By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)

[MondoMage]

After everything else that had happened, I would think they'd be a bit more leery about what surprises that supposedly outmatched Taurian fighter group might have up its sleeve.

[Vehrec]

Having seen the other bits on other sites...well, I think that there are way too many 'good tricks' on the Taurians' behalf here. Thousands of pounds of explosive wasted on 'mechbuster' mines that are ridiculous overkill, as opposed to traditional AT mines that would 'merely' break leg actuators and render the mech hauled off the line. Concentrated contact poison from...where exactly? I mean, it's one thing to say it's got the stuff sprayed into the air vents-but where did you get this stuff? It's not exactly an over-the-counter substance, and there are more conventional chemical weapons that are less complex and faster acting. Mustard gas for one-yes, it's more 'lethal' but you just aeresolized an inflammatory compound-how many pilots die from inhaling it?

I've got other critiques, but they're gonna have to wait until MA posts more stuff here for me to point at it.

[masterarminas]

Transgressor 311
Local Space, MacLeod’s Land
Taurian Concordat
November 17, 3025

Sarah looked down at her display as the range steadily dropped between her fighters and the oncoming Hellcats of Wave I—and she grinned. The Taurians were idiots, she thought. All bunched up in one compact formation . . . it was really amazing that they hadn’t had any in-flight brushes against one another flying that tightly. Guess they learned their maneuvers from the Lyrans, because it looked like a flying wall of steel, she chuckled to herself. And then she activated her radio transmitter.

“Boys, you are about to get your asses kicked,” she gloated. “How about this . . . we make one pass and then you turn around and burn for home? After all, we don’t want to cost Thomas too many more of his precious few aerospace fighters . . . you know that you don’t stand a chance against our birds. We’re heavier and have a lot more combat time than you do—so do yourselves a favor and turn around before you get spanked.”

Several of Mac’s pilots laughed as they tightened their straps one last time and ejected empty drop-tanks once filled with fuel. But rather than inspiring the red rage she had expected, only a confident laugh answered her—and it was not a Taurian accent.

“Now that would not be cricket, now would it, lass?”

“Outworlders,” Sarah hissed.

“Oh—she realizes now it is a trap,” the radio continued to broadcast. “You see, the Bulls did want to just rush in all at once—but I talked them out of it. Better that my boys and girls—the Ghostriders of the First Alliance Air Wing—cut a path through you for them.”

“Mac,” Sarah broadcast back to the command DropShip, “launch the reserve NOW. I’m going to need them.”

“Quite right, little girl—you see, we Outworlders take our responsibilities extremely seriously . . . and when you attack our friends and allies, you also attack us. Were you expecting, perhaps, that we would stand by and see the boys and girls we trained to fly go off and then drink a cocktail without a care in the world? If so, you were quite wrong—and unless you break and run for your carriers, in a very short time, you will be very dead. TALLEYHO!”

And with that, the tight ranks of the Alliance fighter squadron suddenly broke into ten pairs of wingmen—performing the high-G maneuver as flawlessly as only the elite demonstration pilots and combat veterans could. And then the pairs broke apart and began to scissor towards the oncoming fighter’s led by Sarah—their noses spitting bolts of PPC fire.

“What the hell?” one of her pilots cried out as they realized that the Alliance pilots out-ranged them . . . because Hellcats did not carry PPCs.

“Oh . . . sorry about that old chaps, but did I neglect to mention that we replaced our Large Lasers with twin Peepers—along with a larger fuel tank and more armor? Shame, I cannot think of why I did not remember to inform you of that.” There was a pause. “Oh, yes. Now I remember—because we play this game to win.”

Ten of Sarah’s fighters staggered as each was the target of four individual PPCs—and while the Transgressors and Eagles had enough armor to stop Large Lasers from penetrating on the nose, no surface on the heavy fighters was thick enough to stop a PPC bolt! Wings snapped off, fuel tanks and magazines detonated, and several of her fighters spun out of control.

“Break off!” she yelled into the microphone as she slammed her throttle to the firewall and banked away from the combat. “Rendezvous with the second strike!”

And that slightly amused, crisply accented voice came over the radio one more time. “Ghostriders—let us plough the road, to use a Taurian phrase that our allies—and students—will appreciate. Shall we start the stampede, gentlemen?”

[masterarminas]

Havoc 214
Local Space, MacLeod’s Land
Taurian Concordat
November 17, 3025

Air Master (Senior Grade) Gregory Boyington was a hard man—one of the few Taurian pilots to have made Ace since the long-ago days of the Reunification Wars. But for the fifteen other pilots and scores of techs assigned to the Taurian Guard Air Wing, he was just the Old Man, the leader that had worked them long and hard to hone their skills and have a chance—just a chance—to live through the furball and come home alive afterwards. He almost never smiled, was always stoic and sober and somber. Today, however, today, he had a grin on his scarred face as he watched the Outworlders tear apart McCarron’s lead fighters like the wrath of an unholy God.

“Hell’s Heart,” he broadcast as he altered vector slightly. “Ignore the gnats—we want those eggs. Division Two take Overlord-Bravo; Three gets Overlord-Charlie; Four provide top cover. One follows me into the fire at Overlord-Alpha. Arm munitions,” he ordered as he triggered the electronic arming circuits . . . and he cursed as the single Alamo missile that he carried ignited its booster stage and tore away from the heavy fighter.

“DO NOT ARM!” he bellowed, even as he saw another two of the nuclear-tipped missiles streak away with no target lock. DAMN this new fire control system, he thought. “How many did we lose?”

“Four, Pappy,” replied his wingman, “all from Divisions One and Two.”

“Damn all engineers who want to fix what ain’t broken!” he cursed. “Divisions Three and Four—manually arm Alamos! Four take Overlord-Bravo; One will provide top cover for your run; Two covers Three—understood?”

Double-clicks on the radio showed that his kids did understand, and Gregory bit his lip in frustration. “Break in attack run vector on my mark . . .,” he ordered and then paused as the watched the numbers and arrows in his HUD that showed vectors and speeds, “MARK!” he snarled as he banked the heavy fighter towards Overlord-Bravo.

Defensive fire blossomed from the impressive DropShip, but Gregory weaved his Havoc right and left, up and down—and his own missile launchers and lasers spat return fire.

“I’m hit, I’m hit, I’m hit!” shouted a voice over the radio, and Gregory felt his heart harden a bit more as one of his pilots vanished in the glare of an explosion.

“Ghostriders, we need some cover!” he yelled out.

“Roger that, Hell’s Heart—our dance card is full at this moment, I regret to say. We should have top cover in . . . thirty seconds.”

Thirty seconds . . . it sounded like such a short time, but in combat it was an eternity. “Understood—Hell’s Heart . . . stay on target.”

“Hostiles on our six, Pappy,” his wingman said softly.

“I see them—shield Division Four,” he ordered—and with that command, Gregory and his wingman cut their thrust and slid between the Taurian fighters carrying the heavy missiles and the incoming bandits.

Large Laser and Autocannon fire streaked out towards the Taurian fighters, but then the incoming Reivers staggered under a hail of missile fire! Four Defiance gunboats streaked by, their sixty LRM tubes reloading as they swept across Gregory’s attack run.

“Hope that helps, Hell’s Heart,” sang out Air Master (SG) Paul Dixon aboard the lead Defiance.

“It did, now come back and do that again!” Gregory ordered.

“You always do want more, don’t you?”

“Damn straight,” the Taurian wing leader said with a straight face. “And right now, I want some EGGS PEOPLE!” he barked.

A second Havoc erupted in flame and fury, but six continued to bore in—finally entering the range of the Alamo anti-ship missiles . . . and their nuclear warheads. “FIRE!” yelled one of the Division Four officers and two heavy missiles streaked away, attempting to lock onto the erratically maneuvering Overlord.

One failed to achieve lock and it went wild before it self-destructed—the second, however, flew straight and true and the contact nuclear warhead detonated as the missile drove home. None of the crew or soldiers of the DropShip Vixen survived.

“PAPPY!” his wingman yelled as Gregory grinned at the expanding cloud of dust and debris that had once been a DropShip. Alarms began to blare as an enemy fighter swept out of the cloud and both lasers and missiles slammed home against Gregory’s Havoc—and that was the last sight that the veteran pilot ever saw.

[masterarminas]

Interlude
Throughout the Inner Sphere and Major Periphery States
November 20, 3025

INTERSTELLAR NEWS NETWORK ALERT
INN SPECIAL REPORT #3025-1782A
AUTHORIZED FOR IMMEDIATE DISTRIBUTION TO ALL OUTLETS

STORY BY HELEN GRAHM—FILED FROM ROLLIS [CAPELLAN CONFEDERATION]

TAURIANS COMMIT WAR CRIMES AND NUCLEAR ATROCITIES!

(INN) NOVEMBER 19, 3025—ROLLIS

INN HAS RECEIVED CONFIRMATION OF THE FIRST USE OF NUCLEAR WEAPONS AGAINST FORCES OF MCCARRON’S ARMORED CAVALRY DEPLOYED ON MACLEOD’S LAND BY ELEMENTS OF THE TAURIAN GUARD CORPS. EYEWITNESS ACCOUNTS FROM SURVIVORS INDICATE THAT FOLLOWING IS ACCURATE:

ANSWERING A COMSTAR REQUEST FOR MAC TO GARRISON LOCAL HPG STATIONS ON MACLEOD’S LAND (IN RESPONSE TO TAURIAN ATTACKS ON COMSTAR FACILITIES), ARCHIE MCCARRON AND THE NIGHTRIDERS REGIMENT ARRIVED ON THE TAURIAN WORLD OF MACLEOD’S LAND, WHILE OTHER MAC REGIMENTS WERE DISPATCHED TO SECURE FACILITIES ON LACONIS, BRISBANE, AND LANDSMARK.

MAC WAS HIRED WITH THE BLESSING OF THE CHANCELLOR OF THE CAPELLAN CONFEDERATION UNDER THE UNDERSTANDING THAT THE NEWLY FORMED COMGUARDS AND MILITIA (ANNOUNCED LAST MONTH) WOULD SOON BE DEPLOYED TO RELIEVE THE MERCENARY FORMATIONS PROVIDING LOCAL SECURITY.

LOCAL CITIZENS OF THE CONCORDAT RESPONDED TO THE ARRIVAL OF MCCARRON AND THE NIGHTRIDERS WITH ILLEGAL ATTACKS UPON HIS FORCES, CONDUCTED BY NON-LAWFUL COMBATENTS USING UNCONVENTIONAL WARFARE. AFTER THE USE OF CHEMICAL WEAPONS AGAINST HIS FORCE, ARCHIBALD MCCARRON ORDERED ALL FIVE OF HIS REGIMENTS TO WITHDRAW FROM TAURIAN SPACE IN AN EFFORT TO CALM LOCAL SENSIBILITIES.

INN HAS CONFIRMED THAT WHILE LIFTING TO ORBIT, THREE MAC DROPSHIPS WERE DELIBERATELY TARGETED AND STRUCK BY NUCLEAR ORDNANCE . . . AMONG THE KNOWN DEAD ARE ARCHIBALD MCARRON. AT LEAST 500 ADDITIONAL MECHWARRIORS, PILOTS, TECHNICIANS, ENGINEERINGS, AND DEPENDENTS HAVE BEEN CONFIRMED AS KIA AS WELL.

INN HAS NOT BEEN ABLE TO CONFIRM AT THIS TIME THAT OTHER REGIMENTS OF MAC CAME UNDER SUSTAINED ATTACK WHILE GARRISONING COMSTAR PROPERTY IN THE TAURIAN CONCORDAT. HOWEVER, REPORTS FROM MENKE INDICATE THAT THE SUPPORT ELEMENTS OF MAC ARE PREPARING DEPENDENTS ON MENKE FOR THE WORST OF HOMECOMINGS.

REPORTS FROM ALL FIVE GREAT HOUSES OF THE INNER SPHERE INDICATE THAT THE OUTRAGE OVER THE UNPROVOKED AND BARBARIC USE OF WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION IS SWELLING, WITH LOCAL PROTESTORS CLAMORING FOR THEIR GOVERNMENTS TO RESPOND TO THESE ACTS OF BARBARITY.

COMSTAR HAS ISSUED A CALL FOR ALL GREAT AND MINOR HOUSES TO IMMEDIATELY EMBARGO ALL COMMERCIAL AND PASSENGER TRAFFIC TO AND FROM THE TAURIAN CONCORDAT.

TIMELINE OF EVENTS IN THE TAURIAN CRISIS:

OCTOBER 24, 3025—TAURIAN FORCES ATTACK AND SEIZE A COMSTAR HPG FACILITY ON JANSEN’S HOLD.

OCTOBER 25, 3025—COMSTAR DEMANDS RESTITUTION FOR THE ATTACK AND THE MURDER OF ITS PERSONNEL ON JANSEN’S HOLD.

OCTOBER 27, 3025—PROTECTOR THOMAS CALDERON DECLARES WAR ON COMSTAR AND ORDERS THE TDF TO SEIZE ALL COMSTAR FACILITIES WITHIN THE TAURIAN CONCORDAT.

OCTOBER 28, 3025—COMSTAR DECLARES AN INTERDICTION AGAINST THE TAURIAN CONCORDAT; ANNOUNCES FORMATION OF THE COMGUARD AND MILITIA TO DEFEND FACILITIES AGAINST ANY FUTURE SUCH ATTEMPTS TO SEIZE COMSTAR PROPERTY AND ASSAULT COMSTAR PERSONNEL.

OCTOBER 30, 3025—COMSTAR REACHES AN AGREEMENT WITH MAXIMILLIAN LIAO TO TEMPORARILY HIRE MCCARRON’S ARMORED CAVALRY TO GARRISON SEVERAL HPG FACILITIES WITHIN THE TAURIAN CONCORDAT.

NOVEMBER 10, 3025—MAC LANDS ON MACLEOD’S LAND AND IMMEDIATELY COMES UNDER ATTACK BY TAURIAN IRREGULARS.

NOVEMBER 16, 3025—TAURIAN FORCES, SUSPECTED OF ACTING ON DIRECT ORDERS FROM TAURUS, USE CHEMICAL WARFARE AGENTS AGAINST NIGHTRIDERS REGIMENT ON MACLEOD’S LAND.

NOVEMBER 17, 3025—NIGHTRIDERS ATTEMPT TO WITHDRAW TO DEFUSE SITUATION; TAURIAN AEROSPACE ASSETS ATTACK THE DEFENSELESS DROPSHIPS AS THEY CLEAR THE ATMOSPHERE WITH NUCLEAR WEAPONS, KILLING AT LEAST 500 INDIVIDUALS INCLUDING ARCHIBALD MCCARRON.

NOVEMBER 20, 3025—COMSTAR CALLS FOR AN IMMEDIATE EMBARGO OF ALL COMMERICAL AND PASSENGER TRAFFIC TO AND FROM THE TAURIAN CONCORDAT.

[masterarminas]

Celestial Palace
Forbidden City, Sian
Capellan Confederation
November 20, 3025

Romano Liao swallowed heavily as the Court of Sian grew silent at her entry. She had been summoned here—escorted by armed troopers of the Red Lancers, the fanatical guardians of the Chancellor himself. Colonel Judith Abermarle, the commanding officer of the Lancers, led the procession to the balk lines upon the polished floor and then she knelt, her head bowed low . . . and Romano was herself pushed down upon the flagstones by the guards beside her instead of being allowed to continue forward.

“Child,” Maximillian Liao beamed down at his younger daughter, and then his warm smile faded away into a stern look that felt as cold as arctic ice. “I must say that I admire your audacity—your . . . courage,” his voice turned into a snarl at that word and Romano shivered, “in attempting to seize the factories of MacLeod’s Land and Pinard and New Vandenberg for the Confederation.”

“Yes,” Max Liao spoke as he lowered his head, “it was an audacious plan that called for taking and holding at least four Taurian worlds with a handful of regiments . . .,” he paused and his eyes narrowed. “Tell me, daughter . . . where are my regiments now?”

“Re-returning to Menke, Father,” Romano whispered and Max nodded; he leaned back in his throne and he stroked his long beard with one hand—the other clenched the arm of his throne so hard that his knuckles had turned white.

“All of them, daughter?” Max asked in a voice just as quiet . . . but one that echoed throughout the Court.

“I-I was not expe-. . .,” she began, but Max rose from his throne.

“YOU DID NOT THINK!” he spat, and Romano cringed. “The offensive arm of the Capellan Confederation Armed Forces—shattered! Marcus Baxter tells me that it will take years to rebuild the Armored Cavalry to their previous strength—right now, AT THIS MOMENT, DAUGHTER! Right now, of the five Regiments that you threw away, there are barely enough troopers and ‘Mechs returning to Menke to form two.”

Max shook his head as he looked down at the shaking young woman and then he took a deep breath. “My plans—to place the blame on Hanse Davion for the destruction of their Vickers Core and that ship in orbit; to bring Thomas Calderon into an alliance that would strengthen the Confederation . . . those plans are now useless child, thanks to your wanton appetite for bloodshed and utter lack of any strategic sense!”

The Chancellor sat back down on his throne, composing himself once more. “Thankfully, there are those who value preserving face for the Liao—those who are willing to help us by telling the Inner Sphere that it was not your stupidity which threw away my Regiments, but instead Taurian atrocities.”

“GUARDS!” he snapped. “Get this criminal out of my sight—she is to remain in exile at her estates on Quemoy until I send for her. Contemplate your sins, my daughter—in silence. And count yourself fortunate that it is not, at this time, Our Will that you be joined with Archibald McCarron in death.”

The guards seized Romano’s arms dragged her away—her last sight before the doors closed behind her was her Father turning to Candace.

“And now, Favored Child, we will address how to correct your idiot sister’s upheaval of my policies.”

The doors finished closing before Romano could do more than sputter in shock as the Lancers continued to drag her through the Palace and then to the space-port.

[masterarminas]

Taurian Defense Force Military Reservation (I Corps HQ)
Port Sheridan, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 20, 3025

“I should place you under arrest and ship you home to Thomas,” Corey Calderon said with a sigh. “You realize you are damn lucky I didn’t just blow your ships out of space when you showed up with a reinforced regiment—without any warning!”

Edward nodded, and Corey scowled at the much younger man. “Edward, son,” he said with a shake of his head, “Thomas is going to go ballistic over this whole damned mess. First off, you bring four battalions of FedRats . . .,” and as Edward frowned, Corey just held up a hand, “mercenaries—some of whom are mercenaries in name only, by the way—who just happened to work for Hanse freaking Davion yesterday; you bring them here and land them on New Vallis. Then, because you obviously have no concern for the status of my blood pressure or the possibility of me suffering a stroke, deign to inform me that Michael Hasek-Davion is due to arrive within the next few hours at the head of the entire Sixth Syrtis Fusiliers RCT—with the intention of conquering this world!”

“Correct, Uncle Corey—except I am rather worried about your blood pressure . . . have you been taking your meds?” Edward interjected with a grin—and Brigadier Tanis Verbet snorted as Corey glared at Edward.

“But oh, oh, you weren’t finished, were you?” Corey continued after transferring his glare to the CO of the First Battalion, Hyades Light Infantry and then to her immediate superior—Colonel Fiona Jamesen—before looking Edward in the eyes once more. “No, you claim that Hanse freaking Davion has declared Michael Hasek-Davion—his brother-in-law, if I may remind you!—and the entire Sixth Fusiliers as pirates and renegades, who are just conveniently no longer members of the bloody damned AFFS. Hours before they launch an assault on a Taurian world! Sounds to me like something the Fox would pull.”

“For what end, Marshal Calderon?” Fiona asked. “If they return to Federated Suns space and are welcomed home, then we know it was an attempt to trick us—and that would inspire Thomas to devise a means to strike at the Davions just to show he won’t be rolled over. No, as much as I do not care for the House of Davion and their ambitions,” the older woman mused quietly, “we must look at what is happening here. Edward has brought four battalions—plus his own escort—to the sound of the guns . . . as any good Taurian should do,” she smiled at the Heir to the Bull as she said this, and Edward nodded his head to her. She continued. “He was expecting New Vallis to be defended by just two TDF battalions—Tanis and her First Hyades and Mikhail’s Third Battalion, Concordat Jaegers. He didn’t know that Thomas and Brenda redeployed the entire TDF to add the Second Hyades, my Regimental HQ, and the Calderon Red Hand.”

Brigadier Rafael Montoya nodded. “Ambassador Calderon,” he said, stressing the first word heavily, “had already departed before it was decided to reinforce the core worlds of the Concordat. And I too applaud the action of a Calderon who decides that defending a world of the Concordat comes first and foremost over all other priorities—even to the point of hiring this many mercenaries out of his own pockets.”

Corey—reluctantly—conceded the point with a shrug. But then the old man sat down in his chair and he sighed again. “Eddie, if you are wrong—if Hanse Davion welcomes these assholes back into his service—Thomas will have no choice but to officially disown you and send you into Exile.”

“Ardan Sortek,” Edward said, and Corey winced at the name of the commander of the Foxhounds mercenary battalion, “assures me that Prince Davion is quite serious—and he has provided us with a full and complete listing, as of four weeks ago, of the entire Table of Organization and Equipment of the Sixth Fusiliers . . . right down to the exact make and model of each and every vehicle and ‘Mech that they field.”

Rafael pursed his lips—and Tanis grinned broadly. Edward waited until each of the senior TDF officers present had nodded and then he continued. “Between your commands, you have basically six Inner Sphere battalions worth of ‘Mechs—plus seven regiments of armor and nearly twenty of infantry. Heck, Uncle Corey, you have an entire regiment of self-propelled Thumpers, along with a battalion each of Snipers and Long Toms!” Edward paused. “Between the Foxhounds and Colonel Wylie and his Coyotes, I’ve got just over four battalions of my own—that’s a total of ten versus the three that the Sixth can field.”

“And our conventional arms outnumber his,” Corey finished, “although not by quite the same margins. You understand that Thomas is liable to hang me from the nearest lamp-post as well, Edward?”

“Edmund Burke said it best, Uncle Corey—‘All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.’ I refuse to do nothing. Father may well not approve of my actions—but I take those actions for the Concordat. The Capellans have already attacked, according to the reports I’ve heard—this is our one chance to stop a second war on another front. A simultaneous war, Sir; I would suggest that the Marshal ask Brigadier Montoya how that worked out for our people the last time around.”

“I don’t need some wet-behind-the-ears jackass to tell me my history, boy!” Corey snapped. But then his shoulders dropped and he sighed a third time. “Alright, son—I’ll back your play. God knows that every man we can put on the field will lower the numbers of our dead in the end, after all. BUT,” Corey said firmly, “I’m sending word to Thomas immediately aboard one of the courier ships. And if the Protector of the Taurian Concordat tells me to open fire on your mercenaries, Edward,” Corey paused and his eyes clouded, but he stared Edward straight in the eyes, “if he orders me to open fire on you—I will do so. Still want to take that chance?”

“Yes, Sir—but I would like to send a message to Father on that courier ship as well,” Edward said.

Corey nodded, and then he stood up and walked around the desk to take Edward’s hand in his own. “Whatever Thomas decides, son—it’s been an honor,” and then Corey snorted in a fit of laughter. “You realize, with all the strings that Thomas has pulled to keep you—his Heir Apparent—out of combat up ‘til now, he’s likely to insist I sit on your ass here in my HQ? That even if he gives the go-ahead, YOU aren’t likely to be taking the field . . . Subaltern.”

Edward’s mouth opened, and then he closed it. “I will follow my orders, Marshal Calderon,” he said quietly as he came to attention.

“Somehow, Eddie, I doubt that,” Corey answered. “Come on, boy—the radio transmitter is a'waiting and Michael Hasek-Davion and his Sassy Syrtis Fools are coming to play in our sand box real soon. Time for you to call home.”

[masterarminas]

Having seen the other bits on other sites...well, I think that there are way too many 'good tricks' on the Taurians' behalf here. Thousands of pounds of explosive wasted on 'mechbuster' mines that are ridiculous overkill, as opposed to traditional AT mines that would 'merely' break leg actuators and render the mech hauled off the line. Concentrated contact poison from...where exactly? I mean, it's one thing to say it's got the stuff sprayed into the air vents-but where did you get this stuff? It's not exactly an over-the-counter substance, and there are more conventional chemical weapons that are less complex and faster acting. Mustard gas for one-yes, it's more 'lethal' but you just aeresolized an inflammatory compound-how many pilots die from inhaling it?

I've got other critiques, but they're gonna have to wait until MA posts more stuff here for me to point at it.

HERESY! There is no such thing as "overkill", just "open fire" and "reload".

MA

[masterarminas]

Cháteau des Calderon
Samantha City, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
November 20, 3025

Thomas stalked into his private office in the expansive home—one could term it as a mansion—that had served as the private residence of the Protector for more than seven centuries. And he slammed the door behind him.

It wasn’t dignified, his slamming of the door—and Thomas knew that. But it wasn’t his nature to yell at the servants . . . nor at his family for sins not of their own commission. Unfortunately, merely slamming the door did little to alleviate the anger—and fear—inside Thomas’ heart. Anger at the thought of the perfidious Davions landing on one of his worlds—a world he had sworn to protect. Anger at the very idea that still more Davions would be defending that world against their expatriate kin. And an absolutely furious red rage that it was his own eldest son that had invited those Davion defenders to land on New Vallis.

And fear. Fear that Edward—his first-born, the man on whom he relied above all others to tell him when he had gone, or was going, too far—would find himself in harm’s way.

“Damn it to hell, Eddie,” Thomas whispered as he shook his head. “You’ve put me between the rock and the hard spot now, son.”

“Why are you mad at Eddie, Uncle Thomas?” a frightened voice asked from the far side of the sofa—and Thomas stared at two pairs of green eyes peeking over the back.

“Amelia? Isabella? What on earth are you two doing here in my private office?”

The twins—the eldest children of Raoul Calderon, Thomas’ younger brother—stood up and looked down at the floor. “We are playing hide-and-seek, Uncle Thomas,” Isabella answered quietly.

“No one will look for us in here!” added Amelia.

“Would that be because the two of you are not supposed to be in here?” Thomas asked, and then he sighed. He sat down on another sofa and he patted the cushions. “Come here,” he growled, and the twins sighed in unison and crossed the office, sitting down one on his left and one on his right.

“Long ago,” Thomas began, in a quieter and calmer voice, “when your Grand-mama was Protector, I hid in here so that your Dada couldn’t find me,” and he laughed softly.

“Did he find you? Did you win?” asked Isabella.

“No, Raoul didn’t find me—neither did Teresa or my cousin Brenda or any of the other children, children. But grand-mama Zarantha found me—and I wasn’t allowed in here either.”

“Did she spank you?” Amelia asked in a low whisper, clearly looking ahead at the possible fate which lay in store for her and her sister.

“No, girls—Mama did not,” and Thomas’ voice grew hushed as his natural eye focused on something far away . . . something many years past. “She sat me down and she explained to me that this room—this very room!—was her refuge from the pain of the decisions she had to make day-in and day-out as Protector. Her sanctum, where she could sit and leave behind the worry, the doubts, the fear, . . .,” his voice trailed off. After a moment, he resumed, in a hushed tone. “I never really knew what she meant until she was gone and this room became mine.”

Thomas looked at the two girls—whose eleventh birthday had just come and gone a month ago—and he smiled. “It’s okay, girls—you can hide here if you want too . . . I won’t tell a soul.”

Isabella beamed a smile at Thomas and she hugged him tight—but Amelia just frowned. “Uncle . . . why are you mad at Eddie?”

Thomas grimaced and he put his arm around Amelia and hugged her before he answered. “Eddie made a decision that I don’t like—a decision that may mean I have to send him away,” and his voice broke. “That doesn’t mean I don’t love him—it just means that sometimes, I have a duty to do something I don’t like . . . or want . . . to . . . do,” his voice slowed down as he realized just what he had said.

Isabella nodded. “Miss Carlyle told us at school that we have a . . . re-spon-si-bil-it-y,” she enunciated the word carefully, “to do the right thing even if we don’t want to do it.”

“Yeah,” added Amelia. “She told us about Great-great-great Aunt Marantha; said it was the hardest thing she ever had to do to give up and let the Star League win—that she didn’t want to give up, but she had to so that her children and everyone’s children would be safe. And because she did give up, then we are here now.”

“She did, Uncle,” piped up Isabella, not wanting her sister to impress Thomas more than she did. “She told us that our an-ces-tors were willing to fight and die—but that even if they did, the war was lost. Aunty Marantha did what she did because she had to—to save us, all of us. But she didn’t like it so much, she took a pill and went to Heaven.”

Thomas didn’t say a word, but he hugged the two girls—until a knock came on his door.

“Thomas?” a tenor voice asked—the voice of the father of the twins. “Have you seen Isabella and Amelia by any chance?”

“No, Raoul,” Thomas answered, holding one finger over his lips as the girls giggled in delight. “Did you misplace them? Should I call security?”

“No need for that, brother,” he answered with a chuckle through the still closed door. “Just playing hide-and-seek with them—like when you and I were children. Sorry to bother you,” he finished.

“Raoul,” Thomas said quickly.

“Yes?”

“It’s never a bother—come back in say . . . thirty minutes?” he asked, looking at the girls and they nodded. “I need . . . I need to talk.”

There was silence for a moment, and then a dry voice slowly answered. “Whenever you need me, Tom—I’ll be here.”

Thomas waited until his brother’s footsteps had faded away and then he kissed first Isabella and then Amelia on the forehead. “There—a thirty minute head-start,” he said. “And I do believe that Katherine is busy in the kitchen annoying the cooks as they make pastries,” and both the twins squealed. “I think they will let you have a glass of cold milk as well.”

“Thank you, Uncle Thomas,” the two said in perfect harmony as they stood and hugged the Protector again and made their way to the door.

But then Amelia turned. “Uncle,” she asked, “why are you crying?”

“Because you two made me remember something I had forgotten, girls. Now run on—your father is gone to find you . . . so take the back stairs,” Thomas answered with a smile on his face.

The two threw open the door, looked around the corner, and then raced off as one of the guards smiled and closed the door behind them . . . leaving Thomas alone once more.

He stood. He walked across the carpeted floor to his desk and he picked up the phone and pressed one number. It rang twice, and then a voice answered.

“Yes, Sire?”

“Send the courier to New Vallis, Henri,” Thomas ordered. “Tell Corey—and Edward—that I approve in full. And if one of my stubborn officers or nobles wants to make something of their choice, they will have to deal with ME.”

“At once, Sire.”

“And Henri?”

“Yes?”

“Inform Marshal Vickers that I approve her suggestion for deployment—she may depart as soon as she is ready. Give her the word, Henri . . . the word GO.”

“Yes, Sire—may I ask what changed your mind?”

“No,” Thomas answered as he hung up the phone and sat back down in an easy chair in front of his fireplace, watching the flames in silence as he waited for his younger brother to return.

[Vehrec]

 

Having seen the other bits on other sites...well, I think that there are way too many 'good tricks' on the Taurians' behalf here. Thousands of pounds of explosive wasted on 'mechbuster' mines that are ridiculous overkill, as opposed to traditional AT mines that would 'merely' break leg actuators and render the mech hauled off the line. Concentrated contact poison from...where exactly? I mean, it's one thing to say it's got the stuff sprayed into the air vents-but where did you get this stuff? It's not exactly an over-the-counter substance, and there are more conventional chemical weapons that are less complex and faster acting. Mustard gas for one-yes, it's more 'lethal' but you just aeresolized an inflammatory compound-how many pilots die from inhaling it?

I've got other critiques, but they're gonna have to wait until MA posts more stuff here for me to point at it.

HERESY! There is no such thing as "overkill", just "open fire" and "reload".

MA

Even in the universe that quote is from, it's blatantly untrue. You don't use an anvil or a sledgehammer to kill a fly.

And I find it somewhat dubious that in 3025 people are still reenacting the battle of Midway when it comes to electronic arming circuits, especially since they are, how shall we say, a mature technology?

Anyways, New Vallis. Since the Defenders now have a 3-1 edge in numbers, and military thought dictates that the attacker of a fortified position should have that many troops, there should be no officer of the Sixth who will lead them into that meatgrinder. Redeploy somewhere else, go pirate, strike the colors, anything but attack an enemy with that many advantages. If they do go ahead, in the face of all that, then I suppose certain rumors about you will be correct.

[MondoMage]

Anyways, New Vallis. Since the Defenders now have a 3-1 edge in numbers, and military thought dictates that the attacker of a fortified position should have that many troops, there should be no officer of the Sixth who will lead them into that meatgrinder. Redeploy somewhere else, go pirate, strike the colors, anything but attack an enemy with that many advantages.

Unless the attacking force isn't aware of the strength of the defending units. Edward himself wasn't aware until he had landed (apparently). Camouflage and deception are wonderful tools in the hands of someone who knows how to use them. And Hasek has his own misconceptions about what he's facing - a lot depends on how stubbornly he'll hold to those beliefs when faced with information counter to it.

But if previous chapters are any indication, the defenders are going to be trying to keep the (ex-)Davion forces from setting foot on the planet. Not sure how effective they'll be at that, but nothing is certain in battle except for the fact that nothing will go the way you planned.

[Vehrec]

Even a cursory orbital scan ought to reveal the presence of more dropships and units than they had accounted for-though at that point they may be too late. Signal traffic is another clue-as would some of those Daivon mercenaries transmitting warnings to their buddies to run away or something-they presumeably might tell the sixth that if they stuff Micheal into an escape pod with plenty of rations and run, they'll be let off light.

[MondoMage]

Even a cursory orbital scan ought to reveal the presence of more dropships and units than they had accounted for-though at that point they may be too late. Signal traffic is another clue-as would some of those Daivon mercenaries transmitting warnings to their buddies to run away or something-they presumeably might tell the sixth that if they stuff Micheal into an escape pod with plenty of rations and run, they'll be let off light.

There are ways to shield from aerial (or orbital) observation, although the higher levels of technology would mean that doing so would need to be much more intricate than, say, methods used during World War 2 - although the idea of a huge inflatable Union dropship makes me chuckle for some strange reason.

Similarly, I like the idea of the Taurians (and the Davions) asking for Hasek's head on a pike.

The other option would be for the defenders to make their strengths patently obvious to anyone bothering to look - although that runs the risk of being mistaken for a deception in itself! It all depends on whether Hasek is willing to believe what's in front of him, or if he's stubborn enough to ignore the evidence and go with his original intelligence estimates.

[Vehrec]

He was planning to assault with a much larger force, that would arrive via a distributed route. When none of them show up, he should have a significant indicator that the plan is FUBAR and he should pull out.

[LadyTevar]

Heheheh... Romano fubared, and she lost big. Couldn't happen to a nicer sociopath.

[masterarminas]

Transient Mercenary Reservation
Port Sheridan, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 21, 3025

“I don’t like this, Marshal,” muttered Major Ann Adelmana as she took a seat next to Ardan Sortek and picked at the plate lunch that her hosts had delivered to the mercenaries of the Foxhounds—otherwise known as the 2nd Battalion of the Davion Heavy Guards RCT. “I don’t like this one bit.”

“The slaw is good, Major,” Ardan snorted with amusement, “and the sauce that they drenched this meat in is delightful,” and then his voice turned serious. “Although, I do think it would behoove us to remember that I am no longer a Marshal in the AFFS—just the Colonel commanding this mercenary venture . . . at least while we are here on the surface of a Taurian world surrounded by TDF formations.”

Ann winced and she nodded. “Sorry, Colonel,” she stressed the second word heavily. “I wasn’t talking about the food, however,” she said as she lifted a forkful of the shredded meat and took a cautious bite. Her expression changed and she nodded as her eyes grew wide. “That is good,” she expressed in surprise after she swallowed. “Lamb?”

“Some local critter, I’m given to understand,” Ardan answered. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to—that is my philosophy in life, Major.” Ardan sat back and he sighed. “I know the boys and girls aren’t used to this, Ann—being grounded here in this segregated area, walled off from the rest of the city and the other defenders. And yes, the Taurians have manned those turrets on the walls and the bunkers—and they are watching us, not the approaches.”

“If they decide to turn hostile,” she whispered, “we’ll take heavy damage even before we can begin to mount a response.”

“They won’t—I have Edward’s word on the matter and Thomas gave him carte blanche . . . Edward sent me a copy of the message.”

“They are all so bloody paranoid,” she whispered after chewing another mouthful of the dish Taurians had called Sheridan’s BBQ (whatever that stood for) Mash, followed by a quick sip of the ice cold tea (with floating slices of oranges instead of lemons!) to kill the heat from the spices.

“Can you blame them? Trying mixing it with the slaw—it cools it off a bit.”

Ann frowned. “What the devil is slaw anyway?” she asked as she mixed some with the meat and beans.

“The servers said it was a salad of shredded cabbage, carrots, apples, plums, remoulade, vinegar, and soured cream—it isn’t bad and serves as a good counter-point to the spiciness of the meat.” Ardan chuckled. “This is the New Vallis variant—apparently, there are as many slaw configurations in the Concordat as there are planets. It seems to be a common side dish.”

“Different,” Ann mumbled as she chewed it slowly, “and you’re right, Sir. It does kill the heat.” She paused and then whispered. “Michael’s late—and many of those TDF officers I met yesterday are half-convinced this whole thing is a ploy to get Thomas and Edward feeling obligated to Hanse.”

“I know,” Ardan sighed. “We know that Iona Hasek and her Eighth Fusiliers were scheduled to begin landings five hours ago—but Michael and the Sixth hasn’t shown up yet. I’m hoping,” and Ardan winced as he said it, “that it was either a delay in transit or Michael was trying to be clever.”

Ann frowned.

“Knowing Michael Hasek-Davion—who is the greatest strategist since Alexander Davion, according to Michael Hasek-Davion—I don’t doubt that he was planning on having the Eighth hit planet to get the attention of the defenders, and then pop out at one of the pirate points and come burning in as the cavalry to the rescue. If everything went perfectly, he would be hitting the TDF from two sides with forces that should have grossly outmatched the defenders.”

“That looks good on paper, Colonel,” Ann said shaking her head, “but on the field? Against an opponent that doesn’t always respond in the exact manner you are depending on? That’s a recipe for defeat in detail—unless you are the second coming of Alexander with the tactical acumen of a Napoleon to boot.”

“Michael thinks that he is,” Ardan answered. “Like I said, I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“And what if it isn’t a delay or some grand scheme? What then? What if Michael has received word of Hanse’s proclamation from a courier that we don’t know about?”

“Then if he is smart he will stay the hell away from New Vallis,” Ardan said after a moment. “He will have three choices—first, he can go back to New Syrtis and dare Prince Davion to try and remove him. It would be civil war in that case because Michael has a lot of support in the Capellan March. Second, he can go renegade and turn pirate or mercenary—although that is a long shot. Third . . .,” and Ardan’s voice tapered off.

“Third?”

Ardan sighed. “Major, we have . . . suggestions . . . that Michael is in bed with Max Liao. Not hard proof—just indications. He might well jump across the border with the Sixth and take refuge in the Confederation—possibly as an overture to trying to wrest the March away from the Federated Suns and form a splinter state of his own . . . which would, in effect, be nothing more than an appendage of the CapCom.”

“If he turns traitor, the March won’t follow him,” Ann protested.

“Not all of it, no,” agreed Ardan. “But some worlds will—and so will some AFFS units. Not just the Fusiliers, Ann.”

She began to open her mouth but at that moment a Taurian officer approached the table and handed Ardan a folded note. Ardan took it, read it, and then he nodded.

“Tell him I will be there in five minutes,” he said as he patted his lips with his napkin and stood. Ann stood as well. “FOXHOUNDS!” Ardan bellowed. “The Sixth have just arrived at the L4 Trojan jump-point. Ann,” he turned to the Major, “get them saddled up—I have to meet with Edward and his command people.”

[masterarminas]

FSDS Damien Hasek
L4 Jump Point, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 21, 3025

Michael Hasek-Davion frowned as he adjusted the audio feed coming into the cockpit of his Marauder from the far more sensitive and powerful receivers of the Fortress-class DropShip that carried his Command Headquarters. Comm-links with the other forty-seven DropShips travelling in formation towards the planet was crystal clear—along with the links established with the eleven JumpShips that were even now deploying their sails to recharge their Drive Cores.

“Colonel Russert,” he growled at his aide over the radio, “why haven’t we managed to establish communications with the Eighth yet?”

“There is heavy jamming coming from the planet, Your Grace—we are picking up a few scattered fragments of transmissions on the frequencies assigned to Marshal Hasek’s RCT, but not to a degree that we can establish communication at this time.”

Michael nodded. “It does appear that they were quick off their mark to jam Iona after our arrival.”

There was a pause on the other end of the radio for a moment. “Perhaps we should delay the drop, Your Grace—at least until we have established communications via laser or maser transmitter after we have arrived in orbit.”

Now Michael paused, and then he sighed. “No. If Iona is pushing them hard enough that they are expending the resources to create this much jamming—then we need to relieve the Eighth as soon as possible,” and the Minister of the Capellan March and Duke of New Syrtis paused again as a thought occurred to him. “The transmissions—and jamming—are coming from her designated landing zone, correct?”

“From a large area that includes the landing zone, Your Grace.”

“Good. Good. We will proceed with the plan—inform all commands.”

“At once, Your Grace,” Russert answered and then the transmission died.

Michael tightened the straps that held him securely in his cockpit and he began to double-check the monitors and settings of various instruments of his ‘Mech. Twenty-five minutes, he thought as he glanced at the digital clock. Twenty-five minutes and we will show the entire Federated Suns that the myth of the dogged Taurian resistance is just that—a myth. His lips twitched into a slight smile as he pictured his triumphant return to New Syrtis—the Conqueror of the Taurians. And there wasn’t one damn thing that the bastard sitting on the throne of New Avalon could do to stop him.




NOTE: Transporting an entire RCT isn’t an easy task. I have no idea of the configuration of ships that the Sixth used in canon, but the following is what I’ve presumed for this story:

RCT DropShips (48): 1 Fortress, 3 Overlord, 2 Union, 1 Excalibur, 9 Triumph, 12 Condor, 3 Seeker, 3 Intruder, 2 Union CV, 3 Leopard CV, 1 Achilles, 3 Avenger, 5 Mule

Transport JumpShips (11): 1 Monolith, 3 Star Lord, 7 Invader

The Sixth has a reinforced BattleMech Regiment (3 battalions each with a command lance; 1 regimental command company), three Armor Regiments, six Infantry Regiments, two ASF wings, and an artillery battalion. Plus, I gave Michael an RCT HQ consisting of another ‘Mech company, an armor company, and an infantry company (on the Fortress) and a Scout Task Force (with 1 company of LAMs, 1 battalion of strike VTOLs, and 1 battalion of infantry with transport VTOLs embarked aboard the Excalibur class DropShip).

Hope that looks somewhat correct.

MA

[masterarminas]

TDF Field Headquarters
Tabernas Wastelands, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 21, 3025

“This wasn’t what we talked about, Edward,” Ardan whispered quietly to the young man—the newly appointed deputy commander of the defense of New Vallis. “I didn’t give you the Eighth’s encryption codes and transmission frequencies so that you could sucker the Sixth into walking straight into a trap. You are baiting Michael into landing . . . I thought that we were going to give his soldiers a chance to make their choice.”

“We are,” Edward answered just as softly so that the members of Marshal Calderon’s staff could not overhear. “Just as soon as he is in deep enough that Michael can’t decide to run off and actually become a pirate with an entire FedSuns RCT behind him.” And Edward grinned slightly. “And just as soon as our reinforcements arrive from Taurus to seize those ships at the jump-point.”

“Reinforcements? Seize those ships?” Ardan sputtered—quite a bit louder than he had intended.

“Michael Hasek-Davion made the deliberate decision to invade the Taurian Concordat, Mister Sortek,” Edward said in a flat voice. “Protector Thomas made the decision to order Samantha Calderon to jump in once we confirmed his exact jump-point—the courier will be departing in just a very few minutes from the Nadir point to bring that information to Gateway. Samantha Calderon will be carrying more than twelve hundred troopers of the Special Asteroid Support Force along with prize crews who will board and seize Michael’s transports.”

“Those JumpShips do not belong to Michael—they are the property of the AFFS!”

“Hanse Davion has already written off those ships, Ardan,” Edward continued. “They have been stolen by these . . . pirates and renegades, as he himself confirmed when he released the news of the mutiny by the Sixth Fusiliers. We will seize them and we will integrate those ships into the Taurian Concordat Navy.” Edward paused and he chose his next words carefully. “However, with the plenipotentiary authority granted unto me by the Protector to deal with this crisis—and negotiate with Hanse Davion once our business is finished here—I will allow your ‘mercenaries’ to take the crews of those ships with you when you return home. They may be have been forced by Michael and his troops to provide transport, after all.”

“And the members of the Sixth who surrender? If any of them do surrender; what of them?”

“They will tried as pirates and renegades—all of those found guilty will be sentenced to a term of imprisonment on a Taurian penal colony . . . except their leaders, who will be hung by the neck until their deaths.”

Ardan shook his head. “Die fast or die slow? That’s their choice?”

“Their lives were forfeit the moment that Hanse Davion declared the Sixth to be in a state of mutiny, Ardan—you know that,” Edward whispered, and then he looked down and swallowed before he lifted his head again and stared the older man directly in his eyes. “Father wanted them all hung—getting this much of a reprieve is all that I can do. I will promise you this much . . . their term will be five years and they will not be sent to a hellworld. If they serve out their sentences with honor, they will be repatriated to the Federated Suns. This decision applies only to those troops who lay down arms after receiving the message from Prince Davion; those who fight on Taurian soil are dead men, whether they die hanging from a noose or fighting against the Defense Force, they will die.”

Ardan Sortek—the best friend and martial companion of the First Prince of the Federated Suns—stared at Edward for several silent minutes before he finally nodded. “You are going to be a dangerous man, Edward, when you become Protector. But I think Hanse will understand you—and be able to work with you to keep the peace out here.”

“I hope so, Ardan,” Edward answered as he slowly exhaled. “I pray it so—let this be the final battle between the Bull and the Sword,” and then he chuckled grimly. “The Blood of Christ washes away sins, or so I’ve been taught—perhaps this shedding of blood will allow us both to bury the past.”

“Amen,” Ardan answered—but deep in his heart, he knew that the problems between the two nations and their peoples would never be solved this . . . easily.

“Lord Calderon,” Marshal Corey Calderon said with a bow of his head as he interrupted the two men. “The DropShips are entering low orbit—there are rather more of them than I imagined,” his voice held a bit of surprise. “And the Nadir recharge station reports that the courier is away.”

“Very well, Marshal—cease the jamming and send the first message. In the clear and on a general broadcast,” Edward ordered.

“You heard the man,” Corey spat to his staff as he gingerly sat down in front of a monitor screen and put on a headset. “Do it. What’s the command phrase for if they don’t decide to lay down arms?”

“Let not one damn cur pass by,” a staff Brigadier answered with a wry smile.

Corey snorted. “How many of them can we make die! Damn straight, son,” he smiled at Edward. “Come Hell or Davions or the Star League Reborn, we’ll give them a fight that they won’t soon forget.”

Edward just patted the old man on the shoulder and then one of the staff turned around. “We are ready to cut jamming and transmit, Lord Calderon.”

“Make it happen,” Edward ordered—and only Ardan heard him whisper thereafter, “and may God have mercy on my soul.”

[masterarminas]

TCS Samantha Calderon
The Gateway, Hyades Cluster
Taurian Concordat
November 21, 3025

“Sound action stations,” ordered Fleet Marshal Helena Vickers—and the corner of her lips twitched at the thought of the second promotion she had received in the past seven weeks. Thomas had decided that since the TCN was the senior service of the Taurian Armed Forces, she needed to have a rank higher than that of a Corps Marshal. In one sweep of his pen, he had made her the second-ranking officer of the Taurian Concordat—just one minute after he promoted Brenda Calderon to Marshal of the Army. It didn’t really mean that much, she thought, but it had been a touching gesture on the part of the Protector.

She sat strapped down in her command chair as the veteran crew quietly raced through their pre-jump checklists—and then the bridge lights altered to red in response to her orders.

“Fleet Marshal,” Dan Stiles reported crisply, “all stations are manned and prepared for combat—weapons are hot, the drive is charged and standing by. We are ready to execute the jump.”

“Thank you, Mister Stiles,” Helena answered before pressing a stud on her chair. “Jack . . . are we go?”

“I’d rather wait another eight weeks for the first of the new parts to be completed and checked, Fleet Marshal,” the engineer answered in a grim voice, and then he sighed, “but if you give the word, I’ll get the Old Girl moving, skipper.”

“The word is given, Mister Fletcher.”

“Aye-aye, ma’am. We are ready to start the clock on your order.”

“Maneuvering, hold steady for departure—engineering, begin K/F Drive Sequence for transit to New Vallis Jump Point L4.”

“Aye-aye, ma’am,” two voices answered in twain. “Thirty seconds on the clock . . . mark,” the jump engineer stationed on the bridge added.

“Mister Stiles,” Helena said as she rotated her chair to face her executive officer.

“Yes, Fleet Marshal?”

“A little music if you please—broadcast it over the ship’s intercom.”

“Aye-aye, ma’am,” he replied with a broad smile. “Any particular selection?”

“I do believe that I am in the mood for Basil’s The Anvil of Crom, today,” Helena laughed.

“Excellent choice, ma’am,” Dan answered as he clicked a button and horns and drums began to echo throughout the ship.

“Jump in ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . .,” Helena rotated back to face forward and tightened the straps again and lowered the visor on her helmet—Taurian Naval personnel were trained after all to always wear pressure suits and helmets in any combat situation . . . because Murphy was one right bitch with it came down to it.

“Three . . . two . . . one . . . JUMP!”


TCS Samantha Calderon
Jump Point L4, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 21, 3025

Eleven massive JumpShips maintained station silently as they floated around the Jump Point—their sails blazing with the solar energy they absorbed and fed slowly into the drive core . . . and then the crews of these ships realized just how miniscule and powerless they really were.

With a flash of light emerging from nothing, from nowhere, from the strange and twisted dimension through which Mankind had learned to traverse the stars, a one point one million ton WarShip materialized in their midst. It emerged in knife-range, almost.

To say that the skippers of those JumpShips panicked would have been a colossal understatement.

“Comm, broadcast the following message—all frequencies, no encryption.”

“Hot mike, ma’am.”

“This is the Taurian Concordat Ship Samantha Calderon to all former Davion JumpShips present at Jump Point L4. You will immediately stand down your K/F Drive Cores and prepare to receive boarding crews—any resistance will be met with lethal force. Test my resolve—and my ship—if you dare.”

“Ma’am, three vessels are attempting to quick-charge their drives,” a rating called out.

“Identify and issue one final warn-. . .,” Helena began.

“Bandit Six has opened fire!” the gunnery officer suddenly announced—and Helena could feel a slight tremor as two lasers burnt into the ablative armor of Sam’s heavily armored nose.

For a moment the bridge was silent, but then Helena rotated her seat to face the Legal Officer that Thomas had insisted she bring along.

“I would suspect that them opening fire violates their neutrality, yes?” she asked.

“Only that specific vessel, Fleet Marshal.”

“Very well. Damage report?”

“They ruined the paint job, Fleet Marshal,” answered Dan, “no damage to any primary, secondary, or tertiary systems. Armor is holding,” he finished in a dead-pan flat voice.

“Mister Bowen,” she said as she turned to face the gunnery officer. “Target Bandit Six with the starboard broadside—Naval Lasers and Naval PPCs only. Fire when you have a solution.”

“Aye-aye, ma’am, locking starboard batteries on target,” Bowen reported.

“Ma’am, Bandit Six is broadcasting their surrender!” the comm officer chimed in quickly.

“Fire at the target, Mister Bowen, ROE Four-Bravo,” Helena ordered. “They should have thought about surrender before someone took a shot at my ship and crew,” she continued—and the Legal Officer said nothing, but he did sigh.

On the flank of the ship, six tremendous turrets swung outwards and locked their multiple barrels on the franticly (if slowly) maneuvering Invader—and then four Pulsar Naval PPCs, four Blinder 45cm Naval Lasers, and three Blazer 55cm Naval Lasers erupted in a fury not seen in the Inner Sphere or near Periphery for nearly a century. All six turrets bracketed the JumpShip—some beams passing within meters of the hull.

“Put me on broadcast, Comm,” Helena ordered and she waited until the rating nodded. “All vessels—that was what we Taurians call a warning shot. You will not receive another. ANY attempt to evade, to power up your K/F Drive Cores, or to engage this vessel or our boarding shuttles will be met with immediate annihilation. If you believe that I am bluffing—go ahead and attempt to call me.”

“Ma’am,” Dan reported, “all vessels are powering down their weapons and K/F Drive Cores.”

Helena smiled. “Launch the SASF boarding shuttles,” she ordered. “Disengage docking clamps on Goliath and Titan—inform Space Master Zahra that he is authorized to engage any Davion DropShip lifting from New Vallis with lethal force. And pass the word—good hunting.”

She leaned back against her chair and Helena Vickers smiled as she looked at the images of her prizes floating in the holo-display. “And inform Lord Edward that the Taurian Concordat Navy stands by in the event that he requires orbital fire support.” Her smile broadened into a grin that any hungry predator would have instantly recognized—and avoided.

[Vehrec]

The Taurians have no sense of appropriateness or style. The song for having an overwhelming Naval Superiority is clearly Rule Britannia.



Also, the L4 point cannot be a pirate point, since it doesn't nullify solar gravity like the L1 point does. In fact, any Lagrange point except for the L1 is invalid for a Pirate point as they are traditionally defined. At the L2 point you actually have more gravity pulling on you from the planet, at L3, well, that's no good, and at L4 and 5 you have a pull directly towards the center of the planetary-solar system. Again, no weaker than normal gravity.

[masterarminas]

FSDS Damien Hasek
Inbound for Drop, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 21, 3025

Michael cursed as the recorded voice of his brother-in-law finished its damning indictment of the Sixth Fusiliers—and of Michael himself. But the receiver was silent for just a moment; it crackled and then came to life once again.

“I am Edward Calderon, the eldest son of Protector Thomas Calderon, and the man charged with defending New Vallis against all threats, foreign or domestic. I offer one chance at life to the raiders who are now entering our atmosphere—one opportunity to avoid committing suicide. As that recording shows, you are now stateless men and women—pirates and mutineers, renegades and traitors. Your reinforcements have already been stopped—the Eighth Fusiliers will not arrive to provide you with relief. Your intelligence reports are in error—there are not two Taurian battalions of ‘Mechs on the surface—there are instead TEN of your own battalions worth of BattleMechs. And should you, somehow, manage to overcome all of the odds against you and prevail; should you manage to accomplish this miracle—where will you go?”

Edward’s voice paused. “Take a good look at your sensors—look at your JumpShips . . . oh, wait, those JumpShips no longer belong to you. The Taurian Concordat Navy has seized them and is prepared to give unto my command orbital fire support should that be required.”

Michael ground his teeth together, and he slammed one fist against the console of his ‘Mech.

“Surrender and you will be tried—the vast majority of you will be sentenced to five years of labor in a Concordat penal colony. After which, you will be free to return home; need I remind you that dead men have no need to ever again return home? Those who choose to accept my offer of surrender will divert and land at the following coordinates . . . ,” and the voice gave a series of numbers that indicated a point on the map some two hundred kilometers from Michael’s drop-zone.

“Should you not accept this most gracious offer made by the Concordat to men and women who are actively engaged in assaulting one of our worlds . . . should you not desire to live for tomorrow, your wish will be granted. We will wage war against you to the knife—each and every one of you will die . . . whether that death comes on the battlefield or on the gallows will make no difference.”

Once again the voice paused, and then it resumed. “All of this, I swear upon my honor, my name, and my authority to be true—I am Edward Calderon and I await your answer.”

Michael’s mind raced and then he nodded and opened his own transmitter. “Fusiliers! My own Sixth Syrtis Fusiliers,” he cried out. “The First Prince of the Federated Suns has finally revealed his true colors as a despot—an event of which I have warned time and time again. We know the Taurians by reputation . . . we know that they are liars and murderous scum; do you think this offer is genuine? Your tanks, your weapons, your ‘Mechs, your fighters—they will keep these and send you to carve out a new world from a verdant Hell. And in five years, just one in ten of you, if that, will survive to be released—penniless to make your way home.”

“Fusiliers! The House of Hasek is much loved in the Marches—my people will answer our need. They will not permit this atrocity—they will rise up and support their rightful Duke! They will support YOU whom my accursed brother-in-law has slandered with this deliberate LIE! Aid will come; reinforcements will arrive. The Taurians have not ten battalions to deploy on this world below us—this is still a fight which we can win through. A fight that is but the first step in returning home to New Syrtis and deposing the Tyrant of New Avalon!”

“You know me, my Fusiliers—my beloved Fusiliers. And I am with you today, not shirking my duty in a Palace far from the frontiers. Here, now, I am with YOU. They fear us, my Fusiliers—and they seek to diminish our strength by diluting it to defeat us in detail. NEVER! They will FAIL, my brothers! They will FALL, my sisters! Because this system belonged to us the moment we arrived—they cannot hope to stand against our skill at arms—a strength and skill of arms not equaled by even the vaunted Brigade of Guards!”

“Fusiliers,” he pleaded in his most charismatic voice, “I ask you to stand with me in this hour of our—all of our—need. But no tyrant, am I—no despot sitting on a distant throne and sending men and women to die in my name. If it is your will that I die at the hands of these Taurians, if you trust this Prince Edward will enslave you for five years and then send you along your merry way as if nothing had happened; if it is these things that you believe, my Fusiliers, my brothers, my sisters, then offer them your surrender. Give them your ancestral ‘Mech, your tank, your fighter, you guns and knives.”

“I do not believe that you are such meek sheep—to fold at the first signs of impotent bluster coming from an untested boy! But I will abide by your decision—today, you determine my fate, Fusiliers. Make. Your. Choice.”

And with that, Michael cut his transmitter and began to hold his breath. For long seconds, no one spoke, but then a tenor voice cut into the net.

“The Second Syrtis ‘Mech Battalion stands with Duke Michael.”

And then another. “As does the 217th Syrtis Armored Regiment!”

“And the 344th Strike Wing!”

“The Syrtis Carronades!”

“The First Syrtis Royals!”

And then a chorus of voices came over the receiver—and Michael smiled. He keyed the transmitter.

“Very well, Fusiliers—today we may dine in Hell, but our foes will be there before us! Glory or Death, Honored Sixth!” Michael roared as the bay doors began to open and the howling wind entered the DropShip bays. “Let us show these Periphery barbarians the true might of The Duke’s Own!”

[MondoMage]

OK, so I have to ask - is Hasek actually that stupid? Sure, he may be able to wreak havoc on the ground, but one look behind him would have revealed that his transportation is gone. And as Edward said, one look in front of him - one good, long look - would have shown him that Edward wasn't lying.

I can understand ego. I can understand bravado. I can understand idiocy. But I'm not quite sure where Hasek falls in the scale, here. He's upset about his plans going south, I can understand that. But I can't quite figure why he would continue the attack.... suicide by Taurian? Is he trying to be a martyr?

[masterarminas]

Sixth Syrtis Fusiliers Field HQ
Salina Diablo, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 21, 3025

The majority of the Sixth had chosen to follow him, Michael considered with some satisfaction—just four DropShips, all of them infantry transports, had diverted course to accept the offer of the Taurians. The rest had landed here, on the flat, barren, salt plains seventy kilometers to the east of Port Sheridan. Already his units were moving . . . because Michael had no intention to remain here where a single nuclear weapon—or a strike from orbit—might well annihilate his entire command.

The Tabernas Wastelands lay between him and Port Sheridan and Michael considered the map again as he stood in the oppressive heat of the parched basin. The broken and fractured terrain of the wastes would provide the Sixth with shelter—and the trackless canyons cut by arroyos, the wadis, would make it difficult for the Taurians to pin him down. But he couldn’t spend too much time avoiding the Taurian defenses . . . no, he thought with a shake of his head. Soon enough we will need fresh water . . . and the small pools of the wastes were nowhere near enough to keep the Sixth hydrated.

Which meant that he would have to march on Port Sheridan and take that city on the fresh-water lake which housed all of the provisions and supplies that he would require—if it came down to fighting.

“You understand your assignment?” Michael asked Colonel Malachi Russert—one of his most trusted aides. “And the absolute need to keep this close to the vest?”

“I do, my Lord,” the sandy-haired officer replied.

“Tell me so that I might be certain,” Michael insisted.

“I am to deliver your offer to Edward Calderon—that this is a just a misunderstanding. The Sixth is not here to invade the Concordat, but are seeking asylum against the tyranny of Hanse Davion—and a base of operations from which to free the Capellan March from his rule. I am to present your offer of an alliance to Edward—the full might of the Sixth Fusiliers to bolster his strength until you resume your rightful place on New Syrtis . . . and we are to offer in exchange the return of the Pleiades to Taurian rule.”

“And if Edward rejects that offer?”

“Then, Your Grace, I will suggest the second package—in exchange for your life and freedom, and transport to a neutral world, you will give the Taurians a complete copy of the classified information you have stored against future need . . . Davion secrets thought deeply buried that you have ferreted out and held close at hand. And to slake the Taurian need to show that they are not weak . . . you will offer them the Sixth as a sacrifice.”

Michael nodded his approval and then he sighed. “I should hope that it does not come to that, Malachi—the Sixth has served me well and would be the corner-stone of my efforts to reclaim the Marches. But, if to preserve my own self and secure our destiny, they must be laid upon the alter, then so be it.” Michael paused. “You have the tidbits of information to whet their appetite with?”

“I do, Your Grace.”

“Good, good. Remind Edward that if he wants to know the identities of Quintus Allard’s dirty little angels operating on Taurus—and other Concordat worlds—he must make a deal with me. Convince this child that I am of greater use to him alive than dead—make him believe that he needs me, Malachi. I am depending on you for this.”

“I serve only you, my Duk—Prince,” the officer corrected himself, and Michael smiled.

“Soon enough, my friend. Soon enough,” Michael muttered softly. And then his gaze hardened on the man again. “Six days, Malachi—you have six days. After that, our water will be running low and I will have no choice but to move to Lake Ashton . . . a move that the Taurians will surely attempt to prevent. Either that or to seize Port Sheridan—and if I do either, there will be no deal to be had.”

“I understand, my Prince.”

“Good. GOOD. Now go, go and secure me my future, Colonel Russert.”

“And if Edward rejects your most generous offer?”

“Then we are dead men anyway—kill him, Malachi. If he refuses to play the Great Game, remove him from the board.”

“It will be done,” whispered Malachi Russert and the man bowed deeply before he turned and exited the field tent, jogging towards a waiting VTOL on the flat salt plain of the dead lake.

[MondoMage]

Well, I guess that answers my questions.

He's playing a dangerous game, tho - if I were a member of the 6th, I would not take too kindly to finding out that my vaunted liege was more than willing to foist my loyalty upon a sacrificial altar (by his own words!) in order to save his sorry posterior. Especially after laying it on so thick with that speech before landing.

[masterarminas]

TDF Field Headquarters
Tabernas Wastelands, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 21, 3025

“What the hell are we waiting for?” spat Erwin Tyrell—Baron Tyrell—one of the leading Taurian nobles resident on New Vallis. “The FedRats have landed on our soil—now is the time to drive them into their own graves!”

“This threat is no mere bandit raid, Baron Tyrell,” replied Edward. “The Sixth Fusiliers boasts a level of training and experience—actual combat experience—that is unmatched by any formation in the Defense Force . . . excepting Rafael’s soldiers of the Red Hand, of course.”

“Of course,” Rafael Montoya answered with a grim smile. “And may I continue in your stead, my Lord Calderon?”

“Certainly.”

The veteran Brigadier who had come forward in time with battle-hardened troops under his command sighed. “Lord Calderon is quite correct—these are crack troops we are facing on terrain of their choice. A terrain which makes it difficult to use our artillery and air reserves to their fullest extent due to the sheer amount of hard cover that the Wastes provides. A terrain which further will require that we engage in small numbers, each unit isolated from the other; the same applies to our opponent, of course. But unlike our opponent, our forces—as valiant and eager as they may be—most of our forces lack the . . . elan, for want of a better word, to press home the attack in the face of such skilled defenders in this terrain.”

“Bullshit,” sputtered Tyrell. “You aren’t attacking because that boy,” he said pointing to Edward, “appointed to this post because of nepotism—not quality!—doesn’t want to kill any more of his new Davion friends than he has to! Are you a traitor, Edward—or just a gutless coward?”

Rafael began to step forward, his hand reaching for the combat knife in his belt—but Ardan Sortek grabbed his arm and held the furious Taurian back.

“ENOUGH!” bellowed Corey Calderon as the old man stood. “THIS IS STILL MY COMMAND! It was I who appointed Edward Calderon as my second,” his voice dropping from a bellow to a growl as he spoke. “Baron Erwin Tyrell, you will offer apology for those words—or by God’s Hairy Balls, Sir, I will meet you myself on the field of honor and take from you your worthless life!” Corey snarled.

Silence hung over the command center for a moment, and Erwin Tyrell blinked. The Old Man was dead serious—and win or lose, engaging a TDF Corps Marshal in a duel on the eve of battle would see him standing before the Concordat Courts. He lowered his head. “I apologize, Lord Calderon, for my choice of words—you are neither a traitor nor a coward. But I will not apologize for my desire to send these Davion dogs a’running!”

“I accept your apology, Baron Tyrell,” Edward said softly, and Corey nodded before he sat once again. “And I apologize for not having explained to you my reasoning—adequately.”

Edward walked around the conference table and he paused as he looked over the map of the Tabernas Waste, the Salina Diablo, and the Glitterstream River that fed into Lake Ashton from the mountains to the north, cutting a long, deep, crooked canyon into the plateau before it plunged into the waters adjacent to Port Sheridan.

“How would you describe the Tabernas Waste, Lord Tyrell?” he asked.

“It’s a desert wasteland, Lord Calderon,” the noble answered with a snort. “Rocky and barren.”

“And hot?” Edward asked.

“It’s an arid desert, my Lord. Yes, the Wastes are quite hot.”

“Indeed they are, Lord Tyrell—I believe that during this time of the year, the average day-time temperature reaches 48-degrees Centigrade, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And at night it plunges to nearly freezing?”

“Yes—we know this, Lord Calderon.”

“And there is an overall lack of surface water in the Wastes—am I correct?”

“Yes,” the confused Baron answered slowly.

“How much water does a man require—a soldier under combat conditions require—to function each and every day in the wastes?” Edward asked.

Erwin Tyrell blinked and then he began to inhale, his eyes gleaming as he slowly nodded.

Edward continued, “In the conditions of the Wastes, a single trooper requires four gallons of drinking water each and every day, Baron Tyrell. That is straight from the Defense Force Desert Operations Manual, mind you. Four gallons. Per man. Per day. Michael has a little less than ten thousand men under his command . . . that is forty thousand gallons of potable water every single day. In excess of one hundred and fifty tons of water every single day. Water that has to be transported from the DropShips to his troops in the field over an ever-increasing distance. Ardan, how much water does an RCT normally deploy with?"

"Around a thousand tons, give or take," the Davion officer replied. "we—THEY—do have equipment to purify local sources of water, I must add."

Edward nodded and he smiled. "But the wastes lack any significant sources of surface water. And, by and large, the water table is on average forty meters beneath the surface. Lord Tyrell, we are not wasting time or acting the part of cowards by not forcing the Sixth to engage us in battle . . . we are depleting their resources so that when we do engage them, they will perform beneath their expected capabilities. And at the same time, we will be skirmishing with them—with infantry, scout vehicles, recon ‘Mechs, intermittent artillery and air strikes. We will bleed them and make them sweat—force them to consume their water at an even greater rate. Does that answer your question?"

“I think that it does—and I withdraw my objections,” Erwin answered and he stared at the map. “They will make for the Glitterstream—it’s the only source of fresh water sufficient for their needs.”

“Exactly. And it for that reason that I have placed Wylie’s Coyotes, the Jaegers, and the Second Hyades Light Infantry—supported by a dozen regiments of local armor and infantry—in a blocking position between the Sixth and the river. Colonel Jamesen has dug in deep—field fortifications from which our troops can hold even against a force as skilled as the Sixth Fusiliers.”

“That leaves just Port Sheridan—or Lake Ashton, but he has to come close to the city to approach the lake,” Erwin mused.

“Hence the rest of our forces being deployed here—between him and the lake,” Edward answered. “But you were right in one respect, Lord Tyrell—I don’t want to kill any more of these Davions—or former Davions—than I have to. We are civilized human beings, gentlemen and ladies—not animals. We kill because we have to, never because we WANT to. If I have to kill every last soldier in the Sixth . . . I will. But I hope—I pray—that they break and decide to surrender; because the Lord knows I don’t want to have to watch ten thousand legs jerk as they fall through that trap-door of the gallows.” Edward paused. “And I believe, Lord Tyrell, that neither do you—not in your heart of hearts. I will defend the Concordat to the best of my ability—but I will not kill when I do not absolutely have to. If that is treason, Lord Tyrell; if that is cowardice . . . then I am guilty of both.”

“No,” whispered Erwin in the shocked quiet room. “Few men would have the courage to say that, even in private, Lord Calderon. Even fewer in public—and I can respect that. So you aren’t going to hang any we capture?”

Edward winced. “I’m sure we will have to hang a few—their leaders anyway. The ones that are pushing them. But,” he said as he stared at the map, “we’ve already had reports of a number of deserters attempting to make their way north to the coordinates I gave them,” Edward paused. “I want them watched—they might not be after surrendering; they could be retribution from Michael against those that ‘betrayed’ him. But if they don’t start the shooting, neither are we. If they manage to cross two hundred kilometers of the Wastes, we’ll accept their surrender along with the DropShips and personnel who diverted during the landing. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” a chorus of voices answered.

“Then let’s get down to the brass tacks,” Edward said. “Lord Tyrell—I want to send your combined arms regiment down south, to guard their flank against a break for the Misty Vale.”

“Three hundred kilometers,” Erwin whistled. “Their ‘Mech forces might make it—their infantry, armor, and support elements won’t.”

“I agree—it’s a long-shot, but we have to guard against that possibility. Plus, with your regiment on their flank, when the time comes to close the jaws on the Sixth—if the time comes—you will be in position to sever their supply lines to their grounded DropShips.”

“I can do that,” Erwin whispered. “My retainers are all TDF veterans—we can do this.”

“I know that you can, Erwin,” Edward answered—and he extended the Taurian noble his hand. Erwin Tyrell took it and the two men shook.

“Okay. Okay. We can do this,” the noble muttered.

“The Red Hand and the Foxhounds, being our heaviest units, will form the central reserve of our forces . . . deployed here,” Edward said pointing to the map. “Meanwhile . . .,” and he continued with the detailed briefing for his officers and staff as Corey and Ardan both nodded their approval to the lad.