I, Caesar

[Sir Chaos]

One course of action would be for Marius to send Jaime and Joshua a message just before the Dragoons are due to be transferred to Anton, saying they´ve been keeping an eye on the situation in the FWL (since the FWL is their neighbor and favorite victim), and heard rumblings that Anton is requesting help from Liao in the form of the Dragoons, and that, given Anton´s personality and his new advisor, they might be planning some foul play with the Dragoons´ dependants to keep the Dragoons in line. That just *might* be enough to keep the Dragoons from keeping their people unguarded while they fight for Anton, as happened canonically.

On the other hand, Marius might also be able to warn Janos of Anton´s impending treachery, and be able to point Janos´s intelligence people in the direction of evidence that Anton has been requesting Liao´s help for a revolt against Janos. Once Janos finds evidence that Marius was telling the truth, that might go a long way towards making up for all the bad blood between the FWL and the Marians.

Being on Janos Marik´s good side is probably at least as valuable for Marius than being on the Wolfs´ good side.

[worktroll]

Problem is, who's going to believe a bunch of scumbag periphery slavers? Which is what the Marians are to the Spheroids at this point.

[PsihoKekec]

And Marius does not have channels established for such communications to happen, also getting on top of ROMs shitlist for ruining their plans. Considering ROM would have free hands to do whatever to do deal with the troublesome bandit king, a visit of couple of regiments of mercenaries and ''mercenaries'' in order to revoke his license to breathe, would be an event neither remarked nor lamented in the Inner Sphere.

[cklammer]

Say nothing, because the Marians lose if they right and lose if they are wrong.

If they are right then they are tainted by association because scumbag Priff slavers .... after any civil war the Mariks are going to jump on them.

If they are wrong then those scumbag priff slavers have been meddling in Marik family matters .... how dare they: let us as Mariks jump on them.

Whatever you do ... do nothing.

[FWCartography]

The WD are an OCP for Marius. They don't factor into his plans. Trying to get them involved would feel as far-fetched as, say, trying to hire the Big MAC. He's just got no angle here, and everything he could do will paint a bulls eye on the Hegemony.

[FWCartography]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Easy now! What’s that poor locker ever done to you, Hawkbeak?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“An early promotion? Why do I get the feeling you’re not happy with that?” Marius probed.

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

“You suspect your mom, Aidan?”

“Wouldn’t you?” Aidan Vulture Volkov replied.

“Well, the general’s never given me the mother hen vibes,” Marius shrugged.

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

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

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

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

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

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


[…

…Reactor online…

…Sensors online…

…Weapons online…

…All systems nominal]

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

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

“This is Control. Hawkbeak, you’re advised to switch to channel three.”

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

“Understood, Hawkbeak, we’ll be monitoring your progress. The course is yours. Control out.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There’s no step above me,” Thresher replied crankily.

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

*Commander of the Armies

[snakespinner]

That's why the Canopians call a raid by the MHAF a toga party. >:D

[FWCartography]

That's why the Canopians call a raid by the MHAF a toga party. >:D

Well, sometimes the parties get out of hand...  ;D

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

He had been back in the Chamber of Whispers.
Kimura had staid true to his word and rejected his efforts to broach the subject again. As a politician the man had the foresight of a rock, but as an obstructionist he had the stamina of a brick wall. Marius cursed him silently, the distraction earning him a painful kick to the thigh as his trainer and sparring partner easily probed his untrained defenses.
 
Marius gritted his teeth.
“You know, sometimes I wish I could have people crucified for getting on my nerves! Posca, how far would I get if I had the whole senate put to the cross?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What a shame,” he finished cleaning his face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

[PsihoKekec]

Damn the (unborn) Sean for ruining the mountaineering for Marius.

[FWCartography]

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why, are you bored?” Posca asked casually.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you went for Hanzo Miller’s secretary?” Posca raised an eyebrow.

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

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

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

“And then… Mr. Blackwood?” Posca probed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You want me to spy for you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blackwood’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

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

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

[PsihoKekec]

It's a start for the MH intelligence service, but it will be interesting to see how they will evolve from one man's network to an actual service in the years to come.

[FWCartography]

Technically, Blackwood could very well be just the stand-in for the canonical nucleus of the Marian secret service. After all, we do not know how the OT Marius set up his agency.

[FWCartography]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not hiding your disapproval well, little sis,” Marius observed, equally not hiding his sly grin.

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

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

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

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

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

“And that’d be what exactly, big bro?”

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

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

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

“Well, what did you ‘talk’ about?” Sylvie put the word in air quotes, rolling her eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

“And yet here we are today, shaking hands.”

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

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


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

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

[FWCartography]

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

[/b]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re just way too much of a smart ass for your own good, old friend,” Marius chuckled despite his sour mood.

“That’s why you keep me, dominus, that’s why you keep me,” the older slave replied.

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure. Why?”

“Well, can you build one?”

“What? No?” Corvinus shot her a puzzled look.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anna Volkova walked over to him.
“You think they’ll bite?” she asked quietly.

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

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

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

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


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

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

The reason so few people do it is because it’s hard. Because it’s staggeringly expensive to set up. Why? Because that laser has to work at minus 100 degrees C just as well as at 150 degrees plus. It needs to work in vacuum. It needs it’s punch in a thick atmosphere. It needs enough energy to vaporize atmospheric dust and debris to emit a clean straight beam. It needs to survive massive and rapid changes in pressure, in gravity, in radiation. More, it needs to be able to handle the massive energy input from a fusion engine. Worse still, it needs to remain functional while the chassis carrying it is subjected to all kinds of physical damage. And when it becomes damaged, it needs to be built in a way that will allow for field repairs, ideally, by people who know next to nothing about the physical principles at play. Each of these points is a small engineering marvel. Combine them all, and then add the little fine print that says ‘Has to be available at competitive market prices’, and you get your explanation.

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

[FWCartography]

This would've been part of the vista Marius experienced while hiking to the fateful mountain he and Cobb Sextus climbed.

[worktroll]

Enjoying this thoroughly so far!

[Sir Chaos]

Enjoying this thoroughly so far!

Same.

Do we still have those annual fan awards? Because I feel the urge to nominate this story and its author for something.

[Dave Talley]

Tag

[FWCartography]

Honestly, the more I think about it the more I'm warming up to the idea of Marius somehow slipping the Dragoons some sort of message to warn them of Vesar Kristofur, if only to lean back and watch the butterflies fly...

[PsihoKekec]

Great way of pointing ROM his way.

[FWCartography]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Understood, Watch Dog 1. I reckon they didn’t have all that many sheep?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lovely forecast,” Mitch muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And not mined,” Kat added with an emphatic nod.

“And not mined,” Mitch repeated.

Aidan tore his eyes off the map and checked his watch. “We'll wait until we've set up shop before we move on.” He switched on his radio. “Control, this is Watch Dog 1. Do you read, copy?”

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

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

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

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

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

Everybody automatically took a few steps closer and leaned in.

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can you defuse it?” Aidan asked.

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

“And not on the fly,” Kat added.

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

“And some luck,” Kat finished his list.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[PsihoKekec]

A warehouse filled to the brim, the writing above the blast doors simply reading N A V A L  0 1.

Well, in his premonition he dies in a naval battle (possibly Jihad) so this could be part of the route where MH is able to build at least Pocket Warships.

[FWCartography]

A few long-term spoilers here.

Marius O'Reilly will die in his bed, after an extremely eventful, fulfilling, yet trauma-filled life.

At no point of the fic will the MH be able to replicate SLDF era capship weaponry (though missile wise they'll come close).

The battle in the dream/vision sequence is not during the Jihad, but years earlier (but we're still talking 40+ years in the future by my current layout). To be honest, with the pocket warship(s) I cooked up in Megameklab I'm not convinced the dream/vision sequence would even have happened like that. Either way, when the time comes to write it I'll have to seriously read up on BTech space combat.

That being said, it'll take years for even a small-scale MH dropship program to bear fruit. It's one thing to set up domestic production of medium lasers and such, but dropships, even the smaller ones, are several magnitudes of complexity and cost above that.

Realistically, we're looking at the MH building a domestic copycat of the Leopard and Danais as training wheels first, then doing Unions adapted to their specific unit scheme. After that... I was thinking about sort of a Container freighter dropship.

[worktroll]

It's not about the ends, it's the journey (story) I'm enjoying so much!

And I'm happy to admire you not going full wish-fulfilment on us. Thank you, and looking forward to the next installment!

[FWCartography]

It's not about the ends, it's the journey (story) I'm enjoying so much!

And I'm happy to admire you not going full wish-fulfilment on us. Thank you, and looking forward to the next installment!

I'm genuinely happy that you like it.

There is always this temptation to have everyhing go right for your protagonist, but as I've gotten older and read and consumed more media I've internalized a bit that the most fulfilling narratives are the ones where the protagonists have to struggle, or at least have to do their best to adapt to circumstances that are outside their control. Allthewhile making mistakes and trying to stay true to (how you imagine) their character.
There's also this desire to make a character be morally 'good'. Marius is a Marian at heart, so most choices he('ll) makes that we see as good are more the result of ulterior motives -- or forced upon him through circumstances he can't control.

Marius' re-awakening on the one hand has given him the opportunity to redress all the things he wasn't content with in his 'first' life, taking the reins of his and his nation's destiny rather than being a passive passenger. But having that foreknowledge and the drive to change things also brings with it the very real chance of making mistakes. By taking an active stance in (interstellar) politics he's got to play a lot more sides to get his ideas turned into reality. That leads to weird compromises and bedfellows (very literally). So he's not going to take the same wife because not-same-wife = not Sean = not getting thrown off a cliff. But he's also throwing a lot of his old-self mannerisms and restraint away, trying to enjoy his life more. Hence his affair with Octavia Kimura. A wise choice? It's not spoilers if I'm going to say nope, that's going to blow up in his face in all sorts of ways down the road.

[marauder648]

Just read this and binged the lot, superb writing! Can't wait to see where you go with it!

[FWCartography]

This isn't dead. It just takes really long naps.

INTERLUDE: LOG

[/size][/b]


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

Date: January 15, 2766

Logbook Entry 1:

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

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

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

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

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


Date: December 2, 2766

Logbook Entry 39:

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

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

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


Date: June 9, 2769

Logbook Entry 78:

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

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

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

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


Date: December 18, 2769

Logbook Entry 96:

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

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

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


Date: June 3, 2774

Logbook Entry 176:

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

This poses significant challenges in maintaining our operational readiness.

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


Date: February 12, 2779

Logbook Entry 306:

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

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

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

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


Date: October 18, 2781

Logbook Entry 333:

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

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

Kerensky remains resolute in his vision of restoring a semblance of normalcy to the Inner Sphere. I don’t know how the man does it. A trickle of supplies and personnel continues to be shipped back to base now that the war’s over. At the current pace it’ll take years until we reach even fifty percent of the pre-war quota. To be honest, I’m not sure if we’ll ever get back to that point. Looking at the world, it feels as if everything is unravelling.
 
Despite inquiries and searches by trusted friends I have not been able to get in contact with my family on Terra. With a heavy heart I have thus resigned to the fact that my husband and children are gone.

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


Date: April 28, 2784

Logbook Entry 381:

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

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

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

[PsihoKekec]

So the best stuff (by the standards of the SLDF) is in the demolished tunnels.

And so many went along with Kerensky's Space Moses LARP because they had nowhere else to go, SLDF was the only home, the only family they had left, with bonds of camaraderie dragging the others along.

[marauder648]

Great to see this back and a superb update showing the human cost of war.

[FWCartography]

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

[/b]

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

Alina Volkova whistled in surprise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The council fell silent.

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

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

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

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