, Ava. The 'stubborn 16-year-old girl routine' won't work on me," he made air quotes with his fingers. "You must know that by marrying me, you gain certain... immunities. And prestige. No senator can bully you without risking repercussions. You become a central figure in the Hegemony."

She made a motion, and he silently handed her another can. She stared at her beer as if seeking answers in the metal. "A central figure. Empress Ava O'Reilly-Kimura. It sounds heavy. A role I never asked for."

On that, at least, they could agree, and Marius nodded. "Heavier than this giant mech we're sitting on. But also, it could free you in ways you haven't considered. You'd have access to resources, travel anywhere, influence policy. You want new experiences? Do you love excitement? Imagine traveling to distant worlds, attending festivals known only in rumor. You can sponsor expeditions; if done cleverly, it might even be fun," he winked, trying to sound convincing.

She looked doubtful. "Fun, you say."

He took a deep breath. "Look, I'm not trying to sell you a fairy tale. But it doesn't have to be misery. And I'm not your parents. I'm not going to lock you in the palace. I'll trust you enough to let you roam, as long as you don't do anything that threatens the state – or the dynasty I have to maintain, okay?"

She drew her legs up, hugging her knees. She'd finished her beer, and crushed the can absently. "You say I have a choice, but we both know the political pressure. My parents are pushing hard. They want this alliance badly."

"I know," he said softly. "If you refuse me, they might punish you somehow. But I won't force you to say yes tonight. Think about it. There's no immediate deadline, though it'd be nice to have a definite answer in, say, a few months. Just be aware that your delay might cause them to double their efforts to control you."

She took in a deep breath. "I appreciate your honesty. Usually, these arranged marriage deals come with flattery and lies. And I'm used to be the only one to speak my mind just the way I see fit. You're just… brutally honest. That's refreshing, though it pisses me off too," she grimaced.

"Noted," he laughed softly and too another swig. "But I'd rather you be pissed at the truth than comforted by a lie."

She nodded slowly. "Can't argue with that." Marius reached for another beer and offered it to her, but she shook her head. "No thanks, I'm good."

The silence grew companionable again, both staring out at the plains, with the sky turning to a deep, dark blue, the lonely cry of a bird overhead. The first stars were coming out, and the myriad of satellites and small space stations drew their rounds in Alphard's orbit.

"So I don't have to decide now?" she asked quietly, again.

He shook his head. "No. Take your time and make up your mind. I'll move forward politically, whatever your answer. If you say no, I'll find another match eventually, or I'll have to swallow the bitter pill and adjust my policies. Either way, until you've made your decision, can you do me a favor and not end up in the Perfumed Quarters in the meantime?"

Ava gave him a long, annoyed look, but eventually nodded curtly. "Saying no on your part, that might make things difficult for you, politically?" she mused.

"If I refuse to marry you or fail to secure an alliance with your family, I risk straining relations with the Traditionalist block. They're the biggest in the Senate. Could make governance messy. People would whisper the Emperor is too weak to secure a stable dynastic marriage. It's never just about me. It's about the Hegemony's stability. I'll be tuning twenty-six this year. The thing about monarchies is that people expect heirs, because heirs mean stability."

Ava was again silent for a while. The wind rustled through her open hair, dry again. "So either way, we pay a price. You get political headaches. I get personal chains." She closed her eyes, letting the wind caress her face.

He could see the conflict warring inside her: the desire for absolute freedom versus the practical realities of life in a powerful patrician family. She was clever enough to understand the stakes, even if she despised them. At least, he hoped he was.

After a few minutes, she opened her eyes and spoke quietly, no longer defiant, just tired. "You're right. It's all ugly and complicated." A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "You're not what I expected, Marius."

"Well, that's at least something, I guess?"

Ava sighed. "No promises. But I appreciate that you're at least being straightforward. Better than honeyed lies."

He managed a thin smile. "For a start, I'll settle for that. Honesty over lies."

They sat in silence, watching the stars come out. One by one, the points of light emerged in the violet sky, and the valley below turned dark.

Ava stood first. "I should go. It's a long drive back."

Marius rose with her. They climbed back down into the cockpit, and got into their seats. The walk back to where they had met passed in silence. After a few minutes the lights of waiting vehicles came into sight, and the Battlemaster stopped in front of Marius and Ava's retinue. He lowered the ladder for both of them.

Ava paused before descending, her face framed by her jet black hair as she looked at him over her shoulder.
"Despite the… harsh words," she said quietly, "I'm oddly glad we talked. I've had worse dates."

He smiled sadly. "Me too."

She nodded, and then climbed down. He followed her. At the foot of the 'Mech, they stood a moment longer before Ava walked back to the waiting SUV where a driver opened her door. She looked at Marius over the roof of the vehicle. "Thanks for letting me drive the 'Mech. That was fun," she called out.

"You're welcome," he said, and meant it. "Happy to let you do it again. If nothing else, we can say we had a unique second date."

She let out a short laugh, low and tired. "True enough."

With that, she got in, and the engine started. The SUV's headlights speared through the darkness, illuminating the track ahead. Marius watched her go, the red taillights shrinking until they vanished behind a fold in the land.

"We can take you back to Mount Caelius now, sire," the head of his security detail informed him, but Marius shook his head.

"That won't be necessary. I'm taking the mech back to base. Inform Overwatch that it'll be late before I'm back home."
He stood there a long time, alone with the rustling grass and the distant hum of the Battlemaster's standby systems. Overhead, countless stars bore silent witness to their strange courtship, or lack thereof. The date had gone better than their first one. It certainly had been more genuine. Still, he was old and wise enough – Posca would laugh heartily at the latter claim, he was sure – to see the red flags. Bright red ones. He thought about what marriage to her might mean: a challenging partnership, or a constant tug-of-war. There was still the hope that, with care, there was something that could be shaped into a form of alliance, if handled carefully. He didn't need her to love him now, though love certainly could grow, in time. The reality was that love was a luxury few rulers enjoyed. But what he did need was her respect, and maybe, eventually, her understanding.

For now, he had neither. But he had honesty. He'd shown her who he was: a man trapped by duty and ambition, trying to carve a path in a world that expected more than anyone could easily give. She'd shown him who she was: a woman refusing to surrender her freedom easily, yet pragmatic enough to know that the world wouldn't always let her run wild.

He climbed back into Battlemaster. Night embraced him, the sensors painting ghostly outlines of hills and streams. He kept the speed moderate. No rush. He had time to think, to plan.

The next steps would involve more talks. With Al-Amin about new contacts in the barbaricum, with Volkova about the custodia outposts, with Posca about the delicate balancing act of politics and personal choices. With the Kimuras. But right now, all that receded into background noise. He was Emperor. He'd find a way.

 

[Culsu]

I realized I hadn't really done anything with Blackwood other than drag him out of a hole early in the story. Well, here he's at work. Also, I think a chapter with just below 5,000 words is fine for a change, and it'll mean you'll get to the next chapter faster, too!

Chapter 17: The Orichalcum Accord​

Nova Roma, Alphard
Marian Hegemony
June 12th, 3012
Blackwood stepped from the private elevator onto the gleaming rooftop terrace's polished obsidian floor, the collar of his tailored jacket open just enough to reveal the crisp linen tunic underneath that reached just to his knees. Handcrafted leather sandals bound up to his calves rounded off the ensemble. The style was all the rage at the moment, mixing old Roman fashion elements with more modern accessories. Floor-to-ceiling windows curved around the restaurant's perimeter, revealing all of Nova Roma in its twilight splendor. The hum of conversation from the exclusive restaurant mingled with the soft tinkling of glassware. Overhead, the translucent roof was a lattice of steel and crystal, giving a panoramic view of Nova Roma's night sky. Every last detail of this place had been curated for maximum effect: the music, the lighting, the subdued palette on the walls. And, of course, the company. The Orichalcum Leaf, perched atop a glittering skyscraper, was a temple of epicurean delight. Rumor held that the entire top floor had been purchased by a Canopian magnate who insisted on turning a corner of the city into an otherworldly wonder. Blackwood could live well with this rumor.

He paused at the threshold, taking in the scene. Low, aquamarine light glimmered from a pair of enormous aquariums set in the walls on either side of the main dining area. Exotic sea creatures, with scales shimmering like polished jewels, drifted lazily in the gentle currents. But they were not alone. A troupe of professional Canopian artists, dressed in layered, gauzy fabrics designed to swirl underwater and hide exceedingly little of their perfect bodies, performed an illusion of mermaid grace, hair fanned around their faces like living crowns. They waved shyly at guests on the other side of the glass, turning the entire restaurant into a realm of fantasy suspended far above the streets of Nova Roma.

Below, lights glimmered in neat lanes where traffic hovered in orderly lines. In the far distance, the jeweled curve of the Landing Bay shimmered, and beyond that, where the setting sun's last gold and purple rays painted the skyline, the looming silhouette of Mount Caelus presided over the Emperor's estate.

A passing waiter, tall, striking, and clad in a toga that sculpted flawlessly to his athletic frame, offered Blackwood a slight bow. The man's face was as calm as a practiced actor's. Blackwood nodded in return and swept into the dining area, each step sinking softly into the plush carpet.

He approached the hostess station—a curved mosaic of mother-of-pearl. The hostess, an ethereally attractive woman with silver-streaked hair, offered him a lingering glance that clearly signaled recognition. In The Orichalcum Leaf, privacy was paramount, but exclusivity was the real currency.

"Sir," she greeted, dipping her head in a way that was neither subservient nor aloof. "Your party awaits. This way."

The fashionable patrons here wore outfits that screamed wealth and confidence. Yet by the time Blackwood took three strides, he sensed their eyes shift, noticing him, acknowledging him. Most recognized him as a flamboyant socialite, or at least one of those playboy industrialists that come and go as the wind in the Periphery.

She led him through a corridor lined with aquariums that glowed in shifting blues and greens. The waters rippled with movements of fish and people - floating mermaids in gossamer - waving at guests. The entire experience felt akin to stepping through an underwater cathedral. The corridor opened into the main dining area, where soft music drifted from an ensemble in one corner: string instruments that played a gentle melody reminiscent of a lost Capellan waltz.

His hostess stopped near a private table situated by the far aquarium. The vantage point was perfect, with the entire bay spread out below. She was no older than twenty, poised and graceful, wearing a backless black gown with silver trimming. She ushered him gently forward. Blackwood put on his best thousand-lumen smile as she guided him to the reserved spot.

His date already awaited him, reclined in an aura of quiet confidence.

She wore a midnight-blue gown that contrasted against her flaxen hair, wound into an elegant chignon. A delicate diamond pendant glinted at her collar, shaped into a stylized version of the Lyran Commonwealth's crest. Everything about her posture radiated confidence, but Blackwood caught the slight motion of her fingers tapping against her wineglass, a sign of either impatience or nervous excitement. But it was her eyes that caught his attention most. Keen. Analytical. And behind them, a glitter of mischief. Friederike von Littenstein, niece to the Duke of New Earth.

Someone once had said that the most interesting conflicts often arise from the smallest details, and at that moment, Blackwood found himself fixated on the subtle interplay of Friederike's expression: a practiced calm that flickered with curiosity when she met his gaze. Some old spark danced behind her eyes.

"Guten Abend," she said softly, her accent wrapping over the words. "Though I believe here in Nova Roma it might be more appropriate to say salvete?" Her lips curled in a wry half-smile.

He took her hand, bowed his head fractionally over it. "I always did love the way you speak, Friederike," he replied.

She arched an eyebrow. "Ach, is that so? I almost declined the invitation as the name didn't ring any bells. It was nice of you to include a picture. I suppose Blackwood suits you better here, oder? Bastien Hohenzoll might raise some eyebrows."

He inclined his head, a conspiratorial twinkle in his eye. "I haven't heard that name in some time, my lady."

She withdrew her hand and gestured for him to sit. He did so, and the hostess drifted away as if on invisible rails. Only the hush of discreet service staff remained, melding effortlessly with the other privileged diners at well-spaced tables.

She arched an eyebrow. "I doubt that. Given the circles you move in, I suspect you have a string of aliases and identities for every planet you skip across. But," she smiled, "truly, it's been too long," Friederike said, her tone light, almost playful. "I was surprised to receive your invitation. Now, what is it that demands such secrecy?" She waved off a hovering waiter, but not before letting him refill her glass of sparkling wine with an extravagant, floral-scented vintage. "I heard rumors you'd thrown yourself into the Periphery, trying to evade your hounds. Others claimed you'd died. You know how they are. Rumors, I mean?" she raised her glass to her lips with a coy smile. "But I didn't expect to run into you here, in the Marian Hegemony, of all places."

Blackwood smiled. "The Hegemony can be…entertaining," he said, carefully picking his words. "But you'd know more about entertainment than I do, given your recent trip."

"Oh? Been snooping through my travel logs, have you?" Her voice carried a teasing lilt. "Yes, I've been enjoying the pleasures of life out here - Canopian pleasure circuses, the hedonist enclaves of Herotitus, all that. The Cirque of All Delights on Herotitus was… enchanting. Fascinating. Satisfying. It's quite the departure from the stiffness of Tharkad's courts, or New Earth's provincialism. Even so, I suspect you didn't request this meeting to discuss acrobatics or dancing troupes, though I must say the Canopian catgirls were... an experience."

He shrugged with feigned nonchalance. "Of course not. Though I hear you're well acquainted with the best amusements the Periphery has to offer."

She laughed, the sound low and genuine. "No shame there, Blackwood - Herr Hohenzoll. Life is short. And I find myself in the lucky position to make the best of it." She took another sip of her drink. "You always had a taste for luxury."

"Is that what you remember most about me?" he teased. "My penchant for fine beverages?"

She allowed herself a small grin. "I remember other things as well. Such as the corporate espionage, the sweet-talking you offered a certain board of trade officials in Donegal, the ridiculous sums of money you squandered on parties in Tharkad… and, of course, your ability to get what you want."

Blackwood leaned back. The candlelight played shadows across the angles of his face. He interlaced his fingers, adopting a pose of faux introspection. "Feels we were all so young back then. My father used to say, 'One must be bold and bountiful to succeed in the Lyran Commonwealth.' I might have taken that advice more to heart than others."

Friederike's eyes sparked, but her tone remained carefully neutral. "How many heartbeats did that cost you?"

"Fewer than some might think," Blackwood said lightly. "More than my share, in truth."

A silent waiter appeared beside them, setting down a pair of menus so elaborately designed they might have been curated for a private museum. Each dish boasted recipes handpicked from hundreds of worlds, its name printed in artful calligraphy. Before either could comment, the waiter whisked away, leaving them alone to contemplate the array of gastronomic wonders. Friederike's fingertips danced along the menu, but her gaze remained on Blackwood.

"Order anything you like," he said. "If memory serves, you enjoyed the lobsters topped with Kentares truffle butter the last time we dined together. If so, I'd recommend the Sian king crab. Comes close."

Her eyes narrowed slyly. "You remember that? Well, I do have a penchant for good lobsters." The banter felt comfortable, a practiced routine of sorts. They'd done this dance years ago, on Tharkad, not quite at court, though close enough to the halls of power.

They placed their orders - a selection of delicacies that would have cost half a year's salary for even a well-off Inner Sphere citizen - and after a moment of small talk about travels and acquaintances, Blackwood leaned forward.

"So. I'd like you to act as an intermediary, Friederike," he said, his voice soft and measured. "Between my, let's say, 'benefactors' and the Lyran Commonwealth."

Friederike lifted her glass, swirling the sparkling liquid in a slow circle. She took a sip, her lips pursed thoughtfully. "My benefactors. My, my. How cagey."

Blackwood shrugged apologetically. "It's not in my nature to let good connections go to waste. You've got a good standing with the Duke - your uncle or grand-uncle, whichever the official genealogical tables declare. At least, when I last saw you. It's been a while." A wry grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Between you and him, you have enough sway to nudge certain decisions. Opening channels, backdoor deals, letting a few production licenses slip to the right people."

A flicker of intrigue flashed across her face. "And you think I can coax the Duke of New Earth to support… what exactly?" She set down her glass. "Your 'benefactors' have a certain reputation."

Blackwood's grin widened. "I'd prefer you think of them as having a healthy dose of cunning."

They paused as their first course arrived, a swirl of color and scent. Friederike thanked the waiter graciously, then turned back to Blackwood. She took a measured sip of her sparkling mead. "Those are delicate words for what sounds suspiciously like arms trafficking, Herr Hohenzoll."

He dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin, inhaling the aroma from his plate. "Perhaps," he conceded. "But consider how complicated the political landscape is right now. Not so long ago, the Commonwealth was able to achieve a remarkable military success, launching an attack that struck Dieudonné with devastating force. I hear the LCAF wiped out the local garrison, flattened the HQ in New Bastogne, and leveled the Jarvis Military Training grounds. This success, I might add, wasn't simply good fortune. The reason the League diverted forces away was due in no small part to the crisis out on the Periphery. My benefactors contributed to that crisis, so to speak, shifting the League's attention and resources. The Lyrans reaped the benefit: fewer defenders, easier objectives, less risk."

Her eyebrows rose in curiosity. "You're saying the Marian Hegemony specifically orchestrated a conflict on another border to draw the Free Worlds League's defenses away from Dieudonné?"

Blackwood tilted his head. "That'd be stretching it. Yet, whether intended or not, that was the objective outcome, oder nicht? It's more complex than a single orchestrated event. The Illyrian Crisis was… a mess, but you and me both know that every mess is also an opportunity. But yes, the net effect was that League forces were compelled to redeploy, and that helped the LCAF find their opening."

She paused, letting that sink in. In the candlelight, her expression looked pensive but intrigued. "And now, these 'benefactors' wish to secure Lyran arms, or at least production licenses, to bolster Marian Hegemony defenses. Or maybe their aggressive expansions?"

Blackwood steepled his fingers and allowed his smile to drop, taking the playfulness out of his voice. He made the conscious choice to show his cards, just a little. "I have it on solid authority that the latter is not the case."

Friederike regarded the meal, pressing her lips together thoughtfully. But as the waiter stepped away, she refocused on Blackwood with a calculating stare. "I can think of several reasons not to help. The Lyran Commonwealth's overall stance on the Hegemony – as little as there is an official stance - remains… precarious. Slave markets, pirate sponsorship, inhumane punishments. Bad publicity. The Archon would never approve an open deal with your... benefactors."

Blackwood took a morsel of fish and savored it. "That is exactly why I need an intermediary. A skilled negotiator, someone with ties to the right families. Someone like you, that people like the Duke of New Earth might listen to, to nudge an agreement here and there. Someone who can create channels that are both discreet and plausibly deniable. And if your relative, the dear Duke, uses his influence, we won't need to trouble Archon Katrina with these details. It could remain well below the notice of any large faction. Shell companies, front organizations, second- and third-party acquisitions. Gods, Frieda, we both know the Lyran bureaucracy is vast. You know better than I how much goes to waste each year because some social general skims the profits from contracts, selling hardware that ought to be sent to the LCAF and then ends up rusting away in some warehouse on Skye. Why not ensure that some of that rot ends up somewhere it can do the Commonwealth good?"

She drummed her fingertips on the table, her polished nails glinting under the gentle light. "The Hegemony isn't exactly on the Christmas card list for the Great Houses. What you're asking, it could blow up in everybody's faces, quite spectacularly so." She sighed. "You mentioned strategic benefits. Let's be frank, Herr Hohenzoll. Are you actually in a position to promise the Commonwealth anything that might sway them?"

He leaned forward slightly. "I believe so. The more the League is forced to deal with Periphery aggression, the more they have to redeploy resources away from the Lyran border. If the Hegemony is well-armed, it becomes a persistent thorn in the League's side, just by providing a force-in-being. The net result? Freed-up resources and a weakened front for the Commonwealth to deal with. They can push the League at their convenience, or at least feel more secure. Or, the League has to raise spending, which opens up whole other can of worms for them that Tharkad can exploit. It's a strategic siphon. And in exchange, the Commonwealth barely has to part with anything of real value. A few mothballed 'Mechs, old vehicles, leftover stocks. Most of it is immaterial anyway; licenses and production data don't even need JumpShips to change hands. For the Commonwealth, it's a trivial investment with potentially enormous payoffs."

Friederike considered this quietly, taking another bite of her meal. She chewed slowly, her gaze distant, examining a mental ledger of pros and cons. "You speak very convincingly about Lyran interests, but you yourself are not Lyran, Bastien. Not really. Not anymore. You vanished from Tharkad and the rumor mill spat out half a dozen theories about your disappearance. One was that Alessandro had you assassinated for espionage just before Katrina took over. Another claimed you'd fled to the Draconis Combine. I never believed that one, by the way. Bastien Hohenzoll, in a kimono? Pu-lease," she giggled. "But the Marian Hegemony? Never expected that."

He couldn't hold back the smile tugging at his lips. "Everybody would've expected me to end up on Canopus. I plead guilty to liking the luxury. But after my little circle of proactive information brokerage was uncovered, I chose to lay low for a while. Since then, let's just say I found new opportunities in the Rimward Periphery."

She gave a soft snort. "That's what you're calling it?"

"I don't discriminate against currency, Friederike. Kroners, C-bills, denari: they are all the same to me. But I've come to appreciate another currency greatly, one that's not easy to come by: loyalty."

"The Bastien I remember was only loyal to one person: himself." There was the tiniest undertone of disapproval in the Lyran noblewoman's voice.

"What happened then...," he trailed off, then smiled mischievously. "Don't pretend you wouldn't have done the same. But no, I've come to understand that money isn't the only thing." His voice turned sober, earnest. "I ran. And when I could no longer run, I found myself on the bottom of a hole. The kind you know you'll never leave again. Then someone held out their hand, with a simple offer: do good by us, and we'll do good by you." He looked directly into her eyes. "They have, and so do I."

A flicker of interest brightened her eyes. There was a long stretch of silence as they finished the main course. Despite the swirl of conversation and clinking glassware from other tables, the hush between them felt charged. Eventually, Friederike sighed. "I'm not naive. I see the potential profit, the potential strategic advantage. Believe it or not, I do consider myself a Lyran patriot. It's just… the Archon won't stand for open dealings with a state that openly condones forced servitude."

"That's why this arrangement must remain clandestine," Blackwood emphasized. "And it's why my benefactors aren't seeking contact through open channels, not with the Archon directly. I... we need a conduit. Your uncle is influential enough to count, and far away enough from any greater political ambitions to be unproblematic for Tharkad. He's also a majority shareholder in New Earth Trading, and has a network of industrial and political connections. All I'm asking is for you to open the door. You can do that, can't you?"

She lifted her gaze to him. "You may be overstating my influence, but… yes, it's possible I could persuade Uncle Gunther to at least consider the conversation. I can likely arrange certain secondhand deals. A production license or two, for older platforms maybe. He might know some second-line general or eager logistics Hauptmann with access to the occasional overlooked supply caches. If he can keep his hands clean, he might be tempted, especially if he can point to a positive strategic windfall."

"Danke, that's all I ask. A conversation, and the opportunity to demonstrate the mutual benefits." Blackwood's composure never wavered, but inside he felt a steady relief. He'd known that if anyone could see the advantage in facilitating this arrangement, it would be Friederike von Littenstein. And from the faint luster in her eyes, she wasn't merely thinking about business profits. Old entanglements. "As the facilitator of the deal, you could of course ask for generous, ahm, consulting fees. And I could arrange for certain financial kickbacks to end up in your Credit Suisse accounts on Terra."

If she was surprised he knew about that one she didn't let it show.

A gentle hush fell around them as the dessert arrived, a breathtaking tower of spun sugar, perched atop layers of fruit compote from across multiple systems, each bite rumored to taste like a different region's harvest. The fine sugar filaments glinted under the candlelight. Friederike eyed it but made no move to break the architectural marvel. Instead, she looked sideways at Blackwood. "I can't help but wonder… is this just another money-making scheme for you, Blackwood? Are you just playing puppet master as you've done before? Reaping bribes from every angle before you run away?"

Blackwood exhaled, easing back in his seat. Her direct question cut deeper than he'd expected, stirring recollections of the days he'd spent in the Lyran corporate underworld. "I won't pretend I have no self-interest," he said quietly. "But it's different than you think, this time. I've made it known where my loyalties lie. My benefactors are of the opinion that it's only a matter of time until the Succession Wars enter a new, hot phase, and I share that assessment. The Lyran Commonwealth can't afford to ignore opportunities on its flanks. The Hegemony's expansion is inevitable, whether in territory or strength. If not with Lyran help, then from another source. What I'm doing is ensuring that if there's going to be an expansion, it might as well benefit the Lyrans. And you."

Her expression hardened. "And how am I to trust you're not simply pocketing the difference?" She crossed her arms, leaning back in her chair. "Come now, Blackwood. I'm a big girl. You can't expect me to make a move that could jeopardize my familial ties and cause a scandal unless I'm certain you're telling me the truth. You say you have obligations. Prove it. Show me something that convinces me this isn't just the flavor-of-the-month hustle."

He paused. Then, slowly, deliberately, he raised his hand, extending a single finger.
The reaction was immediate. Instantly, as though commanded by some pre-arranged signal, the entire restaurant hushed. All conversation ceased. Friederike stiffened, her gaze darting around. She watched in astonishment as the other guests at distant tables stood in unison, as if compelled by an unspoken order, and calmly walked out of the main dining area. The beautiful waitstaff and supermodel attendants quietly set their trays and cloths aside. Then they too withdrew, leaving only a single waiter who lingered at the edge of the alcove, eyes downcast, awaiting further direction from Blackwood.

Friederike's mouth parted in silent surprise, and she looked at Blackwood questioningly. He matched her gaze with an unflinching calm, letting the moment stretch. She must have guessed that he had some influence in Nova Roma, but perhaps she hadn't expected this.

"I do not exaggerate my position," Blackwood said gently. "And I don't come to you with empty promises, Friederike. These people here," he flicked his fingers, "they work at my behest. Or at the behest of those I represent. Either way, if I wanted to vanish right now with you, or end this night in more… intimate circumstances, no one in Nova Roma would dare object."

She swallowed, color creeping onto her cheeks. Whether from shock, uncertainty, or a thrill of excitement at witnessing that display of power, he couldn't tell. But he recognized the shift in her posture—she was leaning toward him again, eyes brimming with curiosity. "All right," she said softly. "You have my attention. That's impressive."

Blackwood waved the single remaining waiter closer, and the man set two smaller glasses of an amber-colored cordial on the table, bowing with impeccable grace before stepping away again to wait in the shadows.
"Shall we?" Blackwood asked, raising his glass. It was sweet and aromatic, laced with a faint aftertaste of vanilla. He watched Friederike over the rim of his glass. "I recall you once told me you preferred brandy, but I thought you might enjoy a local twist on that preference."

For a moment, she weighed her options. Then she lifted her glass. "To old alliances," she said, a touch of dryness in her voice, "and new schemes."

Their glasses clinked softly in the near-silence of the now-empty restaurant. She sipped, eyes never leaving his. His face in the muted light was all hard planes and angles, softened only by the hint of a smile. It felt strangely intimate, sitting in this opulent room, no other patrons around, just the occasional swirl of color from the aquarium mermaids drifting gracefully behind the tinted glass walls. Friederike lowered her glass. "All right," she said quietly. "I'll reach out to my uncle - my grand-uncle, to be precise. Subtly. I'll feel out his appetite for a quiet arrangement. If I think I can maneuver him into a hush-hush deal with your 'benefactors,' then I'll let you know. I'll demand a substantial fee, though. I wasn't joking about the personal risk to me. If I'm caught facilitating deals with the Marian Hegemony, I could be exiled from the Commonwealth, or at least find my name tarnished at court."

Blackwood gave her a solemn nod. "Your fee will be met, and more. No one will fault you for wanting to consider your own well-being."

She drummed her fingers against the table, then let out a long breath. "But make no mistake: if this goes awry, if your so-called Emperor pulls some stunt that drags the Lyran Commonwealth into a scandal, we never spoke. Understood?"

"Completely," he said, a quiet satisfaction settling into his tone.

A faint, unsteady laughter escaped her. "God help me, I think I believe you. Or I want to." She glanced around, noting how the staff hovered discreetly near the edges of the alcove, ready to serve or vanish as needed. Her mind spun through the possible outcomes. This was the type of deal that could catapult her from a minor Lyran noble to a power broker in her own right. It was also the type of deal that could end her in ruin. But that was why the game was so exciting. And what was life without excitement? She took another sip of the amber cordial, allowing its warmth to steady her nerves. "Well then," she said softly, "I suppose we've come to an understanding."

"It's more than I hoped for." Blackwood set his glass aside, then reached out, placing a hand over hers. He found her skin cool and delicate, reminiscent of a time when they were both younger and less encumbered by the weight of the Great Game. "Thank you, Friederike." He meant it.

She looked down at his hand, then up at his face. "Don't think this means I trust you unconditionally, you old jackal. I do this for mutual benefit, and, I'll admit, for the sake of old times… which I can't quite forget." She smiled coyly.

He inclined his head. "I wouldn't ask for blind trust. Only that you open the door a sliver. We can manage the rest behind closed doors."

They sat in a moment of shared silence before Friederike added, "I'd like to hear more about your… benefactors. How extensive is your network? How soon would you need these shipments? And precisely what range of weaponry are we talking about?"

Blackwood gave a thin smile. "We can review the details at your leisure. We have the rest of the evening, assuming you have no other engagements."

Her eyes flicked to the panoramic window, where the faint glitter of stars competed with the neon glow of Nova Roma's skyline. "My schedule is… flexible," she said, a slight huskiness edging her voice.

A slight smile touched Blackwood's lips. "I've prepared accommodations in one of the private suites upstairs. Beautiful. Luxurious. Bug-proof. There's a lounge with a panoramic view, and a place we can discuss details without prying ears."

"And if I decide that this was all a mistake tomorrow?"

His eyes glimmered with quiet amusement. "Then tomorrow you can go back to indulging the wonders of the Periphery before you eventually return to Tharkad, and forget about me. But I suspect you'll want to finalize these deals before they slip through your fingers."

She glanced one more time at the city lights, her heart hammering in her chest. She turned and offered him a single, decisive nod. "Lead the way, Herr Hohenzoll." She fought a shiver of anticipation, reminding herself that she was playing a dangerous game on multiple fronts. But maybe, just maybe, danger was what made life just worth living in the end.