Hanse Davion stood, the wine glass in his hand. He looked at his wife, at the representatives of the Inner Sphere, the Perhiphery, of Comstar.
Here on earth.
How many times did Ian and I dream of this moment. Standing here. Ian had joked that he'd make me First Lord... And now here I am, with my wife. With the future.
And everyone wondering what I'm going to say.
"The Star League is dead." Hanse Davion said. The room was utterly quiet. "How much blood have we shed for it? How often have we lionized it, ignoring that it was born in the blood of an unjust war?" He nodded to the Periphery Ambassadors. "Almost every war we have fought has been about that throne, from Amaris, to the succession wars. How many worlds within just a few jumps of this hall are dead, the bones of their last inhabitants clustered around the last air scrubbers or tangled in the dropship terminals where they fought for and failed to take the last ship?"
He looked out over the room. "This is supposed to be a time of beginnings. That is what marriages are about, and so, to my new wife, I offer this: Nevermore will our subjects fight for a meaningless title, in the name of a long-dead monument to mankind's hubris. I say, with the full backing of the Lyran Commonwealth and the Federated Suns--that we do renounce, and so will all of our heirs, now and forever more, any claim to the Star League, nor will we accept any who lay claim to its position." He raised his glass. "The League is dead, Long Live... Our Future."
And then the Hall went wild.