Battletech Shattered Sphere: The Arcadian Free March

[Big Steve]

King Auditorium
Douglass City, Washington Continent
Dixie
16 April 3035


For months Harold Wise's campaign was slow to build steam. This was not merely from resistance, but from his own choice. Too much volume would simply raise the backs of these proud people, coming off as a pressure tactic. Better to be slow, to let the thought percolate in their communication networks, the online chatrooms and discussion forums and town halls.

Just as much, he didn't expect instant success. Polls were showing a majority opposed to voluntary accession and many willing to expand the existing garrison and raise militia to resist a forceful Arcadian takeover. He'd gotten them to consider the iddea,, but he hadn't won their support for it.

That campaign began now.

He'd been invited to a debate by the Count of Shenandoah, Albert Botts. He was a man of light brown complexion, a common skin tone on Dixie, on the portly side but with an energy that belied that build. His green eyes glittered like intelligent gems and Wise, who preferred a private discussion over a public debate, felt like he'd made an enormous mistake.

If I fail, the AFFM will agitate for the sending of regiments, he reminded himself.

The debate moderator, a retired Congressman named Kevin Clayson, commenced the discussion. "Mister Harold Wise, Your Lordship, thank you for attending us today," Clayson said. "The matter at hand is, given everything reported, an important one for the future of our planet. For those who are unfamiliar with the matter, Mister Wise is from the Foreign Office of the Arcadian Free March, which sent him to propose to our people and government that Dixie voluntarily join the Free March. His Lordship Count Cleburne leads the party in the Senate most opposed to the idea and supportive of our world's continued independence. Mister Wise, I invite you to go first."

"Thank you, Mister Clayson," Wise said. "After these past few months on your world, I know your people well enough to lay the matter out squarely. I needn't tell you how the Inner Sphere has changed. You've seen it. Your world's independence was already ended, by Defiance-Hesperus and the Kingdom of Kashamarka. The collapse of Kashamarka has returned independence for the moment, but in this Inner Sphere, it will not last. So we of Arcadia invite Dixie to stand with us, not because we are mightier than you, but because we can best aid you in protecting the rights you cherish."

Everything quieted until Cleburne spoke. "Your Arcadia has conquered many worlds these past couple of years, Mister Wise," he said. "You say you wish us to join you, but you say nothing of the threat behind those words. If we fail, your superiors may just send your armies to subjugate us. Or has the Free March eaten its fill? Considering its recent actions, sir, the answer is clearly no."

"Our hands are not clean, no. We wished to remain out, but Andurien has proven why we cannot," Wise replied. "I will not mince words. I fear that force may be used as well. The Free March cannot afford your world falling to the Marian Hegemony. But we wish to convince you to join willingly."

"Because you fear we would fight too hard against you?"

"Because we fear for the lives that would be lost in a battle you cannot win," Wise said. "While the necessity of our situation forces us to expand, we would rather it be peaceful, and we don't want slaves like the Hegemony, but free men and women ready to fight to save what is theirs."

There were a few supporting roars from the crowd, but Cleburne wasn't done. "Dixie has been free for the better part of two centuries, Mister Wise, before this expansion of government power began. Our people are ready to fight you or anyone else to save the freedoms they cherish."

"And if they lose, Your Lordship? If they are defeated, what then?"

The crowd's eyes turned to Cleburne, who quickly responded. "Then we keep the dream alive. We lay up arms and wait."

"Just as you did before? Sir, how close was Dixie to winning its independence back by force? As opposed to your reaction to the Consolidant and Kashamarka, where you not only accepted the loss of independence, you let one government sell your world." Wise let that point hang. He saw the frustration in Cleburne's eyes and knew he'd landed a point. He turned his eyes to the crowd, noting they too were frustrated by that knowledge. "I think we would all be happy if the Inner Sphere allowed worlds to remain independent, but those days are over. An era of interstellar government has returned, for good and for ill, and for those who value the principles of liberty the best hope lies in association with a government that accepts those principles. Your choices, I am afraid to say, are limited, and I fervently believe we are the best choice regardless. Whether you agree or disagree with me, well… I leave that for you to decide, people of Dixie."

His words were not so much inspired or rehearsed, they were words of frustration. He didn't like this new Inner Sphere either. He preferred the Inner Sphere as it was twenty, thirty years ago, when however dangerous and chaotic it was, worlds at least could decide their own fates if they strove for it. But that was over. He knew it, and he was sure that deep down, these people knew it too.

To his surprise, they applauded. A handful cheered, but it was mostly applause. Even Count Cleburne gave him an acknowledging nod.

Maybe this will get the ball rolling, he thought. Maybe my mission succeeds after all.



Springfield Defense Arsenal Works
Hagerstown, Hadley Continent
Loric
20 April 3035


President Blair insisted on joining Karl in the invited inspection of the Springfield Works. The defense plant was a rebuilt factory complex from the era of the Star League. While it lacked the automation and sophisticated systems restored on Arcadia and other similar worlds, with the right licenses it would be capable of producing Star League-quality weaponry. And since the Blairs were part of the majority shareholding group, they would profit the entire way.

At their insistence, Karl spent hours watching them accomplish what they considered their best effort: assembling a Jenner BattleMech in less than ten hours, from the casting of the alloyed skeleton to the fitting of the myomer motive bundles to the welding of the last plate of armor. A factory pilot brought the 'Mech to life and moved it out, somewhat stiffly Karl thought (and he was quite certain the machine would quietly be moved to a hangar for a complete overhaul).

Nevertheless he let himself be impressed. "Hopefully you will be constructing 'Mechs for the AFFM before long," he said.

"I'm sure the folks at Springfield here would jump at the chance."

If not for the utter mess the Inner Sphere's contract law has become since the fall of the Star League, I imagine you would have already faced a lawsuit by the actual owners of this design, instead of letting you build it for a small licensing fee. Karl didn't let those thoughts show on his face. "How goes your political efforts, Mister President?"

"Oh, fine Mister Montberg, fine. I'm having to make some deals, of course, but I think we'll get the votes we need. What about on your end?"

"The AFFM has been informed of your request to resurrect your 'Blair Guards' unit," Karl said. "I imagine that once everything is secure, they will begin the process immediately. Naturally you will be invited to the mustering ceremony."

"Can't wait to see it!" the President exclaimed.

 

[Big Steve]

Royal Palace
Cusco, Atahuaptl Continent
Cajamarca
Arcadian Free March
2 April 3035

With a mercenary force deployed to garrison Cajamarca for the time being the Arcadian Guards and the rest of the units on-planet were preparing to depart. The rumors of their next destination were varied. Some figured Trinidad or Paradise. One claimed that Command was hitting Atreus now instead of later. Others, that they were bound for the Hesperus Front to help reclaim Solaris and adjoining worlds.

Prince Thomas's batman, Lance Corporal Lawton, was busy at work for getting their things ready for transfer to the Galatine. Thomas himself responded to a summons by his battalion CO, Lt. Colonel Gertrude Kosinski, to meet in the office assigned her on the Royal Palace grounds.

He saluted upon entry to the office, and Colonel Kosinski, his CO now for over three years, snapped a reply salute. "At ease," she said. "I've got some news for you, and I think you'll find it mixed."

"Yes sir?" he asked, curious.

"For starters, congratulations, Major. The Promotion Board made the meritorious finding yesterday, according to today's dispatches from home."

Thomas allowed himself a controlled grin. Major. He'd made Major before thirty! It was a distinct honor and it made his heart swell with pride.

But what is the rest? Oh. "I take it, then, I am to be assigned to a new regiment with no battalion XO billets available?"

"No," Kosinski said. "That is the news I know you will not enjoy. You're being re-assigned to staff, Major."

Thomas refused to let his disappointment show. He'd been dreading such an assignment for years, the day his mother prevailed on their superiors to take him off the field. That is being unfair to her, he reproved himself. We rotate in eventually. "I see," he said. "Then I'm being pulled from the war."

"Afraid so, Major. I'm not sure where they're sending you. You'll be shipping out on the transport Richter tomorrow. You're heading home to Arcadia for your staff assignment."

Perhaps I will get to serve on the Planning Staff with Lord Alexander, he hoped. It would give him a chance to check on Mark at least, and see Willy before he went off to AMSA. Either way, I'm a soldier. I go where ordered.

 

[Big Steve]

28 June 3035


The woman known as Darla Kiner returned home from another day of custodial work to find a few pieces of physical mail - a new set of silverware to be precise - and pleasant silence at her cozy apartment. The firm she worked for did government work and could be a high stress environment, especially when government security and counter-intelligence were doing inspections, and even the custodians weren't immune to their attentions. But when you were a custodian with documented social anxiety disorder that made it difficult to look someone in the eye or behave in "normal" patterns, well, even the counter-intel people eventually moved on.

In her case, Darla was cleared, and that was of great relief to Claire Westin as she settled into a recliner and opened her box of silverware. The silverware was a cheap but workable set manufactured locally (as most common consumer goods were in the Inner Sphere and even Periphery). And she would get good use out of the dining utensils.

Of greater interest was the small data chip smuggled inside.

It was no larger than her thumbnail, but it had the capacity to store terabytes of data. She slipped it into her noteputer and examined the contents. Good, exactly what I needed, she thought, relating to the programs loaded aboard, which were very much utensils of another sort. She was familiar with them, and they'd prove useful.

Tomorrow she was off, so it would be time to make a pleasant stroll through the city, especially its parks. The local government was quite proud of them and put a lot into maintaining them. That such parks made her job so much easier with all the provided options for dead-drops, well, she couldn't exactly thank them for that part.

Not that she'd be using the park as a dead-drop, at least not yet. The important thing was to make her presence in the park regular. Dead-drops had to hit the sweet spot: somewhere that fits standard routine, but not so close as to be easily connected to you. It was why she was making a habit of visiting them all during her off-hours, usually with crumbled bread or other goodies to feed the water fowl. If anyone followed her or watched her, it was the kind of place that Darla Kiner would go, to enjoy solitude when life around others became too much.

Well, now I'm a step closer, she thought, considering the chip contents again. But it's going to be a while yet...

 

[Big Steve]

Ducal Palace
Roslyn, Eastern Islay
Arcadia
Arcadian Free March
28 June 3035

For the first time in two and a half years, Prince Thomas was home. He'd been considering that long time span during the Richter's trip in-system. Now the vehicle dispatched by the Chamberlain to the DropPort wound its way up the courtyard vehicle entrance and to the front door, giving Thomas a look at the home he'd not known for years, even before the mad scramble for planets began. Abby is off at Concord and university. Willy turns nineteen soon… he should be starting his first year at Ayrshire, unless Mother's let him out of that as well.

That thought, unkind as it was, was dashed the moment he got up to the door. His youngest sibling, Prince William, was in AFFM uniform, the mark of a first year cadet on his collar. He saluted crisply at Thomas' approach. "Welcome home, Major," he said with some enthusiasm.

"Cadet." Thomas reverted to military formality instantly. "You've had a growth spurt these last couple of years. I hope you've been behaving."

"If you mean my, well, romantic pursuits, Father made sure my studies kept me out of that," William admitted. "Father's off-world, unfortunately, some business back on Ford. It was already scheduled and confirmed when we learned the date you'd be coming back."

"Father was always one for duty," Thomas noted. "I assume Mother's waiting?"

"Her meeting with the Privy Council is over, and though she has a reception with Her Excellency the Ambassador Endo tonight you should have a lot of time to talk."

Thomas chided himself for making it so obvious he was upset. I should be with my unit! was a sentiment he still couldn't fight easily. "I knew I'd be coming off line duty one day," he admitted. "I just figured it'd be a few more years, or at least until after the war."

William nodded and said nothing more. He stepped away as they entered Sara-Marie's office, and her secretary and aide saw Thomas in to see his mother.

He'd seen her on the news enough to know how these last couple years were taking their toll. The Free March was in the middle of an unprecedented expansion and political shakeup, and all that came down on her shoulders. More gray and white showed in her hair. The crow's feet beside her eyes were deeper, far deeper, and she looked closer to sixty than fifty. Thomas saluted toward her, noting she too was in AFFM uniform with her unique hawk rank insignia on her collar. "Your Serene Highness, Major Thomas Proctor reporting."

"Major." Sara-Marie rose from her desk and rounded it. She returned the salute. "At ease." With that said she approached and smiled warmly. "You look good, Tom. You've been through a lot these past couple of years."

"So have you, Mom," he said, recognizing the cue to relax. "I can't imagine the stress you're under. Especially with the war on."

"Yes. The war. I didn't yank you from the frontlines to protect you, but rather, due to other concerns." She gestured toward the chairs in the office. They sat across from one another. "Thomas, you're very much like my father was. A soldier and a MechWarrior. But the Free March needs you in another capacity, and it's time to begin your training for those higher duties."

Thomas couldn't stop himself from paling. "Mother… mother, how long do you have?" He wanted to throw up.

She shook her head. "I'm not dying, if that's your worry. Not anymore than any of us. No, it's more a case that the Free March's evolution means you need to begin becoming the Heir, not simply a martial prince."

"So you want me doing civic matters, then?" It was something he knew would come one day, but yet dreaded.

"Of a sort. The war is still on, after all, and this new 'Lyran Alliance' will likely outlast it. To show our commitment to the Alliance, and to give you a chance to expand your education in life, I am going to assign you to the military delegation on Coventry."

"Coventry?" That was over twelve weeks' travel away. Another three and a half months in space…

"You won't be leaving right away, you're not due at the post until next year," Sara-Marie said. "For now you'll be working with the Military Liaison staff, learning what you need to know to fulfill your role. And it'll give you some time to see how our home has developed in the years you were away."

"And attend social functions, and endure the endless attempts by nobles to get me into engagements with their daughters," Thomas sighed.

"Well, I would like grandchildren before the Lord takes me away," Sara-Marie teased him. "But take your time on that. We all have plenty of it."

We do, all of us. Thomas felt reminded at his relief, as an adult, for his parents being so prodigious in giving him siblings. This meant there were at least four more heartbeats besides his own between the throne and his dissolute Aunt Gabrielle and the cousins she gave him and his siblings. Either Rachel would cut back the AFFM to fulfill her pacifist social agendas or Roger would spend more time carousing and drinking than seeing to his duties, he groused to himself briefly, not showing any of it on his face.

Well, Coventry and military diplomacy it is. And hopefully, one day, back to the Guards.

Hopefully.

 

[Big Steve]

Ducal Country Estate
Khalistan Continent
Giausar
Arcadian Free March
17 June 3035


It was customary for Duchess Ishita Khan to hold a yearly gathering during Giausar's winter months on the northern continent of Khalistan. The planet's highest society looked forward to the event as a place to unwind, debut their children to society, and indulge themselves in all the kinds of luxury a planetary ruler could afford for their estates.

This year, Ishita wasn't in the mood. She'd just learned her sister, Sakshi, was critically wounded while serving with O'Brien's Irish Lancers, a regiment of the 1st Free March Cavalry Brigade, nearly killed fighting an unexpected concentration of Marik line units on the minor world of Bainsville. Her lover was at least alive, but she - Captain Lavanya Chagger Kaur - was off-world training with former militia pilots to join the Hyde Lancers when they mustered at the end of the year. That left her with Sujay, her husband, nagging at her all the time about needing to provide an heir (not that it stopped him from seeing his male lovers whenever he wished), a usual preoccupation for the nobility if one Duchess Ishita never shared given the size of her family.

After some aborted attempts to cancel, Ishita decided that if she had to go with it, she'd be going wild this year. Expenses were tripled, more staff hired, and the best booze (and other substances) available on the market were found for her guests. Her parents, if they were alive, would have been horrified, but she was by her own admission not as devoted to the Sikh faith as they'd been (not counting keeping up appearances).

The night started early, and so did Ishita, such that she was soon as inebriated as she'd ever been in her life. It made her guests a bit uncomfortable until they realized the kind of party this was going to be, which left a few scandalized and in a hurry to leave and many, many more quite happy to escape the drudgery of a quieter affair. Ishita kept a glass of something that was very much not wine filled throughout.

The party was in full swing when guests arrived in something other than the usual finery. They had an assortment of jackets and jumpsuits and other clothes. A sober Ishita would have pegged them for commoner party crashers immediately and either patronized at them or ordered them away. As sloshed as she was, though, she didn't think to do anything but take another drink and welcome them to the party.

Which was, in the end, the wisest thing to do, strangely enough.

A certain smile crossed the leader's face. She was another woman, of darker complexion than Ishita, who yet spoke English in a similar accent. "Well, gals and boys, looks like we're turnin' this into some shore leave too!" Behind here were applause and shouts of approval that would have worried any sober homeowner familiar with the predilections of pirates.

Ishita, of course, was not sober at all, and so felt not a worry about inviting this woman and her band in. Far from it, with Lavanya off-world and Sajay more interested in a couple of the male lords attending, she was rather more interested in other matters…



Hours of revelry and debauchery later, a somewhat inebriated Joanna Rashid, leader of the pirate band Rashid's Ravagers, was feeling rather ravaged herself. She liked to think of herself as sexually flexible, but Duchess Ishita proved how wrong that was. I did not expect to have the wildest party in my life, and certainly not to have the Duchess of Giasaur… damn, I still feel light-headed!

Given how well her night went, as her band returned to their APCs laden with not very many valuables, she decided not to start shooting them for failing to properly loot the palace. Truth be told, they were all frustrated with other jobs and a lot of time in space, and this was the kind of party a wise pirate didn't crash, it was the kind you joined.

Besides, I hear the Earl of Stewart has some nice antiques that should fetch high on the market, Joanna thought, recalling one of the more drunken vows she'd made as part of the night's festivities. It'll be a good scrap too…



Ishita Khan woke up with a headache and a need to go to the bathroom for a little morning refreshment and more than a little hung over vomiting.

It was only after she was done that Ishita let the blurred memories of the night come back enough to know that A) she'd had uninvited guests and B) she'd spent the night with one of them, and it'd been a very enjoyable one. It was something to feel guilty about when thinking of Lavanya.

Still, it was to her surprise that she found a hastily written note.

Loved the party, Duchess. And the sex. It was good too. Tell you what. I'll keep my crew from taking too much of your stuff (not that it'll be hard given all the booze and coke flowing in this place) as a thank you for the… A few rather explicit sex acts were listed that made even Ishita blush, restoring some color to her cheeks at least. ...and as thanks for giving my crew the party of a lifetime, we'll leave you alone and go raid the Mariks to get back for your little sis.

Just don't get used to it!

Signed,
Joanna Rashid
Rashid's Ravagers

P.S. Next time I do the ravaging, Duchess, not you!


(Use of yearly event: Pirates will raid Stewart, cause some ruckus to local Marik forces.)

 

[Big Steve]

Donalson Plains
Bainsville
Marik Commonwealth
12 June 3035


Deep down Alex Penton knew Shasta was a lucky case. The local militia breaking with barely a fight, leaving the 8th Strikers to take control of the planet without issue.

Now the time had come for the pendulum to swing the other way.

Heavy fire crossed the fields below as the DropShip reached optimal altitude for the combat drop. Alex made a last, sixth check on his Paladin 'Mech's jump jets and assured himself they were, indeed, functioning. Don't want to hit the ground hard, if my legs got wrecked I'd be a sitting duck.

"1st Battalion ready for drop," a voice declared.

These aren't militia, they're Marik regulars. That was the shock that hit them when the 1st Free March Cavalry hit the LZs. While local miitia were helping, the remnants of something like three Marik regular regiments were likewise planetside, and were formed into what Alex would call kampfgruppe. An ad hoc military formation of the components of broken units, knitted together by discipline, decent officers, and a will to fight on. Now the 1st FMC brigade was getting a hammering, particularly the relatively new and inexperienced O'Brien's Irish Lancers "regiment", which was already suffering heavy casualties.

The light ahead turned green. Scott Pierce's Marauder walked out of the bay, together with his immediate command lance. As the effective CO of the rest of the battalion's command unit, Alex's 'Mech came next. He moved the Paladin forward and let it drop into the open air. With the aid of the months of training he fired his jump jets with increasing power, arresting his descent until the final thirty meters when he gunned them at full power, bringing him to a landing that was only slightly bone-jarring.

The other 'Mechs of the 8th Strikers were landing about them. Marik 'Mechs, busy with the Gienah Heavy Fusiliers and what tattered remnants remained of O'Brien's Irish Lancers, were already turning to engage. He noted a Marik Stalker firing missiles into one of the modified Chargers of the 1st Battalion and brought his crosshairs over the assault 'Mech. With a squeeze of his triggers he alpha-striked the machine, spraying lightning and emerald light over the Stalker's hip and side in the microseconds before the penetrator round from the right arm's Gauss Rifle smashed through more armor.

This brought him the quite unwanted attention of the Stalker. The Marik pilot's lasers cut into the protective armor over his right shoulder. Nominally there was nothing there to damage, as the jump jets and engine were lower in the torso, but given enough hits his skeleton in the area would fail and his machine would be crippled. He jerked to the side just as the missiles came in, slamming over his left torso and arm instead. Indicators on the holotable glowed yellow in warning while he strained to keep the machine standing against the barrage of missiles. Two missiles went off just above and below his cockpit, not quite managing to penetrate the armor.

That was when it first struck at him. The fear, the terror, of dying here, in this cockpit, as a meter either way might have led to. For all that BattleMechs were fierce war machines, for all the seventy-five tons of metal at his command, his life was still that fragile. All life was. Whenever he pulled the trigger, he could kill someone.

And that terrified him even more.

But yet, something inside him didn't let him stop. His machine kept moving, and his aim remained steady. Another squeeze of the trigger sent a wave of heat into his 'Mech, but resulted in the Gauss Rifle and PPC wounding the Stalker. Sparks erupted from a missile launcher, the result of damage shorting the weapon out. The assault 'Mech, slow as it was, tried to turn away.

Another cerulean bolt caught it in the leg while cluster rounds sandblasted the opposite side, courtesy of Rachel Vallejo's Tanatis 'Mech. The damage unbalanced the Stalker, slowing it… giving Alex the shot.

He took it.

The heat in his 'Mech surged once more, dying away slowly, while cerulean fury tore the air between his left shoulder and the jutted out head-module of the Stalker. Unlike the Marik pilot's missiles, this shot hit home. Smoke and debris billowed out of the shattered cockpit, which toppled over.

Just like that, he thought to himself. Now I've got blood on my hands too.

There was no time to savor his first official kill as a MechWarrior. The Marik unit had to be put down before it rallied. Only then might he and his comrades be safe.

So without a further thought, he picked another target, and his weapons blazed away,

 

[Big Steve]

Arlington Mansion
Douglass City, Washington Continent
Dixie
10 August 3035


The yearly social season of Dixie's high society was in full swing, with the planet's gentry and leading politicians filling Douglass City for nightly parties, soirees, and club occasions. The reason for the season was typically the opening of the year's Congress after the July elections, and this year was no exception, with Duke Lee welcoming the returning Senators and Congressmen to a party celebrating their return.

Unsurprisingly, Harold Wise was likewise invited. Through his own actions, including his repeated debates and plain-speaking, he was gaining celebrity and respect in equal measure on Dixie. As a diplomat it somewhat confounded him, since the locals seemed to prefer what he felt was blunt speech over the finer in diplomatic work.

The night went smoothly enough, for the most part, and was enjoyable. It was near the end that Harold was called away quietly by the Duke's chamberlain and seen to the same study he'd been greeted in months ago. Now Duke Lee sat with some of Dixie's other highest officials. Countess Annabelle Clemens, the President of Dixie's Senate, sat on one couch, a woman of fine wizened features with a strong mocha complexion. Kyle Waltrip, Speaker of the House, was in another, and the Secretary of State, Dr. Moshe Benjamin, had yet another seat. A few other ranking leaders were present as well.

"Mister Wise, you have undoubtedly paid attention to the results of our elections this year?" Duke Lee asked.

"I have," answered Wise. "The Whig Party has a narrow House majority while the Democratic-Republicans have two more Senate seats." It bemused Wise that such a party existed on a world that had functioning nobility, including Countess Clemens. "Her Ladyship the Countess of Murfreesboro and Mister Waltrip are the current legislative leaders of those parties, I believe, with their minority leader counterparts present as well."

"Indeed. You are aware of the issues in the campaign?"

"Mostly domestic matters, with my proposal being a latecomer. The Whigs are roughly opposed, the Democratic-Republicans mildly in favor of."

"Generally so, Mister Wise," said Waltrip. Like the others he had a Dixie drawl to his English, but with a bit more of a twang. "My own personal conviction is that your offer is the best we can hope for, but many in my party believe we would be giving up too much. Some still believe we can remain neutral between you and the Marian Hegemony, and their voices are strong. If we try to push an acceptance through Congress, they will make a fight of it."

"I'm certain they would," Wise sighed. "Are there any alternatives?"

"There is one. You can appeal to the people."

"We will announce a plebiscite," the Duke said. "To be held this November, in which all citizens of Dixie will vote on your Free March's offer. If it passes, Congress must assent."

"And if it fails, then we drop the matter," said the Countess. "And then you and your people do what you will do."

Invade. Wise had no doubt of it. The military leadership would call for a diversion of regiments to break Dixie's military, the planet was simply too valuable to leave dangling for the Marians to pluck. "Then I must convince your people of the wisdom of joining us," Wise said. "I'm not a politician, you understand…"

"Then, Mister Wise, I propose you learn how to become one," Duke Lee remarked. "For all our sakes."



Free March Consulate
Johnson's Landing, Hadley Continent
Loric
Independent World
20 August 3035


With Loric's social season also in high gear, Karl and his husband threw their own party for the elite of Loric, including several of the Electors for the planet's College of Electors. The "presidential republic" used them to select the President of Loric, in theory any member of the College, but in practicality, a Blair, as it had been since the Lyran Commonwealth collapsed and the planet's controlling minority of Teutonized Lyrans liquidated their estates and fled popular wrath. Like the President they elected, the College was theoretically appointed democratically by the planetary regions and provinces, but in practicality, the wealthiest families controlled the seats and who got to run for them.

With Johann providing the social duties of a host, Karl was free to discuss Loric's accession to the March. What the present Electors said to him wasn't of much interest; it was what they weren't saying, and a couple were clearly uninterested in closer conversation whenever Tom Blair or certain other Electors or other figures were within theoretical earshot.

The stocky ruler of Loric soon made his presence known. "Countrymen, friends, good people of Loric!" He raised his glass. "To Consul von Montberg and his delightful husband, for being such gracious hosts, and for their forthright dealings with our world!"

The toast was echoed, and Karl answered with his own. "To President Blair, who has been ever vigilant for the needs of his world." Were I the titular living puppet of Pinnochio, my nose would be a meter long already, he mused while the crowd likewise cheered the toast.

Once the toasts were done Blair approached Karl and asked, "A place to speak briefly Consul?"

Karl quietly led Blair from the main hall and adjoining dining areas to one of the small office rooms. He closed the door behind them. "What might I do for you, Your Excellency?"

"I know we're running short on time to make a deal here, and I promise you, sir, I'm doing what I can to get the Electors to approve the resolution," he said. "That's why I wanted to speak with you."

"Certainly. Go right ahead."

Blair took a seat and sucked in a drag from a fine cigar, one of the planet's more notable luxury products. "Those folks over on Dixie, now, despite everything they've managed to set themselves up with a fine naval yard. Great place, had a nephew tour it once before the takeovers began. They're already making JumpShips."

'"That they are," Karl noted, recalling the Foreign Office reports on the two worlds.

"Now, between Springfield and McGinty Aerospace, our world's got quite an industrial complex already, but I think that Ms. McGinty's fine people could produce some mighty fine ships of their own, if given the right funding."

There it was. Karl nodded politely at the idea, knowing what it really was: another "request" that the Free March would have to pledge itself to if Blair were to accept peaceful annexation.

"A lot of the College would be glad to see our world producing ships. Why, maybe even some of those combat JumpShips you've used so well against Marik, may the whole family rot."

"I can inquire about the idea, we are looking for more shipyards," Karl noted.

"We'll name the first ship for my poor departed predecessor Francis, he would be thrilled to see our family become so respected." Blair sat up. "So, I look forward to hearing from you, sir, and to another fine party this November. I'll be debuting my youngest soon, Lily, she's a sweet little thing. I may send her to school on Arcadia if I get the chance. She'd love to meet Her Serene Highness and her family. Why, as I recall, the youngest of the bunch is her age."

"Johann and I will gladly attend," said Karl, even as he almost blinked at the gall. Would he go that far? Would he make it a required term that we marry Prince William to his daughter? Of all the cheek…!

"It'll be a great night." Blair left with a smile and a nod, leaving Karl to his thoughts. He was so intent on the problems that he didn't hear Johann come in, nor react to him until his husband had a hand on Karl's shoulder and his lips against Karl's cheek. "You look troubled," said Johann. "President Blair?"

"He is stringing us along," Karl muttered. "Now he wants the March to fund a naval yard for Loric. And he's hinting about setting up his youngest daughter with Prince William."

Johann sighed and shook his head. "Whatever the title, you'll always find ambitious men who don't know when to quit." He put an arm around Karl's shoulder. "Do you think he would risk it? Risk us turning to military force?"

"He might chance it. He's had a year to expand his defense forces, and the military's still tied down on the front. Or maybe he thinks he can force more concessions out of the March-Princess." Karl shook his head. "All I know is that we're getting to the point where I'm going to have to tell him 'no', and it won't go well. I just need to see if we've reached it yet."

"Either way, that can wait until tomorrow." Johann pulled at his dress jacket's collar. "Let's get out of these things and enjoy a bottle of schnapps and a quiet night, now that the guests are out."

"Yes, let's," Karl said, allowing himself a smile.

 

[Big Steve]

Tactical Proving Ground
Fort Defiance, Eastern Islay
Arcadia
Arcadian Free March
19 August 3035


Lieutenant Tania Tobias was one of a dozen Arcadian MechWarriors with a particularly unique posting, specifically her place in Bravo Lance of the 1st Special Testing Company. Ostensibly part of the 1st Free March Militia Brigade, the 1st STC were not actually on the combat rolls of the AFFM. Their entire job was based around piloting modified machines testing new technology being experimented with by the Arcadian military.

She was in one of her favored machines right now. The GST-1 Ghost was a design of the Selassie Defense Works, the 'Mech factory complex and design company based in the city of Mek'ele over on the continent of Mull. Owned by House Selassie, the Counts of Mek'ele and claimed descendants of the old ruling house of Ethiopia on Terra, the Defense Works produced most of the native BattleMech designs in the Arcadian arsenal while their immediate competitor, Rayhan Arsenal of Dar-es-Salaam, mostly produced existing designs on license, with a few unique variants. The Ghost, a 35-ton scout 'Mech with a top speed of 118 kp/h and a sixty meter jump capability, was one of those designs, and the raw speed was something Tania enjoyed pushing the machine through.

This Ghost was different from the other GST-1s though. Its two jump jets were missing, with some of the internal volume of the speedy light 'Mech instead devoted to housing a new, sophisticated targeting computer meant to assist MechWarriors in making pinpoint shots.

This was the device she was due to test, and test it she did, setting it to target the legs of the dummy firing range 'Mechs set up for her use. As she ran her Ghost about, the holo-display in front of her created a small ruby circle over her targets' legs as she moved her crosshairs over them. Whenever her crosshairs hit the circles properly they turned green, and she squeezed the trigger. Emerald light was the result, with the occasional low roar of the dummy-warhead missiles the Ghost's SRM launcher was spitting out.

Some of her hits were on, but she was finding the system was more often than not throwing her aim off. The circle would suddenly shift a centimeter here, five there, and her shots missed the target completely. She slowed her run to a walk to see if that fixed the problem, and ultimately just stopped and shot from a standing position (or as most MechWarriors called it, the sitting duck position). Even there, while the circle remained more stable, it inevitably continued to shift about inappropriately, and her firing accuracy ended up off.

"Bravo 2 to Range Control, system's still not working right. I'm not getting stable firing solutions from the computer."

There was a small sigh on the other end. "Roger that, Bravo 2. Go ahead and bring your 'Mech back in, we'll have to give the hardware and software another look."

"Confirmed, returning to hangar." Tania turned the Ghost back toward the base and brought the swift machine into a run, mostly just for the fun of the raw speed of the scout 'Mech and not the prospect of the debrief and written report awaiting her back at base.

But at least I'm not getting shot at, I suppose.

 

[Big Steve]

17 August 3035


Claire Westin - as Darla Kiner - kept to her tasks carefully, befitting the mental condition her co-workers knew her to have. The day's routines were the same; clad in a blue custodial jumpsuit, she went from room to room vacuuming or mopping as required, picking up trash, and a number of other monotonous jobs. She hummed to herself, always dropping it to a low key when around others. The polite co-workers gave her a wide berth after they got to know her.

Others kept trying to "get you out of your shell", as one named Lysandra put it one day. The stout, plump woman had her own issues with socializing, issues Claire recognized as the personality type craving attention and friendship, and the kind of person that would be an insufferable pest to the Darla Kiners of the world.

As much as Darla Kiner would have appreciated someone causing trouble for Lysandra, it was Damien Smythe that Claire had her eyes on. Not because of any threat posed, or annoyances caused, but because he was the best candidate for the plan forming in her mind, as one of the few with an access to the data servers.

Initially she'd considered a direct entry to the servers, with physical access, but the security measures in place were not welcoming to that sort of approach. The servers were in a vacuum-sealed room that needed no custodial visits. Techs went in only rarely, with constant observation by security personnel with rigidly-timed schedules for their operations. The data backups were no better a choice, as they were likewise kept in a vacuum-sealed chamber that required no custodial work and had a constant security surveillance system. Remote access was impossible as they were air-gapped, and only updated once a week.

Updated… by Damien Smythe.

With that fact in mind, she started a slow, quiet process of becoming a favorite of his. He had the meticulous personality of a technical mind who wanted everything done just the right way, to the point of borderline Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and Claire made sure that Darla Kiner became the kind of custodian who paid attention to the little details. It was an authentic trait for someone like Darla, for whom such details could provide an easy escape from the awkwardness and aggravation of social interactions.

Today she finished cleaning his personal space when he approached. "Kiner, isn't it?" he asked, a bit brusquely. "I noticed you took an extra thirty seconds to vacuum below my desk today. Something wrong?"

Without making eye contact Claire brushed at the hairs hanging from her forehead. "Um, yes," she said quietly. "There were some crumbs I noticed."

"Ah. Well, good work, and that's what I get for eating biscuits at my station. Really shouldn't but when you've got to eat…" He left the line to trail off while returning to his seat. "Well done, Kiner. I hope to see you around regularly."

"Of course," she replied, quietly shuffling off.

It was a small interaction, but an important one. Her efforts were noticed, and Smythe would be more welcoming of her proximity to his workstation and thus proximity to him. She would use that, in due time.

 

[Big Steve]

AFMS Liberator, Zenith Point
Amity System
Arcadian Free March
10 August 3035


Vice Admiral Andros looked at the clock once more and nodded grimly. The Far Star was overdue from its recon run at Stewart. As the system was unfortified, that could only mean one thing: Marik naval forces. ANd that by itself strongly indicated the presence of the Charles Marik.

The ship was the last vestige of the Marik Commonwealth fleet, but it was the most powerful unit of that fleet. To eliminate it, the Lyran Alliance's belligerent members placed the bulk of their available naval forces at the disposal of the Arcadian Navy, the most powerful of the belligerent forces. Their forces were one fist, gathered to do two things: destroy or capture the cruiser, and safely deliver eight Arcadian regiments to the surface of Stewart to defeat whatever Marik forces were gathered there. If the cruiser wasn't at Stewart, they'd depart once the troops were safely seen to.

They'll go down fighting, Admiral Andros noted to herself, even as her subordinates counted down the time to jump. But if this war's going to end, this is how we do it.



AFMS Ranger

Melissa and her pilots rushed from the pilot ready room to the hangar deck while klaxons rang around the ship. Rushing in zero-G was particularly exhilarating since it essentially meant constantly pulling and pushing against the rails to accelerate oneself. She did it with expert precision until they got to the deck.

Flight crew were ready, employing magboots to move about without floating in zero-G. The pilots boarded their fighters, 50-tonne Lightning models, and strapped in with the help of their flight crew. Her weapons check came back green, as did every other systems check.

The voice of the ship's CO came over the PA while the Lightning was moved into position. "All hands, stand by for jump shock, commence magnum launch from all tubes once secure from jump."

Melissa's fighter thunked a bit with the final push into place. When the time came her fighter would go hurtling into the void and whatever battle awaited them. Calm down, it's just another launch, she urged herself, not quite effectively.

The jump came with warning tones sounded over the ship's comm system, including the connection to her fighter. Ping, ping, ping, BREEEEEEE, and like that, the jump came. Reality distorted like it did every other time, the human body reacted with nausea, and for a split second you wondered if things would go back to normal just before they did.

"Launch!"

Her fighter was catapulted out into the void, to face whatever was there.

 

[Big Steve]

Gaitherville Town Hall
Dixie, Alabama Continent
Independent World
18 October 3035


Harold Wise's transformation from diplomat to democratic politician was not easy and nor was it complete. He found training for being persuasive to statesmen and officials didn't quite prepare one for working with crowds of ordinary working folk.

What did train him for those crowds was their common cultural link. He was a native of Concord, which like Dixie managed to hold on to Anglo-American cultural attitudes even when the era of nobility undermined republicanism. While there were some cultural differences, the commonalities were easy. Baseball, football, Mother's Day and Apple Pie, Washington on the Delaware… these things let him speak as the people of Dixie preferred.

As venues went, Gaitherville Town Hall was fairly smaller than the auditoriums he was used to, and he doubted the attendees - a swath of brown and dark-skinned faces, some still wearing straw hats and a film of sweat from their fields - numbered out of the two digits. This was farming country, but it would provide pivotal votes for the referendum, so Wise chose to speak here.

His speech reached all the important points, but the hardest was always the responses thereafter. Today he enjoyed respectful silence through his speech and a quick questioning when it was over. He picked one man in a business shirt, clearly a local businessman, who asked, "Those Kashamarkan folk kept tellin' us what we could or couldn't grow, and wantin' us to speak that Qecha stuff. You folks don't do that, do you?"

"No. Star League English is the official language of government, but under the laws of the Free March worlds can retain their own official languages as well. German and Greek are both widely used, as is Gaelic."

"And what about taxes?"

"Yearly assessments from your planet's treasury and some customs and excise, the kind you already pay," Wise said. "Honestly, in the end, you may indirectly pay slightly more, and in exchange, you will have preferential market access to over sixty, maybe seventy other planets. And Arcadian troops ready to defend your world, of course."

That clearly appealed.

"Why can't you folk just go and leave us alone!" a woman called out. "We like things the way they are!"

Wise nodded. "I did too," he admitted. "I don't believe in all this rapid expansion stuff. But that's not how the Inner Sphere is these days, folks, and Lord have mercy on us, that's the simple truth. The Marians, Harsefeld, Oriente, they don't give one whit about such things. They'd conquer you just for being there. I'd honestly like to go back to the ways we had before. It's why I'm so happy to be here, because it means some of my superiors feel the same way. That we should still be offerin' the hand."

He half expected someone to point out the obvious, that if the hand's were to be slapped away it would become a fist. But none did.

"Folks, I really do believe we'll all be better off together," he continued. "The Inner Sphere isn't about independent worlds anymore, but freedom's not gone. All the important liberties, they're still there, and keepin' a lot of your local ways. That's what the Free March is about. And I hope you'll consider that when you vote."

He received polite applause.



Presidential Palace
Johnson's Landing, Haley Continent
Loric
Independent World
20 October 3035


Karl sat down in the drawing room and waited patiently for the arrival of Tom Blair. When he came, it was in the company of two of his family. Frank, the oldest son, resembled his father strongly, while a homey but not very lovely young woman was, to Karl's memory, Lily.

"I understand the vote's due soon," Blair said, getting to business. "I hope to put it over the top."

You mean you want another bribe. Karl said nothing. He was hoping it wouldn't be what it looked to be. "Your College of Electors is indeed thick-headed, aren't they? Every time we make a promise, they wish for another."

Blair grinned widely. "Yes, well, you're asking them to give up our independence, Mister Montberg. Our long-cherished freedom to decide matters for ourselves. You can understand they wish a gain commiserate with that sacrifice."

You are gambling. You are gambling that the need to suppress the Marik holdouts will keep us from using force. Karl kept the diplomatic smile on his face, even if he was certain Blair knew he wasn't so happy. "Well, what is the concern now?"

"There are some concessions I might personally make to swing the final votes," Blair said. "And I'll do so, happily, for the sake of my daughter's happiness." He gestured a hand toward the clearly nervous, unsettled girl. "You know she's in training to become a doctor, right?"

"Nurse, daddy," Lily gently corrected.

He flashed her a look that made her flinch, but the grin never disappeared from his face. "Yes, something like that. Very proud of her. And I hear that Her Serene Highness' second son needs a lot of care on account of his war injuries."

Setting your sights yet higher still. Will anything ever satisfy you? "I hear many things of Prince Mark's condition, including his therapy and the prosthetics he will requite. I'm sure His Highness has the highest of care as it is."

"Well, yes, maybe from some… hired help. But a nice young woman to tend his needs, heal his hurts, to give him the tender love that a man wounded like that needs, that can go a long way to a full recovery."

Karl noted Lily fidgeting again while her older brother wore a mask of quiet amiability. He was fairly certain a storm raged under this quiet sky blue eyes though.

Whatever their response, Karl was approaching the end of his patience himself. This is what we get for humoring this man. "Prince Mark's recovery is not our concern, although I will extend Her Serene Highness' thanks for your interest. If there is an issue with the College and our proposal I will be happy to alleviate worries…"

A frown appeared on Blair's face. "I don't think you can give them what they want, Mister Montberg. I can. What I want in return is a chance to create a permanent bond between my world and the rulers they would be accepting. My daughter Lily would be an excellent wife to any of your princes."

"I have no legal power, let alone moral authority, to negotiate an arranged marriage as you propose, sir. It would be contrary to the traditions of the Proctors and the constitutional…"

"Oh stuff that ballyhoo. We know what this is really about," Blair stormed. "You people think your Proctors are so much better than us? Blairs were winning the Presidency and attending court on Tharkad when the Proctors were dirt farmers! And my little girl is just as worthy a wife as any other noble-born gal you'll find!"

"Father, your heart," Frank warned.

Indeed, Karl noticed the elder Blair rubbing at his chest, but his face was still purple with anger. He briefly wondered if he had miscalculated the intentions of the man, but felt vindicated when Blair kept speaking. "I've got just as much pride as any other leader. The Blairs build this world, sir, we built it! If we're going to follow another house, we're going to be part of it, at least! We'll not be perpetual inferiors to your jumped up, johnny-come-lately dynasty!"

"With all you stand to gain, I find your refusal baffling."

"I won't be bought off by your empty promises, sir. I expect real gains Or this conversation, and your job here, is over."

"We have offered you everything you asked, Mister President. We have bent over backwards to your whims, and personal whims they've all been," Karl noted. "Reforming your family guard unit, building a yard that your family would own…. we have accepted everything. That you keep insisting on more, well, perhaps you should temper your ambitions."

"I'll temper nothing!" Blair roared. "I am the one in power here! I am the one who decides if the treaty is accepted, because I am the Electoral College, and that's how it's always been. Now you leave, sir, leave and consider your failure, and perhaps I'll send for you to continue if you've provided a sufficient apology and your rulers have accepted my marriage proposal. If not…" He grinned. "Perhaps Imperator Sean would be interested in a wife."

Now the mask on Frank slipped to show a frown, and Lily paled, undoubtedly at the prospect of such a husband. Karl, quietly, stood and bowed. "As always, Mister President, I am at your disposal." He turned and left without a word.



23 October 3035


After a few days in which Karl was becoming increasingly convinced he was about to be declared persona non grata, he was re-summoned to the Presidential Palace at the order of President Blair. Once present he noted a subdued tone about the place and wondered what might have prompted such a mood in the locals.

He got his answer when he arrived at the reception room.

Frank Blair rose from the table, wearing a business suit and the lapels once on his father's collar. He gave Karl a warm, jovial smile. "Ah, Emissary von Montberg, please, allow me to welcome you. You are the first foreign official I've met since becoming President."

Karl blinked. "Um… my congratulations Your Excellency. Your Father?"

"Passed away in his sleep two nights ago. Heart attack," Frank said calmly. "We've been preparing to inform the people, otherwise it would already be announced. Anyway, I would like to resume the negotiations my father, in his temper, left off so badly the other day. For starters, I admit my ambitions are rather more tempered than his. I won't be so crude as to offer my sister up, for starters…"

Karl was quite sure, at that moment, that Frank had seen to his father's murder. Yet duty called, so he adopted his diplomat's demeanor and listened to a rather more reasonable set of terms than Tom Blair had proposed. He even agreeed to most.

This wasn't how I wanted it, he thought. But, perhaps,, it is for the best...

 

[Big Steve]

Ducal Palace
Roslyn, Eastern Islay
Arcadia
Arcadian Free March
12 October 3035


The months since returning home to Arcadia reminded Thomas more of his school days than his post-commissioning posting. Every day he'd help out with the Planning Staff if possible, watching his cousin Lord Alexander plan out the war that, it turned out, wasn't quite a war. Despite the losses, including that of an entire battalion of crack Arcadian Marines, the victory felt sweet enough, and the news from Solaris was encouraging as well. Thomas was, indeed, one of the few who knew OpForce Malleus' next assignment, word he was not going to share.

When he wasn't helping out there, he was attending seminars and meetings at the Foreign Office with the Military Liaison Staff, the joint AFFM/Foreign Office organization that maintained the necessity connections with allies, or potential allies, among other matters. While most of his work there was on preparing him to serve on Coventry in Archon Katrina's court, he was likewise educated on matters with their other allies, should he be assigned to Inarcs, Donegal, or Skye.

And yet, even with that, he still had social duties, in this case the formal arrival of the new Skye representative since Ambassador Endo's departure to see to her homeworld's liberation. The reception was due to begin soon and he'd be there in full uniform, complete with Order of the Liberator necklet and the Star of Bolan that Grand Princess Gita gave him for the fighting on Bolan. He hoped to get away with a minimum of suit-pressing by parents hopeful for prestige through their daughters being his wife.

He fit the last ribbon in place when there was a knock at the door of his personal suite. He left his bedroom for the living area. "Come in," he called, and watched Mark enter. His younger brother was in his own uniform, with the same commendations from Bolan, and a Captain's insignia. His right hand was in a glove and his left leg wasn't quite mobile while he was walking. "Mark."

"Tom." Mark's hand moved stiffly to salute. "Major. Sorry, my lack of discipline is telling, but I've been living outside of the life for over a year now. I got used to it."

Thomas returned it and shook his head. "No, I… I understand, Mark. I…" He swallowed. He hadn't seen Mark since his brother, badly wounded and with his survival still uncertain, was moved from the Liberator infirmary to the transport that carried him to Arcadia back in March of '34. "I'm happy you're well. Sorry I've not been up to the estate to see you."

"Ah. Well, you've been busy, and I know how hard it is to pull you from Fort Defiance," Mark answered. 'Truth is I used to be like that too."

"You were always eager to prove yourself."

"And you always seemed to do it without effort. I used to envy the hell of that."

Thomas gestured toward the chairs in his living room and Mark moved stiffly toward one. "I would offer a drink but I suspect we're both due at the reception."

"We'll have plenty there."

There was a difference in Mark, that much Thomas could see. Before, on those occasions they saw each other when duty allowed, his brother always vibrated with tension. A hunger to prove himself just as good as his older siblings and a worthy inheritor of the Proctor name. That was gone now. In its place was a kind of quiet resignation. "So, are they returning you to service?"

"In a staff capacity," Mark said. "Whatever doctors say about the prosthetics, I don't know if they'll let me be a combat pilot again. Not in a regular line unit. So I'll serve as best as I can in other respects."

"That's a shame, you're a damn fine MechWarrior."

"I like to think so." Mark sighed. "I still have the itch. Not just with my limbs but here." He tapped his right temple. "I want to suit up and just take a 'Mech out for a stroll. Feel the tremor of the legs tromping across the ground, look down at the fields… just to feel that power again."

"I believe I do." A bit of guilt crept into his voice. Just the other day Thomas got to take Liberator out on maneuvers with the 1st Militia Brigade. "Maybe in time the prosthetics will be advanced enough to let you pilot?"

"The doctors say they are now, but AFFM regs are AFFM regs, and they're not all written by doctors." Mark shrugged. "Either way, what's done is done. I had my shot at glory, and I did something, and now I've paid the cost and have to live with it the best I can. And that brings me to the news I received this morning."

"Oh?"

"I've been assigned to the Liaison Staff," Mark said. "They're sending me to Coventry as part of the mission. Administrative vice chief of staff for Colonel Hughes."

"Vice chief of staff?" Thomas shook his head.

Mark chuckled. "As much as the AFFM doesn't like to admit it, we have been shaped in part by the legacy of the Lyran Commonwealth. Bureaucratic overhead is part of that, I guess."

"So we'll be going to Coventry together." Thomas grinned slightly. "Well, at least I'll have someone to keep me company."

"I had the same thought," Mark replied.

 

[Big Steve]

4 November 3035


Hearing her father's stories growing up, Claire was prepared for the identity crisis that comes with living a legend. You start to become your cover in many ways, through routine, rote, all of the things that define daily lives. To escape that, agents like her might do anything from mental exercises to holding keepsakes that reminded them of a prior life.

Claire was no different, in the end, however much she convinced herself when young that she could avoid the need. No, a link back home was something to value, since she was hundreds of light years from Arcadia and the family home.

Her chosen keepsake was a small medallion, a St. Christopher's medal her mother owned and gave her when she came of age (and they'd had a screaming fight about her career plans). She didn't bring it to work, if only because it might draw attention she didn't want, and never wore it at home either, keeping it on the nightstand beside her bed. Only now, when she was alone, did she turn it in her hand over and over, feeling the metal surface and remembering her happy times as a little girl living near Ipswich, a village at the edge of the Plymouth Peninsula at the foot of the White Mountains. Her parents, Uncle Sam, Uncle Jesse, and Grandma… how she missed it all.

I chose this life. I chose it. I'm good at what my parents used to do.

Darla had a different life of course, and a different way of thinking. It was what made the medal so important, otherwise the conflict between Darla and Claire might become psychologically damaging.

Outside darkness had long fallen, and in the dim light of her room she looked over her noteputer. It'd taken a lot of effort to map out the facility, but she had the entire place laid out now. All that remained was the access from Smythe, and the security protocols meant that was something that had to wait until D Day.

Once I begin, there's no turning back. I either get what I've been sent for or the operation is a failure, she reminded herself, before checking everything yet again to make sure her plan and contingencies sounded right. Get access to the backups while Smythe is in possession them, swap them, depart without raising suspicion, get the data to the dead drop, and exfiltrate. Do it right and nobody will know what happened, Darla Kiner will just walk away one day, and given her mental condition, it will be easily explained.

And then she would be Claire Westin again, and go home to a grateful nation and, she expected, another assignment.

 

[Big Steve]

Open Space
Stewart System
Marik Commonwealth
17 August 3035


Melissa powered her Lightning through the enemy fire from the Charles Marik and spit her crosshairs directly onto one of the cruiser's naval autocannon emplacement. She had a bare second to fire at their respective velocities, but she did so with effect. The coilgun in her machine's nose sent a penetrator round through the weapon's damaged armor, striking vital machinery within, with the streams of emerald darts from her pulse lasers chewing through some of the remaining metal to further the damage. Within the guts of the weapon something went wrong and its emplacement ceased to turn and track. She twisted her flight stick and brought the Lightning into a breakaway, preparing to begin another attack run.

This gave her the sight of the approaching assault DropShips from the Guardian, bearing the 2nd Battalion of the 1st Marine Regiment. "Beginning terminal approach. Breaching forces ready."

"All fighters continue suppression," ordered a voice from the Liberator.

It really wasn't a fair fight. The wings of fighters from the Consolidant, New Commonwealth, and Free March were over eight hundred machines in raw numbers, counting the air groups for the eight regiments in the Arcadian force, and they'd already annihilated a dropper warship the Charles Marik deployed into the fight. The Mariks had almost no air power available, save a few wings from the surface that the Consolidant group was tasked with stopping. Even the mercenary fighters from the Gravediggers were taking part, though their machines were mostly Succession Wars-era models that lacked Star League technology. Two of those wings were now conducting their own strafing runs to prepare the way for the Liberator's marines should they need to board as well.

The Charles Marik was dying the death of a thousand cuts, and it was only a matter of time before she was caught or destroyed.

"25th, on me, we're making another run," she ordered into the tac-comm. He wingman of three years, Fariq al-Khomsi, gave an affirmation the other four pilots of the squadron echoed. The six LIghtning fighters turned and burned, keeping acceleration high to evade the remaining Marik weapon emplacements. Melissa targeted a light missile launcher this time, a short-range system, and with her squadron hit it with their main guns. Five penetrating rounds were accurate enough to strike the weapon or the supporting emplacement, wrecking the entire thing.

Ahead of them, the Marines' DropShips began to fix themselves to the cruiser. The boarding was about to commence.

Melissa noted the thermal spike on her systems, coming from the Charles Marik. What could that… oh no. "All fighters break off!" she called into the tac-comm. "25th, break off!" She swung the Lightning away from the Charles Marik and jammed her feet onto the pedals, forcing her fighter's fusion engine into max burn. Despite the intense G-forces this generated, she managed to shout, "Everyone break off! He's spiking his reactor!"

There was a babble over the allied tac-comm lines. Other fighters heeded, yet others didn't seem to, at least, not soon enough. The DropShips broke away from their intended target.

Too late.

Had Melissa's fighter been turned the other way, the sight would have blinded her. A brief shining star marked the passing of the Charles Marik and her defiant crew, preferring death to capture, and the wave of deadly light encompassed the fighters and craft around the ship. The energies of the short-lived star vaporized everything in immediate proximity and melted and broke material further away. Warning lights filled her cockpit as the energies bathed her Lightning, sloughing away armor and damaging control surfaces, electronics… everything. The lights in her fighter dimmed, went out, then finally came back. A glance told her how close she'd come to annihilation. "Everyone check in," she ordered.

One by one the other pilots of the 25th did so.

All except Fariq.

"Alpha 2, check in. Alpha 2, do you copy?" she asked, with increasing frantic fear. No. No, Fariq, not you too…

"Alpha 5 here," said a male voice with an Italian accent. Melissa recognized it as Flight Lieutenant Sergio Farucci. "I see Alpha 2, visual contact. His fighter's not in good shape, but I… yes… yes, I see movement in the cockpit. He's alive."

Thank you Lord. Thank you! Melissa let out a breath and tried to will the tears to go away. Not just at the near-loss of her wingman, but at the entire situation. She'd been within seconds of dying, as had her pilots.

A lot of ours just died, she thought. And it'll be on the heads of those in command.


AFMS Liberator


The entire crew on the command deck still waited to see if color would return to Admiral Andros' face. Her eyes were still fixed on what little remained of the Charles Marik… and those of her people they'd brought with them into death.

A battalion of our best Marines. Their ships. All those fighters that didn't get clear… I should have held them back longer. Made sure we cut the fuel lines to the reactor, or something…

"Admiral." A comm officer spoke up. "A signal from the Survivor's Guilt. General Hoyal wants to speak to you."

"This will be novel," she sighed, before nodding. "Put him on." She went quiet at the grizzled appearance of General Christopher Hoyal, owner and commanding officer of the Gravediggers mercenary unit. By reputation she knew that most of his long-standing people still called him "Colonel" despite his outfit now consisting of five regiments of 'Mechs, tanks, and infantry, plus an air group of four wings and a small fleet of DropShips and JumpShips. "General?" she asked politely.

"I just thought you should know my people have finished accounting for our losses," he said gruffly. A metal hand shined on his left arm, a limb he'd lost in war years ago. "My air group is down two wings, effectively. I'd like to know why you didn't give the order to break off and engage with your guns once the capital emplacements were suppressed."

"We were still trying to eliminate the weapons systems."

"You mean you were clearing the way so you could put Marines aboard and capture the ship." Hoyal's voice wasn't accusatory, but his eyes were coldly appraising her. "You send those men and women to die for that. Was it worth it?"

"Capturing a powerful cruiser that we could add to our fleet? Yes, General, it was," she said firmly. "It was a calculated risk and I made it. It went bad, and I'll have to live knowing I sent hundreds of our people to their deaths. Yours too. I'll die knowing it too, and I'm sure I'll have to answer for it. But I'd still make the decision if I had the same information as before."

"Right." The mercenary commander nodded. "Well, just as long as you remember that our lives aren't cheap, I suppose I've got nothing further to say. Survivor's Guilt out."

The call ended. Admiral Andros sighed and rested her forehead in her hand. God help me, I would make the same call again, wouldn't I?

The answer, of course, was "Yes".

 

[Big Steve]

The Orchy River Valley
Angus Continent
Stewart
Marik Commonwealth
15 September 3035


Missiles streaked through the air before several slammed into Dani's 'Mech, alerting her to the approaching Marik Trebuchet. While she had twenty tons on the Marik machine, its double LRM15 launchers made it an appreciable threat, particularly given the armor damage she'd already taken to her Mad Cat. She turned her 'Mech's torso-mounted weapons on the 'Mech and fired. Twin bolts of cerulean energy speared through the air before striking home on the medium-weight BattleMech.

It wasn't alone, of course. It approached in the company of other machines, all of which were pouring fire into the 1st Battalion's Command Company and portions of C Company. The rest of the battalion was on the other side of the rise, already engaged with a different group of Marik troops, while along the entire valley Marik made an attempt to block the 8th Strikers' overland advance on Inveraray, the regional hub for this quadrant of Angus.

The Trebuchet fired a laser barrage her way, the Marik pilot spiking their heat in the process. The 'Mech moved, as if to evade, and for good reason given the missiles and submunitions that stripped armor from it. Rachel's Tanatis followed up with a blast of its own ER PPC that blew a hole through the Trebuchet.

Dani redirected her efforts to an approaching Orion, and for good reason. The Orion's hip-mounted weapon fired, and the size and power of the resulting barrage revealed it to be 20-rated autocannon. The shots chewed into the hip of the Tanatis, stripping enough armor to lay bare the actuator underneath. The Orion's pilot fired a succession of emerald laser shots, one of which struck at the unprotected joint and fused part of it, partially-disabling the leg on Rachel's 'Mech. A moment later she triggered a full alpha strike of her own weapons. Four emerald beams flayed armor from the Orion's right arm and torso while the PPC shots struck home on the rest of the torso.

The reply was a flight of short-range missiles, sixteen in all, and guided by more than the usual targeting package. All but two made impact on Dani's battered 'Mech, blasting away not just armor but pieces of the inside myomer and metal frame and bone. Warning lights flashed over her machine's damage indicators.

She pushed the Mad Cat into a run to her right, twisting the torso as she did so she could direct more fire at the Orion. Her heat flared again, well into the yellow range, at another shot with most of her weapons. Her movement threw her aim off a little, but this time she hit home, damaging the missile launcher built into the Orion's left arm with a laser shot while the other weapon hits took more armor from the machine. The cockpit heat felt stifling in its weight, the only relief being the cool sensation coursing over her courtesy of her suit's coolant lines.

The heat didn't have time to dissipate. The autocannon on the Orion's hip roared again, and this time she was the target. The shells tore through the right side of her 'Mech's torso, shredding armor and internal structure. The connection to her right arm took some of the damage with the limb's control indicator turning red, marking the control as impaired but not lost. She maneuvered to put her stronger armor toward the Orion, just for its lasers to lash out. The first two hit home before she could cover the wound sufficiently. Her display put up an engine damage warning; part of the fusion vessel was damaged, specifically the coolant regulator. Her 'Mech's heat spiked further while the systems struggled to control the heat increase from the fusion plant. Coolant spilled like blood from the wound in the machine. Even moreso, her right-side PPC was now putting up a capacitor failure; it'd been damaged as well.

She turned to cover her wounded side with her intact one. Firing only half of her complement, she delighted to see the left arm of the Orion go flying off, severed by her PPC.

Ten missiles corkscrewed their way through the air at her. Seven landed home, blasting away more armor but doing no more apparent damage… none, that is, until the heat spike from the engine worsened. One of the missile's payloads hit her engine, damaging it further. Not good, she thought to herself while the heat continued to bake her in her cockpit. She triggered her lasers again, to no effect, while waiting for the PPC capacitor to recharge. Any second the autocannon would fire again…

Nearly forty missiles slammed into the Orion's right side and leg. Chunks of armor flew off all along the big war machine, after which four emerald beams scourged yet more armor and fused the Orion's right knee together. Dani noted on her systems that Becca's Strider Hawk was in range for her lasers. Given her 'Mech's relative paucity of heat sinks, a trade-off for its fire support role and sheer weapon tonnage, it had to be baking her alive as well. "Command 4, you're risking an explosion," she warned over the comm link.

There was no answer.

The Orion had an answer, though, as its autocannon roared yet again. The missile barrage threw off the pilot's aim, but not enough to miss. The shells blew armor and endo-steel from the left leg of Dani's 'Mech, snapping the chicken leg's reverse knee like a twig. Dani let out a surprised cry as her machine toppled to the left. She fought in vain to keep the 'Mech from falling that way, but couldn't quite manage it, exposing her weakened right side in the process. Her heart fluttered from the fear it brought, the realization that her enemy needed only one good shot to finish her 'Mech and, perhaps, finish her.

The Orion pilot took the shot. Missiles flew in at her exposed right torso…

...and detonated against the left arm of Alex Penton's Paladin, tearing it off at the elbow.

Two ER PPC blasts, one from Alex's torso-mounted weapon and another, presumably, from Rachel's left arm weapon, converged on the Orion, scourging much of its remaining armor on its damaged torso. Dani got a look at Alex's machine, enough of one to see he'd been in the thick of it too; his other arm was a charred, blown out wreck. He wouldn't take a hit from the autocannon either.

She managed to roll the Mad Cat back enough to free the left arm and clear the PPC on that side as well. Her crosshairs shifted to show the weapons could be aimed again, and aimed they were on the Orion in question. She squeezed the trigger. Emerald light and a bolt of cerulean particles wreathed the right side of the Orion, tearing through structure until the entire side came apart. Critical engine damage caused the 'Mech to topple over.

"Thanks, Command 1," Alex said over the commlink. "Sit tight, we'll get a crew out soon."

"I'm not going anywhere," Dani sighed. That was the closest call I've ever had, she thought. Even closer than Bolan. I almost died here. I would have. Her eyes fixed on the battered 'Mechs of Captain Penton and Lieutenant Vallejo. But that's why it's good to have comrades you can rely on.



The Marik units fell back, retreating down-river in good order, and relieving the 1st from the hard fight for the moment. No longer fighting for his life, Alex took stock of the damage. A lucky shot (for the other side) blew up his Gauss Rifle and he lost the other arm shielding Dani Verdes, but he still had the ER PPC on his left shoulder as a weapon. Not that I should take this into another fight if I can avoid it, I need a repair bay too.

Just because their fight was over didn't mean the battle was, of course. Alex considered the holographic map he brought up on his display, showing real-time tactical data from the rest of the unit. To their south the 1st Free March Cavalry were taking another beating, just like on Bainsville. The Gravediggers were coming up further down and might take the heat off, but they had some tough terrain to get through and the Mariks had detachments holding critical roads and passes. If we can get to Inveraray, we can force them to retreat back toward Perth. It'd take the heat off the 1st FMC.

"At this rate the regiment will be in tatters before we get there," he said aloud into his private command channel with the other battalion commanders, XOs, and Brigadier Sinclair. "We need another approach."

"A combat command from the Proctor Light Horse is coming up to assist," Sinclair remarked, words carefully chosen on the off-chance their encryption was broken.

Alex could see where they were, to the north. They're one of the best at rapid maneuver, but they'll be cutting through the Campbell Mountain Range, a lot of places Marik can hold them up there… He examined the map more closely and a grin formed on his face. "Brigadier, 3rd Battalion, they've slipped up toward the village of Aviemore, right?"

"So I'm… ah…" He could hear the realization in Sinclair's voice. "Good catch, Major. Colonel Nichols, new orders. Northbound passage, sector nine."

"Understood, sir," Nichols answered, recognizing the coded reference to just what Sinclair was ordering, and it was the same Alex had in mind. 3rd Battalion's position allowed them to bypass Aviemore and, with speed, hook around the Marik line on the north and plunge for Inveraray. So long as 2nd Battalion and their air support kept the Marik companies south of Aviemore pinned in place, nothing could stop Nichols' 'Mechs and following battle armor from marching right up to Inveraray.

While the 1st regrouped and waited for relief from the Dar-es-Salaam Cavalry, Alex kept an eye on the other units' maneuvers. The hour plus of tense waiting was rewarded when Nichols and two of her companies burst through the lines south of Aviemore, rushing headlong for the enemy field HQs at Inveraray. The result was as predicted: Marik abandoned lines along the Orchy, rushing backward, but they wouldn't get to Inveraray in time. With the 1st Dar-es-Salaam Cavalry coming up to take the 8th's place in line and the Gravediggers moving to take the pressure off the 1st FMC, the fight for western Angus, indeed the whole continent, was effectively over.

Once Nichols was reporting from Inveraray, he received a private 'Mech-to-'Mech link from Chappy. The older man appeared, clad in a cooling suit and in his own machine. "That was quick thinking, Major Penton. Just as I expected to see from you. I'm going to make sure you get your credit for this action."

"Thank you sir," Alex answered. Not that it'll stop the lawyer jokes, he thought wryly. But maybe they'll like me a little bit more now...

 

[Big Steve]

The Moors, Paltos Continent
Atreus
Marik Commonwealth
28 November 3035


Weapons fire blazed through the fens of Paltos with sharp intensity, felling the trees and setting fires in the underbrush. The native and transplanted wildlife of Atreus fled from the onrushing 'Mechs and vehicles of the 8th Marik Militia, their pilots eager to complete the rout of the invading regiment.

On paper the Proctor Light Horse was the more skilled regiment than the Marik Militia, but the Moors were the perfect terrain for the Marik forces to ambush the light regiment in. Their heavier 'Mechs allowed for volume of fire that made up for the evasiveness of light 'Mechs in the hands of the Arcadian veterans, and while no unit of the Light Horse had been outright destroyed yet, all three battalions were suffering significant losses as they rushed back to the DropShips with which they'd invaded Paltos. Their DropShips' guns would give them some cover, at least, although it remained to be seen if the 8th Marik Militia's numbers might cause them loss as well.

Among the units trying to hold the rear line was Bravo Lance, C Company, 3rd Battalion. A fast hunter-killer lance of one Guerrilla and a trio of Jaegers, Bravo Lance was built in particular for rapid maneuver, not an easy thing in the Moors.

Lance Lieutenant Korra Varney, of Togwotee, twisted her humanoid machine to the left to track an oncoming Vulcan, a dangerous short-ranged 'Mech. With the range extreme for the arm-mounted medium lasers, the Vickers-Armstrong Mk. 10, her right hand tensed only on the trigger finger for the torso-mounted PPC. The discharge of lethal particles resembled a twirling bolt of lightning, more fluid than the coherent beam of a laser, which created a shower of sparks and particles when it struck the Vulcan square in the shoulder.

A smaller bolt struck as well, from Lieutenant Asami Sato's Jaeger, armed with a light-weight PPC in the central torso that sacrificed weight and power for range. A third shot, from Lieutenant Bolin Jin's Jaeger -2A variant, employed the same Vickers-Armstrong Mk. 5 PPC that Korra's Guerrilla mounted, scourging armor from the hip of another Marik 'Mech, an Assassin. The last of their lance, Lieutenant Mako Jin, was out of engagement range, as his Jaeger, the -2B, utilized short-range missiles as its main armament.

"Fire Company, where's our support?" demanded the voice of Captain DiMartino, the CO of Company C.

"We're under fire from Marik Trebuchet and Catapult 'Mechs," answered his counterpart, Captain Hendricks, who oversaw the fire support BattleMechs of that company, mostly Hwachas and a couple upgraded Trebuchets. "If we turn to engage now they'll take us out."

"If you don't fire we're going to lose half of Company C!"

A flurry of autocannon shells stripped armor from Korra's 'Mech, sending several damage indicators red and giving a fault for the active scanning probe that allowed the Guerrilla to function as a scout as well as a hunter-killer. Her sensors soon showed her why: among the approaching enemy units was a Centurion, with its deadly Luxor Autocannon/10, and a pilot who was a good enough gunner to overcome the ECM systems that actively interfered with enemy targeting systems. As if to make clear the great danger the machine represented, ten long range missiles rained down on her position. Most missed, but three made impact and blew away pieces of armor that were already dangerously thin from prior battle damage.

The Vulcan presented its own threat, given the Flamers and other short-range weapons it employed, and Mako brought his 'Mech up to face it. While he was at maximum range for his missiles, he fired them regardless, and four of the flight of twelve made impact. The damage it took was sustainable for the moment and the Marik machine continued its inexorable approach, its arsenal threatening to overheat any of the machines it fought with constant plasma-fueled flame.

The Assassin wasn't quiet either. This was a model with a large laser, and the sapphire beam cut like a scalpel through the damaged arm of Bolin's Jaeger, melting endo-steel bone until the lower half of the arm dropped from the light 'Mech. It was, at least, not his primary weapon arm, which he brought back up to fire another lightning bolt into the Assassin's shoulder, blasting away much of the armor plate in that section.

That gave Asami the opening needed to bring her other weapon to bear. Her Jaeger's big gun wasn't the Light PPC she'd employed earlier, but rather an arm-mounted large pulse laser. Instead of a single coherent blue beam, this weapon fired a stream of pulses, dart-like in their appearance, that stitched their way across the Assassin's torso and into the wound in the torso. The adjacent arm went limp.

Between the approaching Vulcan, the wounded Assassin, and the dangerous Centurion looking ever closer, Korra picked the second as her priority. Tactics 101: concentrate fire and put an enemy down. She aligned her targeting crosshairs, let the tracking systems make the calculations for movement before signalling a hard lock, and fired everything. The heat level in her Guerrilla spiked, but her aim was spot on. The medium lasers carved armor and structure from the 'Mech's wounds while the PPC blast smashed in the entire side of the Assassin, exposing its core for Bolin to fire his weapon into. Cerulean energy blasted through the Assassin's heart. Smoke and plasma billowed briefly from the new injury before it toppled.

The Centurion's arm cannon fired again, this time spitting deadly shells all over Bolin's Jaeger as he stood exposed between trees. This time his right side took the hit, one shell explosion sending shrapnel into the hip actuator to partially lame the machine. "Oh, this isn't good!" he called out.

The Centurion and Vulcan alone were going to be a pain, but there were more contacts coming up the path from the other side. Marik units, undoubtedly looking to break through and strike at the Light Horse LZ.

If only we had room to maneuver. Korra examined the holotank's imagery of their surroundings. They were on one of the dry paths, but to either flank were the fens, the marshy, muddy sections that even a 'Mech could get stuck in, and with their armor shot up they'd get flooded quickly. Still, the trees there were thicker…

"Everyone, to the right, enter the marsh!" she called out.

They had every right to question her, but they didn't. As a unit they made the turn, exchanging fire with the two enemy 'Mechs as they did. LRMs from a Marik Catapult stripped a few chunks of armor from Asami's Jaeger before she got her machine into the thicket.

There was little room to maneuver well here, and mud and water coated the legs of their machines as they descended into the marshy terrain. Given the damages they couldn't go any deeper, but at least their 'Mechs would fight cooler, and with the cover enemy fire was far less effective. LRMs rained down around them to little effect but to send splinters everywhere. Korra tried to not imagine how deadly such splinters would be to any of them if they had to flee their 'Mechs.

The Vulcan, given its short-range capabilities, plowed in. The pilot was a reckless one and had little qualm about using his 'Mech's Flamers in the confined space, setting underbrush and trees alight in the effort to get a solid shot on any of them. But here the cover protected them. She was further protected since her Guerrilla's ECM interfered with sensors, keeping the Vulcan from getting an exact fix.

Short range gave her disadvantages, as it interfered with the targeting systems for the PPC, but she did have one other option. The kind she and other light 'Mech pilots could pull off, with a lot of careful training.

As soon as she had a clear line of sight on the Vulcan, she fired her jump jets to leave the water. She let off in mid-air and brought the Guerrilla's right arm up, the hand made into a fist. She brought it down on the Vulcan's weaker rear armor, smashing metal and internal structure.

The Vulcan pilot turned to bring their weapons to bear, a battery of flamers and medium lasers that at close range could be quite lethal. Korra brought the Guerrilla into an evasive spin, like a mixed martial arts fighter evading a coming blow, and crouched the machine. She swept the left leg just over the surface of the muddy water, catching the Vulcan's legs with the maneuver. While the relevant mass and elements were different, it was no different than similar leg sweep between two hand-to-hand combatants. The Vulcan pilot wasn't able to plant their 'Mech's legs well enough to avoid being swept over. They fell backward and landed in the water and muck. It seemed into the machine's open wound, ruining electrical machinery within and disabling that entire side of the machine. Korra stood her machine back up and placed pinpoint laser shots into the heart of the Vulcan before stomping on it, both to keep it down and to allow time for the water to work further into the wounded torso. She was rewarded when, within ten seconds, her systems showed the Vulcan as an inert machine, its fusion engine disabled by muck and slime.

She had about three seconds to celebrate before the autocannon shells ripped through the Guerrilla's torso, followed by twin spears of emerald light. Her engine put up damage indicators and her systems verified the ECM systems were gutted. She'd lost her reduced profile on sensors and the engine damage meant both reduced movement and greater heat buildup.

The autocannons weren't all. Long range missiles had trouble acquiring in close range, but they could still explode on impact, and two such missiles struck her Guerrilla. One only blasted armor from her left arm, but the other hit her weakened leg armor and blasted out some of the knee actuator's machinery, freezing the limb up.

Despite the limp, Korra brought her wounded 'Mech around to face the Centurion, which was already ducking behind a tree. She went toward her own and barely evaded a laser shot as it briefly got a bead on her again. I don't have the speed to get away!

Luckily, she didn't need it.

The moment the Centurion rounded a tree and tried to get a bead on her, it took twelve short-range missiles to the back. Mako's Jaeger fired emerald light into the machine, one beam cutting across the rear shoulder like a scalpel while a stream of emerald pulses stitched their way down the damaged back armor. The Centurion pilot turned, looking to track him, just for Bolin's Jaeger to hobble out from behind another tree and fire. More pulse lasers chewed armor from the autocannon-bearing arm of the machine, setting up the PPC blast to arrive an instant later and blast through the elbow actuator, fusing it in place and leaving the autocannon immobile.

The Centurion's pilot kept some poise, keeping the machine moving and trying to get back into cover. They threw a wicked punch that knocked Mako's Jaeger back before he could shower the Marik fighter with more SRMs and scrambled for cover.

The last Jaeger of the group, Asami's, dropped down on the Centurion, which was a mere meter or so from having its head module caved in by the Jaeger's foot. The impact knocked the Centurion over onto its back into the muck. After a moment to right her own 'Mech Asami's handless left arm came up, pointing the barrel of the large pulse laser within toward the heart of the medium-weight 'Mech. Sapphire pulses bored into the armor and structural members of the Centurion and the goop of the Moors followed the resulting path, suffocating the exposed fusion plant within. The Marik 'Mech's energy signature died.

"Everyone, status," Korra said into the lance tac-comm.

"Leg's busted, but my jets are still good," Bolin answered first.

"Armor and internal damage, nothing out of action," Mako added.

"Surface damage mostly, some internals," replied Asami.

"Bravo 2, Bravo 3, you're in the best shape. Fall back, we'll follow as best as we can."

"But if they catch—"

There was no time to register the complaint. Missiles flew in, coming from the dry path, and as they detonated it was clear their payloads weren't normal. Not when the superheated flames spread out into the fens and the trees, igniting everything.

They're trying to burn us out! That realization aside, it was clear they couldn't remain. Korra jammed her feet down on the pedals for her jump jets, triggering them to fire and lift her into the air. The others followed, flying up to the top of the tree canopies, often having to make mid-air corrections to avoid collisions. Jump by jump they got away from the spreading fire until they came out onto a side route of the dry path. Korra noted the incoming missiles and checked their origin.

Marik 'Mechs. Heavies. An entire company of Orions, Grasshoppers, and Catapults, with a couple other designs amongst them.

I'm dead. The thought went through Korra's mind like a thunderbolt. There'd be no eventual return to her hometown on Togwotee, no more opportunities to visit places great and small across the Inner Sphere. Her lance was worn down, damaged, and facing enough firepower to destroy them several times over. "Bravo 2, Bravo 3, pull back. We can't buy you a lot of time, but we'll do what we can."

"I'm not leaving you," Mako insisted.

"We're not."

"That's an order," she insisted, even as her systems warned of an active target lock. One of the enemy machines was acquiring her.

That was when the first missiles rained down onto the Marik heavies.

One moment they were facing twelve enemy 'Mechs along the stretch of dry path. The next, dozens of LRMs were slamming into the 'Mechs and the ground around them, uncountable in their number. The Marik 'Mechs staggered as each took repeated hits, a couple falling from the sheer quantity of missiles striking them.

Only for a moment did Korra think that Fire Company was finally coming through; their machines couldn't be responsible for this display, they simply didn't have enough missile launchers. Her holotank told her the origin as it recorded friendly IFFs in the air above: a squadron of Condor assault bombers from the orbiting carriers that continued to rain deadly LRM barrages on the Mariks.

"Our air support's bought us time," she said into the lance commlink. "Let's get back to the LZ." She hit the pedals again, catapulting the battered Guerrilla into the air and away from the enemy 'Mechs getting pulverized by the rain of lethal missile fire.

 

[Big Steve]

Interstellar Botanical Gardens
Atreus City
Atreus
Marik Commonwealth
10 December 3035


Princess Amita's fingers tensed once more on the triggers of her control joysticks, firing her pulse lasers and normal lasers into the heart of the faltering Warhammer. The machine, painted in the colors of the Palace Guard, fell over, the gyro within helplessly compromised by damage. Amita noted the pilot was alive and refocused her attention on the rest of her environment while the 2nd Battalion of the Arcadian Guards continued their sweep of the area.

The sight was depressing, and it brought back bad memories. Even on Bolan the Interstellar Botanical Gardens were known and admired for their natural beauty. Now, the state of devastation it was in from the last stand of the Marik Palace Guard made her think of the Royal Menagerie back in Bolan City. Whatever the thrice-damned Marians had converted it into now, it had once been just as lovely, just as beautiful, with all sorts of rare flora and select fauna that her family took pride in amassing.

I remember Chanda. Her mind recalled the snow leopard from Kamenz, one of the native species there that occasionally showed strong evolutionally parallels to similar Earth animals. He'd arrived as a kitten when she was a child, part of a litter, and was a serene old cat before the end. Before she quietly fed him a scrap of his favorite meat laced with a discreet poison, allowing the beast to fall asleep forever and die peacefully instead of whatever bloody fate the Marians would have brought him. Tears formed in her eyes at the memories from Bolan and all the destruction wrought there, all of the prized history of her family lost… and now, now they were doing it here, to these people. She was fighting to expand Arcadia's empire, not to liberate her homeworld. The gods themselves seemed to be mocking her.

I am sworn to serve, she reminded herself. I am kshatriya, and I must honor the oath we swore to serve our rescuers. House Proctor demands this world be conquered, so I shall conquer it!

"Captain." The voice was that of her Lance Lieutenant, Koji Ishikawa, an Ainu from Seftenberg. His Mad Cat (MD-CPT-1) stomped up beside hers, the slower model with the extended range lasers in the arms and twin fire control-aided LRM15 launchers on the shoulders that gave the machine its iconic look of "a Catapult with Marauder arms". "We've secured the garden grounds. All enemy machines accounted for."

"Well done," she replied, speaking to her company on their tac-comm channel. "Report damages and await further orders." Her eyes turned toward the shape in the near distance of House Marik's refurbished palace. She noted the explosions erupting from the palace grounds. Our comrades in the 8th Striker have pushed on as well, it seems.




The courtyard of the Marik Palace was a graveyard of broken 'Mechs, most of them Marik but a couple of fallen machines from the 8th Striker's 1st Battalion. One of the 'Mechs still standing was a colossal Atlas with the Autocannon/20 on its hip. The same autocannon blazed shells that tore through the arm of Lieutenant Rachel Vallejo's Tanatis, nearly ripping it off given the prior battle damage.

She brought the other arm up. Her autocannon fired, spraying cluster rounds that stripped armor from half of the enemy machine's body parts. The laser housed above the right hand sparked visibly from one of the submunitions going off within its protective covering, knocking the weapon out. She squeezed her triggers rapidly, but with the range so close her PPC failed to properly acquire and the shot went wide, blasting a scorch mark across the ground and into the broken husk of a Marik Clint. The short range missiles had more luck, all six hitting and taking chunks of armor from the colossal 'Mech.

The Atlas pilot retaliated with the lasers on his arms, sending twin emerald beams into the Tanatis' torso followed quickly by another two. Short range missiles crashed into her 'Mech and knocked her around, the sheer amount of damage nearly toppling the Tanatis.

She was so worried about the Atlas that she missed the Trebuchet swinging around from its position along the far wall. Sensing an opportunity, the Trebuchet's pilot fired a full salvo of missiles from optimum range. Only a few missed, the rest exploding and sending debris spraying into the finely-cut lawn and fine ferro-crete below them. At least four of the missiles crashed into her damaged left arm, blasting through the endo-steel bone until the limb, and its ER PPC, fell away.

The 'Mech nearly toppled with that change to its center of gravity and mass. To right herself Rachel stomped the jump jet pedals, sending the Tanatis into the air just in time to avoid a salvo from the Atlas. She brought her 'Mech down onto the ferro-crete, still off-balance but at least standing. She twisted the torso until it faced the Atlas, already turning toward her, and triggered hre remaining weapons.

This time solid slugs tore armor from the Atlas, as she was out of cluster rounds, while four of six SRMs connected and inflicted damage as well. Her concentration was paramount, and it kept her 'Mech just on-balance enough to keep moving.

To her surprise, the Atlas fired its LRMs.

The range was too close for them to properly acquire, much less to arm, but regardless several hit her, and half of those actually detonated.

Suddenly the world shook like nothing she'd known before. A ferocious force knocked her 'Mech onto its left side with such impact that it threw her against the harness of her command couch with rib-smashing force. She grimaced at the pain filling her torso and tried to will her machine back up. Her eyes passed over the damage indicator, confirming the worst: the Atlas LRMs had set off her remaining autocannon ammunition. Even with most of the rounds gone, the resulting explosion gutted the entire right side of the Tanatis 'Mech, fatally damaging the XL engine at the heart of her machine and prompting its safety shutdown - the reason she wasn't atoms now. Only battery power kept the few displays still showing active. "Command 4 here, I'm in trouble!" she cried out. "I'm down!"

Outside the cockpit, the Atlas raised its fist toward her, as if to crush her in her cockpit out of bloodymindedness.

All she could do was scream as the fist came down…

...and missed.



Alex's shot was one of the best he ever made, and it was right on target. Autocannon shells from his replacement Paladin's left-arm autocannon - his 'Mech damaged on Stewart had to be sent back to Arcadia to be rebuild - slammed into the Atlas, a double-loaded shot that the "Ultra" series autocannons were capable of, accompanied by the sapphire beam of the torso-mounted large laser and the twin emerald beams of the other two lasers. The attack threw the monster 'Mech's arm off, causing it to slam into the left side of Rachel's downed 'Mech instead of her vulnerable cockpit. The Atlas pilot fought to keep his machine standing, buying time for Alex to close the distance.

The Trebuchet that helped bring Rachel down was already aiming at him, but it wouldn't get the chance to fire. Becca's Strider Hawk, still on the other side of the palace wall, still had the range and their networked sensors to give her a shot, and forty long range missiles rained down on the Trebuchet. Dani's rebuilt Mad Cat soared over the wall on a trail of jump jet fire, blasting the medium fire support 'Mech so hard that the entire left side exploded.

He had mere seconds to recognize their maneuver, as he was in range to employ the Paladin -2Sa's physical weapon. The sword, courtesy of samples recovered at the beginning of the year from Cajamarca, and the Antisuyu's research into alloys capable of cutting through armor, shined in the sunset light of Atreus' sun, and its broadsword shape was fitting given the aesthetics of Alex's 'Mech. He swung and watched sparks fly from the wound he carved into the Atlas's torso, only barely missing its LRM launcher. The pilot twisted his hip enough to fire, and the autocannon rounds tore through the left side of Alex's 'Mech, shredding the remaining armor in that section and hitting his engine. Smoke billowed briefly from the wound and his heat spiked well into the yellow range, slowing him down. Can't let it get too much hotter in here or my ammo will cook, he thought.

While his 'Mech's built-in heat sinks shifted heat out into the environment, Alex turned the Paladin, evading a laser shot and driving the 'Mech's sword across the right side of the Atlas. He cursed the near miss of the AC/20 that had just caused him such harm, but there was no time to dwell on it. The pilot tried another close-range LRM barrage, tracking him as the missiles flew in a series of four salvoes of five. Their inability to acquire him meant most missed, and only two of five that hit actually exploded and damaged armor. An emerald laser carved armor from his left arm, so he returned the favor with another double shot from the Autocannon. The double burst of shells blew into the Atlas's torso, doing no immediate damage but leaving it increasingly vulnerable.

This time he was just fast enough, despite the damaged engine, to evade the AC/20's next shot, the powerful rounds blasting through the ferro-crete and grass behind him. Caught up int he moment, Alex let out a cry of effort while swinging his right arm up and slashing the sword across the muzzle of the Atlas's most powerful weapon.

This time, he connected, and the sword cut cleanly into the barrel and through the cannon's firing mechanism. He felt a surge of triumph.

It was short-lived, as the left arm of the enemy 'Mech came swinging in. He barely moved in time to prevent the punch from smashing into the damaged right side of his torso, instead taking the blow directly to the Paladin's mostly-unblemished sternum. He brought the right arm up and made a swiping cut that slashed another chunk of armor from the offending arm.

The other arm came swinging in, and this time he couldn't stop it from smashing into his weakened torso. It crushed his large laser port, destroying the weapon, and ripped a hole clean through. Damage indicators lit up, warning him that the entire left side of the Paladin was structurally unsound. Even a small hit there would finish him.

He brought the sword back and lifted his left arm, pointing the autocannon directly at the Atlas's head before firing.

Click.

Red letters appeared on his HUD. Ammunition jam detected.

Emerald beams, the remaining lasers on the Atlas, carved into the Paladin, and he only barely kept them from slicing open his exposed engine core. The damage went into the right side of his 'Mech, sloughing off armor and damaging his sword. He stabbed back with it, trying to hit the head again, just to only skid the blade through more of the torso armor. The damage was useful, but it wasn't the one-hit knockout blow he needed.

Twin sprays of particle fire smashed into the Atlas from his left side, the tell-tale sign of a new snub-nosed PPC being fired. That told him who his rescuer was a moment before Colonel Pierce's new Viking 'Mech came in swinging, the triple-strength myomer aboard briefly activated by the heat spike of his weapons, and allowing the hatchet in the Viking 'Mech's right hand to smash deep into the Atlas' right torso. The remaining armor there failed, exposing the internals of the 'Mech.

Including the ammo bin for the autocannon.

Alex fired his jumpjets to get some distance, and to place his right side to shield Rachel's fallen machine. Pierce, likewise, pulled his machine back, while Alex's remaining lasers stabbed at the wound. One shot hit intact armor along the Atlas's hip, melting it away but causing no other significant damage.

The other emerald beam struck the ammo bin.

The resulting explosion caught both Arcadian 'Mechs with a shockwave, inflicting minor damage. Especially minor given the gutted ruin of the Atlas. It was still intact, given the ammo bin hadn't been particularly full, but the entire right side of the machine was a mess of twisted and broken and blackened metal.

With an eye on escalated heat, Alex focused his crosshairs on the wound and triggered, in sequence, his remaining lasers. The heat filled his machine, causing the coolant circulating through his suit to become more vibrant to his senses, but his eyes were on the emerald beams that carved into the wounded Atlas's side.

Bullseye.

Granted, even as he fired, a bolt of twisting cerulean lightning blew into the broken assault 'Mech's chest, and as the machine toppled he glanced toward his CO. "I guess we're sharing credit for that kill, huh?"

"That we are, Major," Pierce said. "Good job."

Alex checked his systems. There were no signs of enemy contacts showing on the system. "Looks like we got them all."

"Colonel Hauser and Colonel Hawk have their troops in the palace now, but we're clear out here. Go ahead and get back to the Axalon, Major. And pick Lieutenant Vallejo up, I want the medics to look her over."

"Will do, sir," he answered, moving his mauled 'Mech over to the fallen Tanatis.

 

[Big Steve]

2 December 3035


Every op comes down to the Moment. The point where everything you've planned has come to fruition and you have to commit or simply go home and write all the effort off.

Claire Westin had a sense for that. And it was telling her today would be her Moment.

From a brief glance it didn't seem like she had to act immediately. She had access to Smythe every week. He was accustomed to her being around and appreciated how she kept his work space tidy. Every week was an opportunity, wasn't it?

So it might seem, but Claire already saw the signs of suspicion. Not from Smythe himself, nor the other staff, but the security people were taking Notice of her repeated closeness, that she was always the one cleaning the desk. This kind of work usually rotated over time, and she was approaching the edge of that reasonable time frame. Soon they would be asking themselves why Darla Kiner kept hovering around the man responsible for the weekly data backups. At best, she'd be re-assigned. At worse, she'd be reported to counter-intelligence as a possible operative and placed under surveillance, and her entire op might unravel.

She came ready. Among her things was an exact model of the data chip used for backups and the exact model of the container for carrying the sensitive electronic device around, and given the resources for the op, other assets made sure her chip had the right data and identifiers to fool the backup computers. Someone would have to directly access the backup data files to realize this week's backup data was junk (or rather, a rather large collection of various pop songs from across the Inner Sphere), and that was extremely unlikely in the short term. All that remained was to make contact with Smythe between receiving the chip and taking it to the backup.

Here the routine helped. Under security regulations, the time each week should change, to prevent someone like her from being able to remain in position without rousing suspicions. But Smythe was a man of orderly mind, and he liked to keep things regular. So in defiance of that security consideration, he'd make sure to get the backup ready for after lunch. Claire made sure to be there when the moment came.

That was when Lysandra intervened.

The plump woman caught her just outside of Smythe's office. "Oh, Darla, you look so marvelous today," she said, blocking the hall as she did. "It's good to see you wearing a little color!"

"Color" being a navy blue instead of gray, but Claire didn't have time to correct or humor her. Smythe was already finishing lunch. She had to get in there and make the swap. "Thank you," she murmured, trying to step around.

Lysandra didn't let her go, moving to block her progress. "Come now, Darla, I'm trying to compliment you. Why do you have to be so… so standoffish? We all want to be your friend."

Ugh! "I have friends." That was the kind of low response Darla would give, and Claire gave it while wishing she could just judo-toss Lysandra to the ground without breaking cover (she couldn't).

"I've seen you, that's not friendship Darla. Friendship is taking and giving compliments." She not so subtly indicated her pearl-white business blouse and skirt, which were well-made certainly. "It's about being open with people and trying to make them feel better. If you'd just let us in you'd be so much happier!"

Inside, Smythe threw away the refuse of his lunch. He started collecting his things for the backup run.

"I like how I am," Claire protested, using Darla's tone and voice. She made sure to show how uncomfortable Darla was at Lysandra's latest bold attempt to compel interaction. "Please, I just want to finish my work. Mister Smythe's office needs cleaning."

"It can wait," Lysandra insisted. "Darla, you shouldn't go through life like this. This… this isn't living. Just cleaning offices and all that. Why don't you come to the dinner this week, me and the other girls have this really nice place to eat and hang out."

The remark brought back memories of school friends for Claire. For Darla Kiner, it sounded like a brief visit to Hell. "I don't want to go out, I like to be at the park," she murmured, again trying to get past.

"The park, well, we can have a picnic!" Lysandra insisted, maneuvering to keep Claire from getting bye. "I'm really doing this for your own good, Darla. Your mental health is at stake. You need to open up, and I'm not leaving until I get some progress. I'm really worried about you."

Claire glanced toward the office. Smythe picked up the chip and its case and started toward the door. Her opening today was lost. It made her want to punch Lysandra square in the throat. Ruined because of this… no. No, today I make the move, I've got to. Make this work, Claire!

"Please leave me alone," she said, loudly.

"Darla, I'm trying to help you. Please…"

The wheedling tone didn't distract Claire from her timing. As Smythe exited the office, she made her move, bolting forward and around Lysandra as if to dive for safety. The stout woman moved to cut her off again, but wasn't quite fast enough to stop her from getting by.

She did, to anyone observing, force Darla to bounce off the wall and, in getting around her, collide with Damien Smythe. It was, apparently, purely unintentional that her arm caught his left hand with enough force to knock the data chip container free.

He let out a shocked cry as they went down in a pile of flailing limbs. "Oh!" Lysandra called out, approaching as they disentangled. "Mister Smythe, are you okay?"

WIth irritation plain in his voice, he called out, "Does it look like it!" His focus went entirely on her. "Dammit, I told you to leave Kiner alone."

"I'm just trying to help…"

Since Darla was mortified and upset, Claire didn't let the smile she felt within even start to form on her face. With Smythe distracted, her right hand freed the replacement from her custodial jumpsuit pocket. While he pulled free, she made sure to fall over the dropped container, and while her body covered it she dropped the decoy and picked up the actual container. She slid it into a waist pocket and resecured it in the seconds before Smythe took her left arm. "Kiner, are you okay?"

"Sorry Mister Smythe," she murmured, her voice thick with mortification. "I didn't mean to run into you."

"It's fine," he said. "Nothing broken, right?" Now that the frustration of the moment was over, he returned his focus to work. As soon as she was back to her knees he picked up what, to him, was the vital data he was responsible for loading into the backup systems. "Going to be okay?" he asked.

"Let me get back to work," she murmured. 'I've got a lot of work to do."

"Right. It's fine." Smythe released Claire, who ducked into his office to begin cleaning. As she brought out the battery-powered vacuum cleaner, she could hear him dressing Lysandra down. "This is becoming harassment. Don't let me catch you again…"

The rest of the day went by with a tension Claire hid as well as she could. To her benefit, word of Lysandra's pushy behavior spread, so it fit rather well that Darla Kiner would be even more standoffish and tense. She was given a wider berth than usual. That left her final challenge in the security checkpoint.

She was prepared, of course. She presented the purloined data chip container for the usual scan, and the scanners showed the contents of the chip within the container was a collection of music.

Just after she was waived through, Smythe's voice echoed through the checkpoint. "Kiner!"

An icy chill went down her spine. Had he actually checked the backups today? Was her op blown this close to the finish line?

She turned and faced him, eyes kept away. "Yes, Mister Smythe?"

While security stood by, he approached to the end of the checkpoint. "Sorry about earlier. Lysandra won't bother you ever again, I promise. I made it clear to her that was unacceptable behavior."

"Thank you. I guess she means well…"

"She's just upset someone doesn't pay attention to her. She'll be leaving you alone now, Kiner, don't you worry about it."

I know she will. Claire thanked him again, after which he turned back from the checkpoint and headed into the complex. For her own part, she left quietly.

The op was not a success yet. It wouldn't be until she got the data into the hands of her people. That meant signaling the dead drop and waiting for it to be retrieved.

This was one of the hardest parts to deal with. That sudden urge to just get it over with. To march right up to the Arcadian consulate, go in, and hand the data over. And that was her last resort plan, if everything went south. But there was no deniability in it: local authorities would know something happened, and it would reflect poorly on the SIS if Arcadia's actions were discovered. She had to do everything in her power to make sure that didn't happen.

For her part, Darla Kiner needed to wind down after that long day of work and the confrontation with Lysandra. She headed to one of her favorite parks, even if it meant a slight detour from the way home, bought a snack and a loose loaf of bread from a vendor, and headed to the duck pond. There she spent the better part of an hour watching the water-loving avians nibble on her offerings and do their usual quacking and waddling.

While she did that, Claire did the usual checks to see if she was under intense surveillance, and to see if her contact was in the area yet. It was only when she spotted the casually dressed middle-aged man walking a dog along the path that she stood from her bench and went over to the edge of the pond. For several moments she shifted several stones around, re-aligning them to be less chaotic in their layout and more properly lined up, something Darla often did.

It also let her quietly slide the data chip and its special container under one of the stones.

After Darla was satisfied and her sense of order was right, she returned to her bench and waited for the ducks to come back. The man with the dog walked past. The animal made a couple barks and headed toward the lake, prompting his keeper to follow. Once on the shoreline nearby the dog took to barking at a couple of small marsupial-like creatures that also lived in the park. His owner, clearly figuring he'd let his pet blow off some steam, stood quietly for a few moments while checking his personal noteputer. He looked down at the stones Darla rearranged. "Ah. Perfect Pythagorean triangle," he said.

"Looks right," she answered quietly. "I got it right."

"You're good at that." He knelt down, examining a few of the stones. Claire was approving of how quickly he drew the chip and its protective container into his hand, palming it. The same hand nonchalantly went to his pocket, where he placed it and undoubtedly released the chip. He pulled his noteputer out again and checked the contents of his screen for several moments. "There we go. Looks like those equations worked out. I've got what I need."

"That's good," Darla said, very low, and looking more interested in getting the stranger to go away so she could be alone.

"C'mon, Hunter, it's time to go home," he called out to the dog, pulling at the leash a little. The animal obediently followed.

So that's it, Claire thought. The designs and plans are there. We have what we need, and I go home. She stood. Poor Mister Smythe, and poor Lysandra. They're going to assume the worst about Darla Kiner.

It couldn't be otherwise, though. That was the nature of the business. Her Moment came, she took it, and now all she had left was to depart and allow her marks to go back to their lives, even if it meant causing them grief.

In two days time Darla Kiner would not report for work at the start of the week. Police would eventually be contacted, her home checked, and everything would look like Darla walked away from her life. Those who knew her might worry for a time before they went on with their lives. Depending on if anyone checked the backup systems, there would eventually be a connection made, but if her swap wasn't detected - if Smythe loaded fresh backups next week without any alarm - then there'd be nothing to it. Maybe some cursory examination by security, but that would be all.

As for Claire Westin, she would have another legend by then, and would be on a Terran DropShip bound for New Dallas, and from there, home, her parents, and eventually… another operation.

That was the life of a spy.

 

[Big Steve]

Arlington Mansion
Douglass City, Washington Continent
Dixie
Independent World
11 November 3035


Win or lose, Harold Wise was at work again the night of the planetside plebiscite over joining the Free March. Duke Lee had him as the guest of honor for, as the invitation put it, "an eloquent and measured campaign that shall be remembered with distinction, whatever the result of it". The great ballroom of the Mansion was the sight of a splendid gathering of planetary elite and local folk invited by the Duke. Harold found himself shaking hands with a young couple of factory workers, attending with their daughter for winning a civil service award at her school. The recognition was greater than many worlds would give a young commoner, but Dixie ran things its own way, and Wise felt more than ever it would have a place of distinction in the Free March.

That hour now came. WIth Arlington well into the evening, holovid projectors displayed the planetary news giving the final vote counts. Wise tried to not hold his breath and failed, as he awaited the result of his months of work.

54% Yes, 46% No.

As the display showed that result he finally breathed, which helped when he got a hearty slap on the back from Count Cleburne of Ozark, head of one of Dixie's smaller continents. "Well done sir," the young man said. "You spoke your case well."

"I'm just happy it's confirmed," Wise said. "And I wish I'd convinced more."

"A lot of folk were never going to vote to give up independence," Duke Lee remarked, approaching him. "You did your people proud by convincing so many that it was the best way, including me." He offered his hand to Wise, who took it. "I'm glad to say I'll be a vassal of your March-Princess, and I'll do what I can to make all of our fellow worlds keep their liberties and honor intact."

"You'll be welcome in Laughlin on the Ducal Council, that I'm sure of," said Wise. It took him a surprising amount of effort to not whoop for joy. Not just that this might make his career, but that he'd brought Dixie in the proper way, through diplomacy and persuasion, not dropping a trio of 'Mech regiments on their capital and telling them to submit or die. This is the way it's meant to be, he thought.

There'd be more work, of course, to set up Dixie's entry into the Free March, but for tonight, he'd celebrate.


Congress of Electors Chamber
Johnson's Landing, Hadley Continent
Loric
Independent World
13 December 3035


The Montbergs watched quietly as Frank Blair, acting as President of Loric and the Congress of Electors, brought the Annexation Bill through the Congress. Unlike his father Frank was not boisterous, he was precise, and calm, but clearly not cold. He smiled warmly at positive remarks and worked the crowd, or at least, pretended to.

In truth, Karl was sure this was no more truly democratic than Tom Blair would've been. The Blair family owned Loric, and they owned the Congress. That wouldn't change.

Not right away, anyway.

Even Frank Blair seemed to know that it would change eventually. Whereas his father saw his power as a commodity to be traded for and ensure his own prestige and wealth, Frank was clearly interested in Loric. Not without self-interest, certainly, and he'd continue to rule as President and appoint a representative to the Ducal Council, but whatever his personal desires wanted, they included his planet to play a prominent role in the expanding, and soon reforming, Arcadian Free March. If that meant accepting the likelihood of eventual change, Frank would pay it for the chance he saw.

Johann put a hand on his shoulder while the final vote confirmed the Annexation. "You've done well, Karl."

"Only because a man died," Karl said carefully, aware there were others around them. "If Tom Blair still lived, we'd already be back on Arcadia."

"Or maybe he'd recognize his bluff was called? Don't beat yourself up over it, love. You did your job, you did it right, and now Loric is a member of the Free March."

There was that, yes. And it was something to smile about.

 

[Big Steve]

Ducal Palace
Roslyn, Eastern Islay
Arcadia
Arcadian Free March
7 January 3036

The first week of 3036 was soon to draw to a close. For Sara-Marie, it'd been an energetic week, starting with the New Year's Honors Ball, repeated meetings with the Planning Staff to see to the prosecution of the final campaigns against the remnants of the Marik Commonwealth, and other matters of import.

It was, at least, distracting. For the first time in her life as March-Princess, Sara-Marie was living in empty familial quarters. Thomas was at Ford again, attending the coronation ceremonies for the new Duke, Frederick Thompkins, following his mother's abdication for health, acting as both the Earl of Martleford and her personal representative. Abby was back at Concord and attending veterinary college. Willy was at AMSA and living in the cadet barracks. Mark and Thomas were on a DropShip likely within hours of meeting the first of the JumpShips ferrying them and other liaison staffers to Coventry. And Melissa was at Atreus with her ship, still flying and fighting this war, and causing her mother to fear the worst. All she had were palace staff and advisors, and none of them could make up for the lack of family.

For the moment, the distractions were over, and Sara-Marie felt old and tired at the thoughts in her mind. She was only fifty, but she might have been sixty-five for the gray forming in her hair, the lines on her face, and the sheer burden she felt slowly pushing the life out of her. All her life she'd been prepared for these burdens, but the last six years were worse than the previous twenty to her mind. As horrible as those days could be, given the chaos in the independent systems, the pirates and rogue mercs flitting about causing trouble… it felt less bloody than what was now being called the Second Age of War.

Despite the paperwork she was due to cover, she found herself standing at a window looking out at Roslyn. It felt bigger and more energetic these days. The growing economy from the expansion of the Free March was, at least, benefiting her people, both old subjects and newer ones. In time, this might win more hearts over to the Free March and what it was becoming. Perhaps we will stop still thinking of this world as Leaguer and that world as Lyran… perhaps we will be Arcadian, or Free Marcher… a new identity.

Her intercom sounded. "Your Serene Highness, His Grace the Duke of Togwotee is here."

"Send him in," Sara-Marie called out, turning to meet her arriving Lord of the Privy Council, Simon Allen. Like many from his world he was primarily of American First Nation blood, an old man with even more creased features than her, his hair now white as snow and kept in a conservative style preferred by the nobility of Togwotee. "Your Grace." She noted he was in business casual dress, not formal, a relief since she was likewise in a conservative navy blue blouse and ankle-length dress. "You need to see me?"

"I have finished my discussions with the other rulers, and taken messages from His Grace the Duke of Dixie and His Excellency the President of Loric," said Allen, his soft baritone crackling a little from age. "It is time, Your Highness."

"Time for… ah." She nodded. "The winds of change are truly blowing then? Time for our realm to go into the cocoon, and emerge in a new form."

"Certain particulars of internal organization remain, but the result will be worth it. Whatever the name is at the end, I trust the spirit of our worlds will remain the same."

"I would hope so." Sara-Marie sighed. "I fear our people may grow accustomed to being conquerors, not liberators. Not that we were innocent beforehand…"

"Hypocrisy is the tribute that vice pays to virtue. If we must indulge in vice, we should still strive to promote the virtue, as hypocritical as it sounds."

"Yes. Well, I shall keep an eye on the deliberations, then. The news will be announced?"

"We believe it best if you give the word in your Annual Address to the Assembly, Highness."

"Then we shall have to make the speech just right," she remarked. "I'll speak with my staff. Anything else?"

"Yes. Another matter. Whatever the result at the end of the year, I shall be stepping down as Lord of the Privy Council. I wish to return home."

Given his age, Sara-Marie expected such, and his near-decade of service to her as Lord of the Privy Council earned him such a retirement. "I shall miss your counsel," she said quietly. "Is everything fine at home? Her Grace is in good health?"

The look on the old man's face told her the answer was not a happy one. "Our doctors found a tumor. Small, but growing. With treatment it can be dealt with, but…"

"...but it might not work, and it may not be the last even if it does," she finished for him. "You don't have to give a reason, Your Grace… Simon. You've been a faithful advisor to me over all these years, helping to govern our people through a very difficult time. This reformation will be yours as much as mine, and then, go, rest, and be with your family. And if you and yours need anything, you need only ask, and I will do all in my power to see to it."

"Thank you, Highness," he answered. "Sara. Thank you."