By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
Moderator: LadyTevar
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
I can just imagine the reactions when it becomes clear that the ship is not only fully operational and not a salvaged hulk, but that it is manned by a complete and fully trained crew of extremely loyal Taurans. And one no-nonsense commanding officer who doesnt quite agree with the current rules of warfare.
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
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- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
General Headquarters, Taurus Defense Force
Mount Santiago Defense Complex, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
October 15, 3025
“What the HELL happened with our security!” Thomas bellowed at the table of high-ranking military officers and civilian members of government that he stood before. He slammed his fist down on the polished surface. “I was asked—ASKED—by journalists this morning about rumors floating around not only concerning the WarShip docked in orbit, but the Memory Core as well! If our journalists know about it, you can fucking well bet your collective asses that the Inner Sphere spies know it—and their leaders will know in short order!”
Thomas’ cybernetic eye whirred and clicked as he glared at the men and women before him, but then his head jerked up as one man began to laugh.
“They know because I deliberated leaked that information, Protector Calderon,” said Henri Jouett.
The Protector’s jaw dropped, he made an inarticulate growl, and his remaining natural eye bulged outwards—and the shocked expressions on the faces of everyone—except Edward—at the table mirrored his own.
“TREASON!” shouted Grover Shraplen after he regained his tongue.
“Hardly treason, Governor,” answered Henri as Thomas still struggled to find his composure. “It was necessary—and as the ancient saw says, it is easier to beg forgiveness than to ask permission.”
Thomas sat, and he shook his head, looking down at his shaking hands—shaking with rage and fury—and then he glared at his Intelligence Minister. “I should have you shot, Henri.”
“My Lord, the information would have eventually leaked—it was inevitable. The discovery is far too vital to the future of the Concordat for it not to have leaked. Not to mention that every civilian ship within a million kilometers of Taurus has now seen the Saucy Sam for themselves—and some of them have spies for other powers onboard. Denying this information in the light of what their own eyes and sensors see gains us nothing.”
“That might explain the ship—but not the FUCKING MEMORY CORE!” Thomas bellowed.
“Pop,” Edward whispered, and Thomas turned his attention to his son. “Listen to Henri—I knew about this. And I knew that you would never have allowed his plan . . . which is why I told him to go ahead without your okay.”
“Y-you told h-him,” Thomas stuttered and spat, and then he forced himself to relax. He took a deep breath. “This had better be good.”
“Thomas,” Henri said softly, “if you really think Edward and I are traitors to the Concordat, take us outside and have us shot. Yes, I had the information leaked and it is probably in the hands of every leader of the Inner Sphere at this moment—well, SAFE might still be arguing about whether or not Janos Marik needs to see this, but every other leader in the Inner Sphere.”
Despite themselves, several of the men and women at the table chuckled at that. The ineptitude of the Marik intelligence organizations had become the punch-line of jokes across the Inner Sphere—although, by and large, the agency as a whole was far better than most presumed.
“I leaked the information on the Vickers Core because it distracts them from the Saucy Sam, Thomas. And it dilutes their efforts. Make no mistake, they all want the ship and the core—well, that or to see them destroyed so that we don’t have them. But now, they have two targets instead of one, and whereas smuggling in one team might possibly get past our security, multiple teams? From multiple powers? In a set time frame? When we are expecting them to make a play?”
Henri snorted as Thomas slowly nodded his head.
“Thomas,” Henri said seriously he leaned forward. “If I had not leaked the information, it would have eventually come out—and they would make a play for the Core at a time of their choosing. Now? It’s a race. They not only have to get through our security, but they also have to get to it before their opponents do.”
Murmurs of understanding circled the table, and Helena Vickers raised her cup of coffee in silent salute—Henri nodded, his hand over his heart.
“By way, did I mention that my leaks—which foreign intelligence agents will note that I am desperately attempting to quash—indicate that we salvaged that ship; a ship abandoned and derelict for four hundred years?”
“Oh, you tricky bastard,” muttered Helena. “You want them to think that Sam is just barely operational, don’t you?”
“Exactly, Admiral Vickers. That WarShip—obviously with battle damage as anyone can see in the visual records—must be in a perilous state of disrepair after drifting for so long. And we have no one who understands those systems, knows how to work those system, repair those systems . . . to them, it appears that she is nothing more than a hanger-queen at this time.”
“But Helena Vickers and her crew . . . ,” protested Grover before Henri cut him off.
“You will note that I have held that particular piece of information rather tightly, my Lords—it hasn’t leaked. Not to the best of my knowledge—so far, neither foreign nor domestic source yet knows about the gallant Admiral and her crew.”
Henri smiled. “Furthermore, the leaks from my office lead one to believe that the Vickers Core is encrypted—and that we are moving heaven and earth to try and locate the decryption codes from archives four centuries old. Archives that the Star League gutted during their occupation.”
“But we have the decryption keys,” Shraplen asked in a bewildered voice. “Why . . .?”
“Governor Shraplen,” Edward said slowly and gently. “Those who want the Core will believe that we cannot yet access it. Taurian Cores of that period were routinely booby-trapped with explosives and even nerve gas,” and Henri nodded his approval at the young man, “and will wipe all their data if someone attempts to bypass the security systems. Oh, it can be done, given enough time—but if they want the Core before we open it, then they must make a play soon.”
“Not to mention that the leaks place the Core in a TDF secure installation outside of Samantha City—a research station that is but lightly guarded,” Henri added. “And we do have a duplicate Core module there . . . an empty one. Well,” he laughed, “one filled with rather useless information that is quite thoroughly encrypted.”
“Where then is the real Vickers Core, Henri?” Thomas asked.
“Remember that loon who wanted to build an entire city under a mountain—named the bloody place Erebor after that old film?” Henri said with a smile.
Thomas winced. “Ralston bankrupted his family for that project—you didn’t,” he said with a slowly expanding smile on his face.
“Oh, but we did. He had dug out dozens of levels all buried under hundreds of meters of granite, Tom. We’ve decided to build SCARS—and a city to support it—inside Erebor. One way in, one way out—and it will be heavily defended.” Henri snorted again. "That bloody mountain will laugh at even nukes."
“So, the Inner Sphere will vie for a Core that is a fake—and they will assume that Samantha Calderon is crewed by trainees who haven’t a clue about what they are doing . . . with many of her systems possibly off-line.”
“Yes, my Lord. And as we all know, assumption is the mother of all fuck-ups,” Henri added.
“If your plan works.”
“My plan depends only on human nature, Thomas. And which is more believable—that we salvaged that ship or that it jumped across Time to arrive with a fully trained crew and an unlocked Memory Core?” Henri smiled again. “No, they will use Occam’s Razor to arrive at exactly the wrong conclusion; and gentlemen, ladies, when their teams make a play for the Core . . . well, they can report home that it was destroyed. Their survivors can report, at least; the handful that we permit to escape off-world.”
Thomas nodded, and then he smiled. But then the smile vanished. “Next time, Henri, I want to be informed ahead of time—understood?”
Henri’s lips twitched at the phrase next time. But he merely said, “Yes, my Protector.”
“Until then, what do you need to arm the jaws of your trap—and how are we going to play this with the media? I need to answer them before the end of this day on this subject.”
And with that, Thomas and his government rolled up their sleeves and went to work.
Mount Santiago Defense Complex, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
October 15, 3025
“What the HELL happened with our security!” Thomas bellowed at the table of high-ranking military officers and civilian members of government that he stood before. He slammed his fist down on the polished surface. “I was asked—ASKED—by journalists this morning about rumors floating around not only concerning the WarShip docked in orbit, but the Memory Core as well! If our journalists know about it, you can fucking well bet your collective asses that the Inner Sphere spies know it—and their leaders will know in short order!”
Thomas’ cybernetic eye whirred and clicked as he glared at the men and women before him, but then his head jerked up as one man began to laugh.
“They know because I deliberated leaked that information, Protector Calderon,” said Henri Jouett.
The Protector’s jaw dropped, he made an inarticulate growl, and his remaining natural eye bulged outwards—and the shocked expressions on the faces of everyone—except Edward—at the table mirrored his own.
“TREASON!” shouted Grover Shraplen after he regained his tongue.
“Hardly treason, Governor,” answered Henri as Thomas still struggled to find his composure. “It was necessary—and as the ancient saw says, it is easier to beg forgiveness than to ask permission.”
Thomas sat, and he shook his head, looking down at his shaking hands—shaking with rage and fury—and then he glared at his Intelligence Minister. “I should have you shot, Henri.”
“My Lord, the information would have eventually leaked—it was inevitable. The discovery is far too vital to the future of the Concordat for it not to have leaked. Not to mention that every civilian ship within a million kilometers of Taurus has now seen the Saucy Sam for themselves—and some of them have spies for other powers onboard. Denying this information in the light of what their own eyes and sensors see gains us nothing.”
“That might explain the ship—but not the FUCKING MEMORY CORE!” Thomas bellowed.
“Pop,” Edward whispered, and Thomas turned his attention to his son. “Listen to Henri—I knew about this. And I knew that you would never have allowed his plan . . . which is why I told him to go ahead without your okay.”
“Y-you told h-him,” Thomas stuttered and spat, and then he forced himself to relax. He took a deep breath. “This had better be good.”
“Thomas,” Henri said softly, “if you really think Edward and I are traitors to the Concordat, take us outside and have us shot. Yes, I had the information leaked and it is probably in the hands of every leader of the Inner Sphere at this moment—well, SAFE might still be arguing about whether or not Janos Marik needs to see this, but every other leader in the Inner Sphere.”
Despite themselves, several of the men and women at the table chuckled at that. The ineptitude of the Marik intelligence organizations had become the punch-line of jokes across the Inner Sphere—although, by and large, the agency as a whole was far better than most presumed.
“I leaked the information on the Vickers Core because it distracts them from the Saucy Sam, Thomas. And it dilutes their efforts. Make no mistake, they all want the ship and the core—well, that or to see them destroyed so that we don’t have them. But now, they have two targets instead of one, and whereas smuggling in one team might possibly get past our security, multiple teams? From multiple powers? In a set time frame? When we are expecting them to make a play?”
Henri snorted as Thomas slowly nodded his head.
“Thomas,” Henri said seriously he leaned forward. “If I had not leaked the information, it would have eventually come out—and they would make a play for the Core at a time of their choosing. Now? It’s a race. They not only have to get through our security, but they also have to get to it before their opponents do.”
Murmurs of understanding circled the table, and Helena Vickers raised her cup of coffee in silent salute—Henri nodded, his hand over his heart.
“By way, did I mention that my leaks—which foreign intelligence agents will note that I am desperately attempting to quash—indicate that we salvaged that ship; a ship abandoned and derelict for four hundred years?”
“Oh, you tricky bastard,” muttered Helena. “You want them to think that Sam is just barely operational, don’t you?”
“Exactly, Admiral Vickers. That WarShip—obviously with battle damage as anyone can see in the visual records—must be in a perilous state of disrepair after drifting for so long. And we have no one who understands those systems, knows how to work those system, repair those systems . . . to them, it appears that she is nothing more than a hanger-queen at this time.”
“But Helena Vickers and her crew . . . ,” protested Grover before Henri cut him off.
“You will note that I have held that particular piece of information rather tightly, my Lords—it hasn’t leaked. Not to the best of my knowledge—so far, neither foreign nor domestic source yet knows about the gallant Admiral and her crew.”
Henri smiled. “Furthermore, the leaks from my office lead one to believe that the Vickers Core is encrypted—and that we are moving heaven and earth to try and locate the decryption codes from archives four centuries old. Archives that the Star League gutted during their occupation.”
“But we have the decryption keys,” Shraplen asked in a bewildered voice. “Why . . .?”
“Governor Shraplen,” Edward said slowly and gently. “Those who want the Core will believe that we cannot yet access it. Taurian Cores of that period were routinely booby-trapped with explosives and even nerve gas,” and Henri nodded his approval at the young man, “and will wipe all their data if someone attempts to bypass the security systems. Oh, it can be done, given enough time—but if they want the Core before we open it, then they must make a play soon.”
“Not to mention that the leaks place the Core in a TDF secure installation outside of Samantha City—a research station that is but lightly guarded,” Henri added. “And we do have a duplicate Core module there . . . an empty one. Well,” he laughed, “one filled with rather useless information that is quite thoroughly encrypted.”
“Where then is the real Vickers Core, Henri?” Thomas asked.
“Remember that loon who wanted to build an entire city under a mountain—named the bloody place Erebor after that old film?” Henri said with a smile.
Thomas winced. “Ralston bankrupted his family for that project—you didn’t,” he said with a slowly expanding smile on his face.
“Oh, but we did. He had dug out dozens of levels all buried under hundreds of meters of granite, Tom. We’ve decided to build SCARS—and a city to support it—inside Erebor. One way in, one way out—and it will be heavily defended.” Henri snorted again. "That bloody mountain will laugh at even nukes."
“So, the Inner Sphere will vie for a Core that is a fake—and they will assume that Samantha Calderon is crewed by trainees who haven’t a clue about what they are doing . . . with many of her systems possibly off-line.”
“Yes, my Lord. And as we all know, assumption is the mother of all fuck-ups,” Henri added.
“If your plan works.”
“My plan depends only on human nature, Thomas. And which is more believable—that we salvaged that ship or that it jumped across Time to arrive with a fully trained crew and an unlocked Memory Core?” Henri smiled again. “No, they will use Occam’s Razor to arrive at exactly the wrong conclusion; and gentlemen, ladies, when their teams make a play for the Core . . . well, they can report home that it was destroyed. Their survivors can report, at least; the handful that we permit to escape off-world.”
Thomas nodded, and then he smiled. But then the smile vanished. “Next time, Henri, I want to be informed ahead of time—understood?”
Henri’s lips twitched at the phrase next time. But he merely said, “Yes, my Protector.”
“Until then, what do you need to arm the jaws of your trap—and how are we going to play this with the media? I need to answer them before the end of this day on this subject.”
And with that, Thomas and his government rolled up their sleeves and went to work.
Last edited by masterarminas on 2013-06-14 01:11pm, edited 1 time in total.
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
Oh, yes. Preconceptions can be a real killer. Doubly so, in this instance. This should be fun.
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Eternal_Freedom
- Castellan
- Posts: 10370
- Joined: 2010-03-09 02:16pm
- Location: CIC, Battlestar Temeraire
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
Henri you cunning sod. Brilliant!
Baltar: "I don't want to miss a moment of the last Battlestar's destruction!"
Centurion: "Sir, I really think you should look at the other Battlestar."
Baltar: "What are you babbling about other...it's impossible!"
Centurion: "No. It is a Battlestar."
Corrax Entry 7:17: So you walk eternally through the shadow realms, standing against evil where all others falter. May your thirst for retribution never quench, may the blood on your sword never dry, and may we never need you again.
Centurion: "Sir, I really think you should look at the other Battlestar."
Baltar: "What are you babbling about other...it's impossible!"
Centurion: "No. It is a Battlestar."
Corrax Entry 7:17: So you walk eternally through the shadow realms, standing against evil where all others falter. May your thirst for retribution never quench, may the blood on your sword never dry, and may we never need you again.
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
Field Headquarters, Wolf’s Dragoons
Eisner Plateau, Capra
Draconis Combine
October 17, 3025
Jaime Wolf leaned on the balcony railing as he stared out at the distant stars. Although well past sunset, the sounds of activity filled the mercenary compound. After all, there were always jobs to see to; repairs to be made; personnel to be replaced.
And Jaime sighed. Too many of his personnel had to be replaced over the years—far too many.
“Okay, Colonel, what the hell is wrong now?” the worried voice of Natasha Kerensky snapped Jaime Wolf out of his reverie.
“Not much, Natasha,” he said softly as he nodded at her and turned to look at the stars again.
“Like hell! The staff pukes are avoiding you like the plague and you are up here—where you always go—commiserating with the stars instead of a bottle.”
“I am not that bad . . . am I?” asked Jaime in a bemused tone.
Natasha frowned and she looked left, then right, then up, then down. Satisfied that no one was lurking in earshot, she cleared her throat and began to softly sing. “Gloom, despair, and agony on me—deep dark depression, excessive misery. If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all . . . gloom, despair, and agony on me,” she finished and cleared her throat again. “That’s you in a nutshell tonight, Jaime.”
“That bad, eh?”
“That bad, boss. So what’s got you looking towards home?”
And Jaime glared at Natasha, but the woman just smiled at him. And Jaime Wolf sighed again.
“I had a meeting with Indrahar earlier today.”
“Thought so, I saw him and his retinue leaving the compound. What did the good old half-fossilized Director of the ISF, Subhash Indrahar, want with you this time?”
“He was here on behalf on Takashi—to discuss a possible new raiding mission for the Dragoons.”
“Oh?” Natasha asked brightly. “I’m game, as long as it is more challenging than Quentin was—what’s the target?”
“Challenging . . . definitely the right word.”
“Come on, old man—what’s the target?”
“Taurus.”
Natasha Kerensky blinked. She opened her mouth and then she closed it again. Then it opened, and still without a word, she closed it once more. She blinked again.
“Taurus? Taurus? TAURUS? As in the bloody damned capital of the Taurian Concordat, that Taurus?”
“The one, the same, Widowmaker,” Jaime said, his lips twisted in a grim smile.
“Is Takashi absolutely insane?” she blurted.
“No, and someone has given him coordinates to an undefended jump point in the Taurus system . . . three guesses who, ‘Tasha.”
“Don’t need them. The not-so-local phone company, am I right, Colonel Sir?”
“That’s what WolfNet believes. And no, he’s not crazy; he’s actually . . . concerned, Natasha. Seems like the Taurians have hit the jackpot—they found and salvaged one of their Reunification War era Calderon-class Battleships; it jumped into Taurus sixteen days ago.”
Natasha sputtered. “I’ll bet ComStar is having FITS right now!”
“No wager, ‘Tasha. Everyone wants that ship—or at least wants to be sure if they can’t have that no one else does either. To make matters worse, the Taurians also have recovered a Memory Core from the same era.”
Natasha stepped up beside Jaime and leaned on the rail as she nodded. “That . . . might make carrying out Kerlin’s orders a bit easier, Jaime. Depending on what information is stored away inside there.”
“According to Indrahar: an idiot’s guide for building pre-Reunification Wars WarShips—the Taurian edition; among other things.”
The Black Widow exhaled sharply. “Damn. Look, Jaime, I know I said I wanted something more challenging, but . . .,” she was interrupted by Jaime Wolf.
“I told him no. Then he asked about using the Kommando along with DEST in a run at the Core and I said again NO. He didn’t care for that. I do not expect that he hears that word used too often in his presence.”
“Yeah, I kinda of doubt it too,” she paused and then grinned. “Jaime. You know . . . we haven’t yet taken a contract with a Periphery state—I’m thinking Taurus is kind of lovely in the late spring/early summer months.”
“We already have a contract with the Dragon, Captain Kerensky.”
“Like they haven’t already given us a dozen reasons to invoke our escape clause; if we stick around, Samsonov is going to try and own us—damn me if he isn’t dumb enough to try it.”
Jaime snorted in agreement.
“You know,” Natasha said impishly, “if we were still sending reports back home, the Snow Ravens would go ape over the chance to fight a real-live Taurian battleship.”
“Yeah, until the Taurians break out their nuclear stockpile—then the Ravens would go absolutely berserk.”
“There is that,” Natasha said with a smile. “Why don’t people just like a good fight anymore?”
“Because most people are saner than you or I, Natasha.”
“True,” she answered with a smile. “Come on, Jaime, let’s go get drunk. And then we can go kill something—I don’t care what or who, just something!”
Eisner Plateau, Capra
Draconis Combine
October 17, 3025
Jaime Wolf leaned on the balcony railing as he stared out at the distant stars. Although well past sunset, the sounds of activity filled the mercenary compound. After all, there were always jobs to see to; repairs to be made; personnel to be replaced.
And Jaime sighed. Too many of his personnel had to be replaced over the years—far too many.
“Okay, Colonel, what the hell is wrong now?” the worried voice of Natasha Kerensky snapped Jaime Wolf out of his reverie.
“Not much, Natasha,” he said softly as he nodded at her and turned to look at the stars again.
“Like hell! The staff pukes are avoiding you like the plague and you are up here—where you always go—commiserating with the stars instead of a bottle.”
“I am not that bad . . . am I?” asked Jaime in a bemused tone.
Natasha frowned and she looked left, then right, then up, then down. Satisfied that no one was lurking in earshot, she cleared her throat and began to softly sing. “Gloom, despair, and agony on me—deep dark depression, excessive misery. If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all . . . gloom, despair, and agony on me,” she finished and cleared her throat again. “That’s you in a nutshell tonight, Jaime.”
“That bad, eh?”
“That bad, boss. So what’s got you looking towards home?”
And Jaime glared at Natasha, but the woman just smiled at him. And Jaime Wolf sighed again.
“I had a meeting with Indrahar earlier today.”
“Thought so, I saw him and his retinue leaving the compound. What did the good old half-fossilized Director of the ISF, Subhash Indrahar, want with you this time?”
“He was here on behalf on Takashi—to discuss a possible new raiding mission for the Dragoons.”
“Oh?” Natasha asked brightly. “I’m game, as long as it is more challenging than Quentin was—what’s the target?”
“Challenging . . . definitely the right word.”
“Come on, old man—what’s the target?”
“Taurus.”
Natasha Kerensky blinked. She opened her mouth and then she closed it again. Then it opened, and still without a word, she closed it once more. She blinked again.
“Taurus? Taurus? TAURUS? As in the bloody damned capital of the Taurian Concordat, that Taurus?”
“The one, the same, Widowmaker,” Jaime said, his lips twisted in a grim smile.
“Is Takashi absolutely insane?” she blurted.
“No, and someone has given him coordinates to an undefended jump point in the Taurus system . . . three guesses who, ‘Tasha.”
“Don’t need them. The not-so-local phone company, am I right, Colonel Sir?”
“That’s what WolfNet believes. And no, he’s not crazy; he’s actually . . . concerned, Natasha. Seems like the Taurians have hit the jackpot—they found and salvaged one of their Reunification War era Calderon-class Battleships; it jumped into Taurus sixteen days ago.”
Natasha sputtered. “I’ll bet ComStar is having FITS right now!”
“No wager, ‘Tasha. Everyone wants that ship—or at least wants to be sure if they can’t have that no one else does either. To make matters worse, the Taurians also have recovered a Memory Core from the same era.”
Natasha stepped up beside Jaime and leaned on the rail as she nodded. “That . . . might make carrying out Kerlin’s orders a bit easier, Jaime. Depending on what information is stored away inside there.”
“According to Indrahar: an idiot’s guide for building pre-Reunification Wars WarShips—the Taurian edition; among other things.”
The Black Widow exhaled sharply. “Damn. Look, Jaime, I know I said I wanted something more challenging, but . . .,” she was interrupted by Jaime Wolf.
“I told him no. Then he asked about using the Kommando along with DEST in a run at the Core and I said again NO. He didn’t care for that. I do not expect that he hears that word used too often in his presence.”
“Yeah, I kinda of doubt it too,” she paused and then grinned. “Jaime. You know . . . we haven’t yet taken a contract with a Periphery state—I’m thinking Taurus is kind of lovely in the late spring/early summer months.”
“We already have a contract with the Dragon, Captain Kerensky.”
“Like they haven’t already given us a dozen reasons to invoke our escape clause; if we stick around, Samsonov is going to try and own us—damn me if he isn’t dumb enough to try it.”
Jaime snorted in agreement.
“You know,” Natasha said impishly, “if we were still sending reports back home, the Snow Ravens would go ape over the chance to fight a real-live Taurian battleship.”
“Yeah, until the Taurians break out their nuclear stockpile—then the Ravens would go absolutely berserk.”
“There is that,” Natasha said with a smile. “Why don’t people just like a good fight anymore?”
“Because most people are saner than you or I, Natasha.”
“True,” she answered with a smile. “Come on, Jaime, let’s go get drunk. And then we can go kill something—I don’t care what or who, just something!”
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Highlord Laan
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1394
- Joined: 2009-11-08 02:36pm
- Location: Christo-fundie Theofascist Dominion of Nebraskistan
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
Oh god...The Wolves signing on with the Concordat? Yes, please.
Never underestimate the ingenuity and cruelty of the Irish.
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
Now that's a dream come true...
OR a Nightmare waiting to happen....
PS: I'm highly amused the Hee-Haw song still survives. It's certainly something I don't often hear outside WV.
OR a Nightmare waiting to happen....
PS: I'm highly amused the Hee-Haw song still survives. It's certainly something I don't often hear outside WV.
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
Chapter One
Taurian Concordat Navy DropShip Black Bull
Samantha City Spaceport, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
October 22, 3025
Space Master Anton Lefebvre stood as his passenger entered the compact bridge of the DropShip reserved for the use of the Protector of the Taurian Concordat. “Lord Calderon,” he greeted the young man with a salute. “The Protector wishes to speak with you before departure."
“Thank you, Space Master,” Edward replied with a nod—not saluting in return since he was (technically) not acting in his role as a TDF officer today. No, for today and the duration of this assignment, he was instead the Protector’s Heir and designated Special Ambassador to the Federated Suns. “Open a channel, if you please.”
Anton nodded and snapped his fingers—the highly experienced crew was already anticipating the order and in short order the image of Thomas Calderon appeared on several monitors.
“Ah, Edward,” he said as he saw Edward’s image appear on an identical screen within the palace. “I-I,” he stuttered and then paused, and Edward blinked.
“It’s okay, Pop,” he said softly. “I know how far go I’m allowed to go in the negotiations—and you’ve given me the best pack of bodyguards in the Concordat. We’ll do you proud—we’ll do the Concordat proud.” Indeed, the old Fortress-class vessel was filled to capacity with a two companies of the elite First Battalion of the Taurian Guards, one ‘Mech and one Armored, supported by ninety of the finest infantry troopers that the Concordat could fill. Plus, one of the Concordat’s rare Union-class marine assault carriers—the ‘Mech carrier heavily refitted to carry eight Aerospace Fighters, four small craft, and a company of zero-G Marines—was assigned as escort.
Thomas swallowed and then he nodded. “I know you will, son,” he whispered. “God speed—and good hunting.” Thomas paused again and then he shook his head. “Lord knows, I told myself I wouldn’t mass a fuss over this—but you come back, understand? You come back home after this is done, boy. And in one piece.”
“That’s the plan,” Edward whispered as he swallowed a lump in his throat, and Thomas nodded, his one organic eye shining with unshed tears. Then the image abruptly ended as the Protector cut the transmission.
“Space Master Lefebvre,” the young man said after a moment. “I will return to my quarters—you are authorized to lift at your convenience for transit to Gateway and docking with the JumpShip Auroch.”
“Sir,” the veteran officer said simply as he remained standing until Edward Calderon had been escorted from the bridge. “Comm, inform Taurus Flight Control that we are ready for boost to orbit—confirm that our flight-space is clear and our escort is standing by.”
“Flight confirms we are go for launch, Sir—Onslaught is holding in planetary orbit to match vectors and velocity.”
Anton nodded crisply as he sat down and secured his safety straps about him. “Sound acceleration warning and begin sixty-second countdown to main engine ignition.”
A loud WHOOP, WHOOP, WHOOP echoed through the ship as the klaxon wailed its message; alerting all of those onboard that take-off was imminent. “All hands, we are at T minus fifty-five seconds until launch—stand-by for acceleration boost to orbit,” the Comms rating broadcast.
Black Bull shuddered as fuel pumps began to circulate the fuel prior to ignition; Anton looked down at his instruments and he nodded.
“T minus thirty seconds,” the intercom broadcast.
“Power, life support, and comm umbilicals have been retracted,” reported a rating from the engineering station. “We are on internal power and comms—all systems green for launch.”
“T minus twenty seconds.”
“Set laser igniters for automatic firing,” Anton ordered, “fuel flow to maximum.”
“Aye, Sir, igniters to automatic, fuel flow to maximum.”
“T minus ten seconds. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five.”
“Ignition!” screamed a voice from engineering as the fusion drives lit off and the DropShip shook.
“Four. Three. Two. One. Lift-off!”
The building thrust from the drive pods began to lift the six thousand tons of metal and alloys, slowly at first, but increasing exponentially every fraction of a second. The ship shuddered and shook and rattled, but it lifted on columns of fire and streaked away toward the distant sky.
“Passing fifteen thousand,” the maneuvering officer reported. “All engines at max thrust.”
“Taurus Flight reports we are in the corridor and looking good,” said comms.
“Approaching Max-Q,” engineering snapped as Anton watched the altimeter climbing faster-and-faster. The most dangerous portion of any ascent, max-Q was when the dynamic aerodynamic stresses on the DropShip reached their maximum—a failure of the any system at this point could be catastrophic.
“Stand by to reduce main engine thrust to 60% power at Max-Q,” Anton ordered, “in three . . . two . . . one . . . MAX-Q!”
“Powering down to 60% on mains One through Five, skipper,” maneuvering barked. “All systems still green—passing forty-five thousand and still climbing!”
The thundering of the drives roared through the ship, but ahead of them, through the viewports, Anton could see the sky fading away to the deep black of space. And he released a breath he hadn’t quite realized he was holding.
“Approaching MECO,” engineering reported as the DropShip near the moment for main-engine cut-off and a stable orbit. “In three . . . two . . . one . . . MECO!”
And with that, the roar of the engines died and Black Bull coasted along in orbit above Taurus.
“Comm, signal Onslaught that we will await them to match vector and velocity before we begin transit to Gateway,” Anton ordered.
“Aye, Sir. Onslaught reports they will come alongside in two minutes.”
“Outstanding, people,” the DropShip commander said warmly. Now, we just have to protect the Heir all the frigging way to New Avalon—seventeen jumps.
Taurian Concordat Navy DropShip Black Bull
Samantha City Spaceport, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
October 22, 3025
Space Master Anton Lefebvre stood as his passenger entered the compact bridge of the DropShip reserved for the use of the Protector of the Taurian Concordat. “Lord Calderon,” he greeted the young man with a salute. “The Protector wishes to speak with you before departure."
“Thank you, Space Master,” Edward replied with a nod—not saluting in return since he was (technically) not acting in his role as a TDF officer today. No, for today and the duration of this assignment, he was instead the Protector’s Heir and designated Special Ambassador to the Federated Suns. “Open a channel, if you please.”
Anton nodded and snapped his fingers—the highly experienced crew was already anticipating the order and in short order the image of Thomas Calderon appeared on several monitors.
“Ah, Edward,” he said as he saw Edward’s image appear on an identical screen within the palace. “I-I,” he stuttered and then paused, and Edward blinked.
“It’s okay, Pop,” he said softly. “I know how far go I’m allowed to go in the negotiations—and you’ve given me the best pack of bodyguards in the Concordat. We’ll do you proud—we’ll do the Concordat proud.” Indeed, the old Fortress-class vessel was filled to capacity with a two companies of the elite First Battalion of the Taurian Guards, one ‘Mech and one Armored, supported by ninety of the finest infantry troopers that the Concordat could fill. Plus, one of the Concordat’s rare Union-class marine assault carriers—the ‘Mech carrier heavily refitted to carry eight Aerospace Fighters, four small craft, and a company of zero-G Marines—was assigned as escort.
Thomas swallowed and then he nodded. “I know you will, son,” he whispered. “God speed—and good hunting.” Thomas paused again and then he shook his head. “Lord knows, I told myself I wouldn’t mass a fuss over this—but you come back, understand? You come back home after this is done, boy. And in one piece.”
“That’s the plan,” Edward whispered as he swallowed a lump in his throat, and Thomas nodded, his one organic eye shining with unshed tears. Then the image abruptly ended as the Protector cut the transmission.
“Space Master Lefebvre,” the young man said after a moment. “I will return to my quarters—you are authorized to lift at your convenience for transit to Gateway and docking with the JumpShip Auroch.”
“Sir,” the veteran officer said simply as he remained standing until Edward Calderon had been escorted from the bridge. “Comm, inform Taurus Flight Control that we are ready for boost to orbit—confirm that our flight-space is clear and our escort is standing by.”
“Flight confirms we are go for launch, Sir—Onslaught is holding in planetary orbit to match vectors and velocity.”
Anton nodded crisply as he sat down and secured his safety straps about him. “Sound acceleration warning and begin sixty-second countdown to main engine ignition.”
A loud WHOOP, WHOOP, WHOOP echoed through the ship as the klaxon wailed its message; alerting all of those onboard that take-off was imminent. “All hands, we are at T minus fifty-five seconds until launch—stand-by for acceleration boost to orbit,” the Comms rating broadcast.
Black Bull shuddered as fuel pumps began to circulate the fuel prior to ignition; Anton looked down at his instruments and he nodded.
“T minus thirty seconds,” the intercom broadcast.
“Power, life support, and comm umbilicals have been retracted,” reported a rating from the engineering station. “We are on internal power and comms—all systems green for launch.”
“T minus twenty seconds.”
“Set laser igniters for automatic firing,” Anton ordered, “fuel flow to maximum.”
“Aye, Sir, igniters to automatic, fuel flow to maximum.”
“T minus ten seconds. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five.”
“Ignition!” screamed a voice from engineering as the fusion drives lit off and the DropShip shook.
“Four. Three. Two. One. Lift-off!”
The building thrust from the drive pods began to lift the six thousand tons of metal and alloys, slowly at first, but increasing exponentially every fraction of a second. The ship shuddered and shook and rattled, but it lifted on columns of fire and streaked away toward the distant sky.
“Passing fifteen thousand,” the maneuvering officer reported. “All engines at max thrust.”
“Taurus Flight reports we are in the corridor and looking good,” said comms.
“Approaching Max-Q,” engineering snapped as Anton watched the altimeter climbing faster-and-faster. The most dangerous portion of any ascent, max-Q was when the dynamic aerodynamic stresses on the DropShip reached their maximum—a failure of the any system at this point could be catastrophic.
“Stand by to reduce main engine thrust to 60% power at Max-Q,” Anton ordered, “in three . . . two . . . one . . . MAX-Q!”
“Powering down to 60% on mains One through Five, skipper,” maneuvering barked. “All systems still green—passing forty-five thousand and still climbing!”
The thundering of the drives roared through the ship, but ahead of them, through the viewports, Anton could see the sky fading away to the deep black of space. And he released a breath he hadn’t quite realized he was holding.
“Approaching MECO,” engineering reported as the DropShip near the moment for main-engine cut-off and a stable orbit. “In three . . . two . . . one . . . MECO!”
And with that, the roar of the engines died and Black Bull coasted along in orbit above Taurus.
“Comm, signal Onslaught that we will await them to match vector and velocity before we begin transit to Gateway,” Anton ordered.
“Aye, Sir. Onslaught reports they will come alongside in two minutes.”
“Outstanding, people,” the DropShip commander said warmly. Now, we just have to protect the Heir all the frigging way to New Avalon—seventeen jumps.
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
Taurian Concordat Navy GuardShip Titan
Local Space, Taurus System
Taurian Concordat
October 24, 3025
“Most impressive,” Helena Vickers commented to Space Master Liam Zahra as the tour of the twenty-five thousand ton Assault DropShip came to a close. “But I understand that there are just two of them in the entire TCN? Is that correct?”
“Yes, Marshal Vickers,” Liam replied crisply. “Several years ago we captured two Behemoth-class cargo ships from pirates,” and the Space Master smiled as he patted one of the structural bulkheads. “We can’t produce those ships—but we know how to work welders and cutting torches. Our engineers sliced this thing down to size and managed to make it the most heavily armed DropShip known to exist today,” then he sighed. “But, as you said, there are just two of them and we can’t make any more. I reckon, though, that they will provide your WarShip with sufficient protection until we get you fixed up.”
Helena shook her head, at both the audacity of the ship she was aboard and her newly bestowed rank of Marshal—she had always been a fighting officer, and those promoted to Marshal were mostly stuck behind desks. But Thomas had insisted—and now she was the senior officer of the entire Taurian Concordat Navy. What little there was of it.
“Forty-eight Class Two autocannons?” blurted Daniel Stiles. “Why in God’s name would you do that?”
Liam laughed. “You still aren’t getting the loss of technology we suffered—for this time, the Class Two AC is the longest-ranged weapon system available. Does a pittance of damage, but forty-eight of will still give ASF fits—and tear apart the armor of any DropShip out there. And that is the just the long-range ballistic guns, Commander. We also carry four ASF of our own, plus eighteen Class Five ACs, a dozen Class Tens, a half-dozen Class Twenty, a dozen LRM launcher, twenty-four PPCs and Large Lasers, eighteen Medium Lasers, a dozen SRM launchers; not to mention the thirty Small Lasers and forty-eight Machine-Guns installed for point-defense!”
“Exactly,” said Helena. “They did the best they could, Dan—and it is a remarkable piece of engineering. 6-G’s max thrust, you said?”
“Yes, Marshal, slimming this girl down to twenty-five thousand tons from one hundred made her one of the fastest ships in space—and left enough room to give her as much armor as many a Star League cruiser!”
“And you’ve still got your docking gear?” Helena asked.
Liam grinned broadly. “Aye. And according to the Protector, both Titan and Goliath are going to be assigned to the Saucy Sam when she gets all of repairs done; after all, after detaching the Red Hand, you’ve got two free collars.”
“They’re assault boats from Hell, ma’am,” Stiles muttered. “Damn, what I would have given for a dozen of these during the War.”
Helena nodded with a grim smile. So many things were so different today—the backwards technology and ideas of limited warfare . . . but then there were exceptions. The TCN of her day would never have spent funds on a 25,000 ton displacement DropShip—not when it needed raw ship numbers. But this design had definite possibilities. And those Hyper-Pulse Generators that she had been told were run by ComStar . . . she winced as she thought of the wacky pseudo-religion that had sprung up in the fall of the Star League. In her day, there had been no FTL comm; just what a courier ship could jump. What might have Marshal Santos been able to accomplish if he had these HPGs? And a government willing to carve up and rebuild entire DropShips to suit their needs instead of trying to build them from the ground up—lacking the knowledge to make the necessary drive systems?
Still, she thought to herself. I don’t like the idea of someone else handling our mail—it was far too tempting to imagine that they didn’t read it. Human nature being what it was, she would have been shocked if this ComStar actually did pass along messages without sneaking a peek—but she was certain that they took that peek. The biggest question was, though . . . what did they do with that information?
Information was power—and ComStar had a tremendous amount of power at its fingertips. What’s their game, she thought?
“Marshal Vickers? Space Master Zahra?” the GuardShips XO interrupted. “There is priority request from Samantha City for the Marshal and her staff to return immediately to the surface. From the Office of the Protector to be exact,” he concluded.
“Very well, prep my shuttle for immediate launch,” Helena ordered. “Space Master Zahra—an excellent inspection. I cannot wait to see this ship and her sister in action.”
“Thank you, Marshal. I’ll pass that along to my crew.”
“Dan?”
“Yes, ma’am,” her XO and chief of staff said as he held open the hatch to the bridge.
The Goliath-class GuardShip is one of the designs that I have made. It is based on the Behemoth-class DropShip and is ALL level 1 tech. (i.e., 3025-era tech).
Local Space, Taurus System
Taurian Concordat
October 24, 3025
“Most impressive,” Helena Vickers commented to Space Master Liam Zahra as the tour of the twenty-five thousand ton Assault DropShip came to a close. “But I understand that there are just two of them in the entire TCN? Is that correct?”
“Yes, Marshal Vickers,” Liam replied crisply. “Several years ago we captured two Behemoth-class cargo ships from pirates,” and the Space Master smiled as he patted one of the structural bulkheads. “We can’t produce those ships—but we know how to work welders and cutting torches. Our engineers sliced this thing down to size and managed to make it the most heavily armed DropShip known to exist today,” then he sighed. “But, as you said, there are just two of them and we can’t make any more. I reckon, though, that they will provide your WarShip with sufficient protection until we get you fixed up.”
Helena shook her head, at both the audacity of the ship she was aboard and her newly bestowed rank of Marshal—she had always been a fighting officer, and those promoted to Marshal were mostly stuck behind desks. But Thomas had insisted—and now she was the senior officer of the entire Taurian Concordat Navy. What little there was of it.
“Forty-eight Class Two autocannons?” blurted Daniel Stiles. “Why in God’s name would you do that?”
Liam laughed. “You still aren’t getting the loss of technology we suffered—for this time, the Class Two AC is the longest-ranged weapon system available. Does a pittance of damage, but forty-eight of will still give ASF fits—and tear apart the armor of any DropShip out there. And that is the just the long-range ballistic guns, Commander. We also carry four ASF of our own, plus eighteen Class Five ACs, a dozen Class Tens, a half-dozen Class Twenty, a dozen LRM launcher, twenty-four PPCs and Large Lasers, eighteen Medium Lasers, a dozen SRM launchers; not to mention the thirty Small Lasers and forty-eight Machine-Guns installed for point-defense!”
“Exactly,” said Helena. “They did the best they could, Dan—and it is a remarkable piece of engineering. 6-G’s max thrust, you said?”
“Yes, Marshal, slimming this girl down to twenty-five thousand tons from one hundred made her one of the fastest ships in space—and left enough room to give her as much armor as many a Star League cruiser!”
“And you’ve still got your docking gear?” Helena asked.
Liam grinned broadly. “Aye. And according to the Protector, both Titan and Goliath are going to be assigned to the Saucy Sam when she gets all of repairs done; after all, after detaching the Red Hand, you’ve got two free collars.”
“They’re assault boats from Hell, ma’am,” Stiles muttered. “Damn, what I would have given for a dozen of these during the War.”
Helena nodded with a grim smile. So many things were so different today—the backwards technology and ideas of limited warfare . . . but then there were exceptions. The TCN of her day would never have spent funds on a 25,000 ton displacement DropShip—not when it needed raw ship numbers. But this design had definite possibilities. And those Hyper-Pulse Generators that she had been told were run by ComStar . . . she winced as she thought of the wacky pseudo-religion that had sprung up in the fall of the Star League. In her day, there had been no FTL comm; just what a courier ship could jump. What might have Marshal Santos been able to accomplish if he had these HPGs? And a government willing to carve up and rebuild entire DropShips to suit their needs instead of trying to build them from the ground up—lacking the knowledge to make the necessary drive systems?
Still, she thought to herself. I don’t like the idea of someone else handling our mail—it was far too tempting to imagine that they didn’t read it. Human nature being what it was, she would have been shocked if this ComStar actually did pass along messages without sneaking a peek—but she was certain that they took that peek. The biggest question was, though . . . what did they do with that information?
Information was power—and ComStar had a tremendous amount of power at its fingertips. What’s their game, she thought?
“Marshal Vickers? Space Master Zahra?” the GuardShips XO interrupted. “There is priority request from Samantha City for the Marshal and her staff to return immediately to the surface. From the Office of the Protector to be exact,” he concluded.
“Very well, prep my shuttle for immediate launch,” Helena ordered. “Space Master Zahra—an excellent inspection. I cannot wait to see this ship and her sister in action.”
“Thank you, Marshal. I’ll pass that along to my crew.”
“Dan?”
“Yes, ma’am,” her XO and chief of staff said as he held open the hatch to the bridge.
The Goliath-class GuardShip is one of the designs that I have made. It is based on the Behemoth-class DropShip and is ALL level 1 tech. (i.e., 3025-era tech).
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
I'd hate to be the one to be in charge of the ship(s) that had to face those things. Yikes! But I assume that the lengths that the Taurians went through just to build them, that the existence of the Goliaths isn't exactly a secret? Although the "Oh Crap" moment from someone who was surprised would be priceless. 
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
No, the Goliaths aren't a secret . . . but no one wants to fight them!MondoMage wrote:I'd hate to be the one to be in charge of the ship(s) that had to face those things. Yikes! But I assume that the lengths that the Taurians went through just to build them, that the existence of the Goliaths isn't exactly a secret? Although the "Oh Crap" moment from someone who was surprised would be priceless.
MA
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
General Headquarters, Taurus Defense Force
Mount Santiago Defense Complex, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
October 24, 3025
Helena Vickers trotted into the War Room buried deep in the labyrinth of the Headquarters of the Taurian Defense Force, Dan Stiles trailing in her wake. She steeled herself upon seeing the shocked faces of ranking officers, some of whom stood, others sat—a few with their faces cradled in their hands in expressions of utter disbelief. Oh, shit, she thought. What now?
As she scanned the room, she realized that they were still awaiting the Protector, and she drew in a deep breath to still her racing heart.
“Marshal Vickers?” an attractive woman—barely in her mid-30’s—whispered to her. “Glad that you have arrived—Thomas should be here in a moment . . . and we are waiting for one more besides the Protector to join us.”
“What’s happened, Marshal Calderon?” Helena asked, but before Brenda could reply, the doors opened again and every officer rose to his feet as Thomas entered the room, followed by a hustling—and white-faced—Grover Shraplen.
“Be seated, gentlemen, ladies,” Thomas said bluntly. “Six hours ago, the First Battalion of the Pleiades Hussars, under the command of Brigadier Boris Tharn, attacked the ComStar compound on Jansen’s Hold in the planetary capital of Theo,” he snapped—and Helena came to the realization that this was what utter and absolute fury looked like on the face of Thomas Calderon.
“We are aware of this only because ComStar has informed us of these actions—we do not at this time have Brigadier Tharn’s version of the events that occurred in Theo. This is what we know, however—the Hussars, under the command of Tharn, surrounded the ComStar compound with ‘Mechs, tanks, and infantry. They then demanded that two recent converts to ComStar be surrendered immediately, citing evidence that they were in fact Davion agents working to undermine our defenses on Jansen’s Hold. When the local ComStar Demi-Precentor refused to surrender them, Tharn assaulted the compound and seized one of the two suspected spies—the second, along with eighty-seven other members of ComStar, died in the assault.”
Stunned silence filled the room, broken only by a low groan from several officers. Thomas nodded. “I have been summoned to the Alpha station on Taurus—summoned!” he bellowed. “In two hours time, I will be asked to explain this in a real-time HPG communication with the Primus of ComStar himself! Grover,” he barked, turning towards his friend and long-time ally. “He’s your man—you pressured me, against the advice of my senior officers, to give him a Battalion. Has he gone insane or has he always been this incompetent?”
“It has to be a lie, Thomas! Boris Tharn is a loyal Taurian officer—he would never do such a thing,” and Grover shuddered, “unless it was to defend your realm.”
“DEFEND IT? THAT SON-OF-A-BITCH MIGHT HAVE JUST DESTROYED IT!” Thomas thundered. Then the Protector drew in a deep breath and clenched his fists together; he leaned forward on the table. “The word interdiction was used in the communication from Terra, ladies and gentlemen. Interdiction! Have you no clue as to what that might entail for the Concordat, Governor Shraplen?”
Helena cleared her throat, and Thomas jerked his head around with a scowl on his face, but then he calmed himself and nodded.
“Will ComStar allow us to speak directly with Brigadier Tharn?” she asked. “To assess his version of the events?”
“That is quite impossible, Marshal Vickers,” answered Henri Jouett. “As Brigadier Tharn died in the assault on the ComStar compound—his Ostroc suffered a direct hit to the cockpit that penetrated the armor and killed him instantly. Strangely enough, his executive officer and all three company commanders were also killed—the only casualties inflicted on the Hussars was to their officers.”
Henri paused and then he shook his head. “Such . . . rather implausible . . . targeting aside, I have to wonder just how Boris Tharn knew that the two men he was pursuing were in fact Davion agents? Considering that information was far above his need-to-know, and closely held by this very assembly here on Taurus. Perhaps the good Governor can shed some light on this matter—bearing in mind that my office will be launching a full investigation.”
“Grover?” growled Thomas.
The skin of civilian from MacLeod’s Land blazed red and he shook his head. “They were Davion agents, Thomas! I was working to protect your Realm—that smug ass,” he said pointing to Henri, “would have done nothing but watch them! We needed to send a message—but I had no idea that Boris would violate ComStar neutrality!” he bleated.
Thomas glared at Grover until his friend wilted and then the Protector sighed. “We will discuss this later in private—you and I, and it will be discussed in full, Grover,” and then Thomas sat down heavily and he rubbed his unruly hair with both hands. “This is one hell of a problem that we didn’t need—not now. I want options, people.”
“One, we make a public apology to ComStar and pay restitution—in whatever amount—they demand,” said Henri. “Which possibly includes handing over all surviving members of the First Pleiades Hussars for trial and execution by ComStar on Terra,” and officers around the table winced.
“The second option is accepting the interdiction, Protector Calderon. ComStar has proven notoriously consistent in the past with such incidents—whether it is a Concordat wide interdiction or not, . . . ,” Henri shrugged.
“There is a third option,” mused Helena quietly.
“Well, this should be good,” interrupted Henri. “And what, pray tell, is this third option?”
“We go all in—seize every ComStar compound and HPG in the Concordat,” Helena said bluntly.
“MY GOD!” someone shouted as chaos erupted around the table.
“Mademoiselle Vickers,” Henri spoke slowly—as if to a child, “even if we were successful in seizing their compounds and the HPGs, we do not know how to operate them.”
Helena shrugged. “The ComStar adepts and acolytes do—and they will talk given sufficient persuasion.”
“Torture,” muttered another officer. “We are better than that.”
“Bullshit,” said Helena bluntly. “We are human—that means we do what we have to do. We do things horrendous when necessary in order to survive. I thought that Taurians learned that along with their mother’s milk?”
“When necessary,” snapped Thomas. “It is not—in my mind—necessary . . . yet.” He shook his head. “No. We—the Protectors before me—gave our word that ComStar could operate here in safety. I will not throw aside that to take what does not belong to Taurus. To the Concordat—we are not thieves, Marshal.”
“My apologies, Protector,” Helena said, not sounding all that apologetic, “but you did ask for options—and that is one option.”
“So I did,” he said. “And if it becomes necessary, we may revisit your third option, Marshal Vickers. But until then . . . how much can the Treasury scrounge up?”
“Barely enough to rebuild a Class B station, Sire,” the Exchequer sighed. “In hard currency, at least. Between the Far Seekers and the money you are throwing into Erebor and the diversionary Core—you and Henri, that is, Sire—we are all but tapped out for this quarter. If ComStar insists on hard currency . . .,” he looked down at his hands and then directly into the Protector’s eyes. “We may not have it. Not enough.”
Thomas sighed. “We will cross that bridge once I speak with the Primus—for now,” he said softly, but with an iron core that no one at the table mistook. “For now, I want readiness orders for a possible Concordat-wide interdiction issued to every unit on a world with an HPG—and I want a courier ship taking those same orders to EVERY SINGLE WORLD—HPG or no—of our Concordat within the hour. Henri, Brenda, and I have been digging through the contingencies, and Case Vermillion is the one in question. Inform all commands that they may have to act independently and without confirmation from Taurus.”
He paused. “DEFENSIVE OPERATIONS ONLY, gentlemen, ladies. I will hang any officer from the nearest light post that decides to go a’viking—is that understood?”
A chorus of voices answered in the affirmative. “Good. Now get cracking and get those orders issued immediately—and God help us all.”
Mount Santiago Defense Complex, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
October 24, 3025
Helena Vickers trotted into the War Room buried deep in the labyrinth of the Headquarters of the Taurian Defense Force, Dan Stiles trailing in her wake. She steeled herself upon seeing the shocked faces of ranking officers, some of whom stood, others sat—a few with their faces cradled in their hands in expressions of utter disbelief. Oh, shit, she thought. What now?
As she scanned the room, she realized that they were still awaiting the Protector, and she drew in a deep breath to still her racing heart.
“Marshal Vickers?” an attractive woman—barely in her mid-30’s—whispered to her. “Glad that you have arrived—Thomas should be here in a moment . . . and we are waiting for one more besides the Protector to join us.”
“What’s happened, Marshal Calderon?” Helena asked, but before Brenda could reply, the doors opened again and every officer rose to his feet as Thomas entered the room, followed by a hustling—and white-faced—Grover Shraplen.
“Be seated, gentlemen, ladies,” Thomas said bluntly. “Six hours ago, the First Battalion of the Pleiades Hussars, under the command of Brigadier Boris Tharn, attacked the ComStar compound on Jansen’s Hold in the planetary capital of Theo,” he snapped—and Helena came to the realization that this was what utter and absolute fury looked like on the face of Thomas Calderon.
“We are aware of this only because ComStar has informed us of these actions—we do not at this time have Brigadier Tharn’s version of the events that occurred in Theo. This is what we know, however—the Hussars, under the command of Tharn, surrounded the ComStar compound with ‘Mechs, tanks, and infantry. They then demanded that two recent converts to ComStar be surrendered immediately, citing evidence that they were in fact Davion agents working to undermine our defenses on Jansen’s Hold. When the local ComStar Demi-Precentor refused to surrender them, Tharn assaulted the compound and seized one of the two suspected spies—the second, along with eighty-seven other members of ComStar, died in the assault.”
Stunned silence filled the room, broken only by a low groan from several officers. Thomas nodded. “I have been summoned to the Alpha station on Taurus—summoned!” he bellowed. “In two hours time, I will be asked to explain this in a real-time HPG communication with the Primus of ComStar himself! Grover,” he barked, turning towards his friend and long-time ally. “He’s your man—you pressured me, against the advice of my senior officers, to give him a Battalion. Has he gone insane or has he always been this incompetent?”
“It has to be a lie, Thomas! Boris Tharn is a loyal Taurian officer—he would never do such a thing,” and Grover shuddered, “unless it was to defend your realm.”
“DEFEND IT? THAT SON-OF-A-BITCH MIGHT HAVE JUST DESTROYED IT!” Thomas thundered. Then the Protector drew in a deep breath and clenched his fists together; he leaned forward on the table. “The word interdiction was used in the communication from Terra, ladies and gentlemen. Interdiction! Have you no clue as to what that might entail for the Concordat, Governor Shraplen?”
Helena cleared her throat, and Thomas jerked his head around with a scowl on his face, but then he calmed himself and nodded.
“Will ComStar allow us to speak directly with Brigadier Tharn?” she asked. “To assess his version of the events?”
“That is quite impossible, Marshal Vickers,” answered Henri Jouett. “As Brigadier Tharn died in the assault on the ComStar compound—his Ostroc suffered a direct hit to the cockpit that penetrated the armor and killed him instantly. Strangely enough, his executive officer and all three company commanders were also killed—the only casualties inflicted on the Hussars was to their officers.”
Henri paused and then he shook his head. “Such . . . rather implausible . . . targeting aside, I have to wonder just how Boris Tharn knew that the two men he was pursuing were in fact Davion agents? Considering that information was far above his need-to-know, and closely held by this very assembly here on Taurus. Perhaps the good Governor can shed some light on this matter—bearing in mind that my office will be launching a full investigation.”
“Grover?” growled Thomas.
The skin of civilian from MacLeod’s Land blazed red and he shook his head. “They were Davion agents, Thomas! I was working to protect your Realm—that smug ass,” he said pointing to Henri, “would have done nothing but watch them! We needed to send a message—but I had no idea that Boris would violate ComStar neutrality!” he bleated.
Thomas glared at Grover until his friend wilted and then the Protector sighed. “We will discuss this later in private—you and I, and it will be discussed in full, Grover,” and then Thomas sat down heavily and he rubbed his unruly hair with both hands. “This is one hell of a problem that we didn’t need—not now. I want options, people.”
“One, we make a public apology to ComStar and pay restitution—in whatever amount—they demand,” said Henri. “Which possibly includes handing over all surviving members of the First Pleiades Hussars for trial and execution by ComStar on Terra,” and officers around the table winced.
“The second option is accepting the interdiction, Protector Calderon. ComStar has proven notoriously consistent in the past with such incidents—whether it is a Concordat wide interdiction or not, . . . ,” Henri shrugged.
“There is a third option,” mused Helena quietly.
“Well, this should be good,” interrupted Henri. “And what, pray tell, is this third option?”
“We go all in—seize every ComStar compound and HPG in the Concordat,” Helena said bluntly.
“MY GOD!” someone shouted as chaos erupted around the table.
“Mademoiselle Vickers,” Henri spoke slowly—as if to a child, “even if we were successful in seizing their compounds and the HPGs, we do not know how to operate them.”
Helena shrugged. “The ComStar adepts and acolytes do—and they will talk given sufficient persuasion.”
“Torture,” muttered another officer. “We are better than that.”
“Bullshit,” said Helena bluntly. “We are human—that means we do what we have to do. We do things horrendous when necessary in order to survive. I thought that Taurians learned that along with their mother’s milk?”
“When necessary,” snapped Thomas. “It is not—in my mind—necessary . . . yet.” He shook his head. “No. We—the Protectors before me—gave our word that ComStar could operate here in safety. I will not throw aside that to take what does not belong to Taurus. To the Concordat—we are not thieves, Marshal.”
“My apologies, Protector,” Helena said, not sounding all that apologetic, “but you did ask for options—and that is one option.”
“So I did,” he said. “And if it becomes necessary, we may revisit your third option, Marshal Vickers. But until then . . . how much can the Treasury scrounge up?”
“Barely enough to rebuild a Class B station, Sire,” the Exchequer sighed. “In hard currency, at least. Between the Far Seekers and the money you are throwing into Erebor and the diversionary Core—you and Henri, that is, Sire—we are all but tapped out for this quarter. If ComStar insists on hard currency . . .,” he looked down at his hands and then directly into the Protector’s eyes. “We may not have it. Not enough.”
Thomas sighed. “We will cross that bridge once I speak with the Primus—for now,” he said softly, but with an iron core that no one at the table mistook. “For now, I want readiness orders for a possible Concordat-wide interdiction issued to every unit on a world with an HPG—and I want a courier ship taking those same orders to EVERY SINGLE WORLD—HPG or no—of our Concordat within the hour. Henri, Brenda, and I have been digging through the contingencies, and Case Vermillion is the one in question. Inform all commands that they may have to act independently and without confirmation from Taurus.”
He paused. “DEFENSIVE OPERATIONS ONLY, gentlemen, ladies. I will hang any officer from the nearest light post that decides to go a’viking—is that understood?”
A chorus of voices answered in the affirmative. “Good. Now get cracking and get those orders issued immediately—and God help us all.”
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
ComStar Class A HPG Station
Samantha City, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
October 24, 3025
Thomas gritted his teeth as the robed figures searched him—physically patted him down! But he endured the indignity without a word as the Adepts and Acolytes completed the check for weapons, and their leader nodded.
“Your guards—they are not needed within the confines of this Holy Structure,” the man spoke from behind the folds of his hood. “Only you have authorization to pass this point, Protector Calderon.”
John MacLeod—the head of his security detail—bristled, but Thomas held up one hand. “Taurian law requires that the Protector be escorted, Adept.”
“Taurian law does not apply here within the Sanctum, Protector Calderon—only the Holy Writ of Blake and the will of the Primus. They shall remain at this juncture or you shall all be required to depart.”
Thomas glared at the man, but he forced himself to swallow the first answer that boiled to the surface of his brain. Telling the man to have intercourse with himself would not, after all, be in the best interests of the Concordat.
“Agent MacLeod,” he said at last, “you and the detail will remain here until my return—that is a direct order!”
“Yes, my Lord,” the body-guard answered through gritted teeth of his own.
“Then if you will follow me, please, Protector Calderon,” the Adept said with a wave of his arm.
The Adept led, and Thomas followed, trailed by three beefy looking fellows, who—despite their robes—obviously were security. Winding passageways led them deep within the domed structure that stood in the center of the ComStar compound—and Thomas inhaled deeply at the sight before him. A massive piece of machinery being swarmed over by Adepts and Acolytes, chanting lines of liturgy as they made adjustments to the control systems, filled the room to capacity; one long arm—resembling nothing else so much as a cannon of some sort—almost touching the hemi-spherical ceiling high above.
“That is the Hyper-Pulse Generator?” he asked.
“Indeed . . . it is the Sanctified and Divine Device through which communications is made possible—designed by the Blessed Blake as he wrote down his teachings which guide us to this day.”
Thomas stood there, and he gawked—until one of the three beefy men behind him pushed him forward. The Adept lowered his hood and he shook his head. “None of that, Acolyte—the Protector is a guest. Still, guests must abide by the restrictions their hosts place upon them. You are no Servant of the Blessed Blake, Protector Calderon—the Engines of his Magnificence and Holy Power are not yours to observe; you have had sufficient privilege to cast a merest glance upon them. This way,” he said, pointing towards a chamber set to one side.
The chamber was dim and the Adept ushered him within—to where Precentor Taurus stood waiting. “Ah, Protector Thomas; thank you for answering our request to attend us at this hour.”
“It was an offer that I literally could not refuse, Precentor,” Thomas answered slowly.
“Of course, you could have—if you wished to sign the death warrant of the Concordat,” the leader of the Taurus A Station replied with a smile. “If you will stand there,” and the Precentor indicated a circle upon the floor, “we are ready to proceed.”
Thomas stepped into the circle and the lights dimmed still more—then a light began to emerge from the darkness. It coalesced into the image of a man dressed in the purest of white robes—Julian Tiepolo, the Primus of ComStar.
“Thomas Calderon, I greet you in the Name of the Blessed Blake. Peace be upon your House this day.”
“Primus,” Thomas said simply with a bow of his head.
“Ah, you are almost a stereotype of Taurian intransigence and refusal to bow down to anyone. It has been too long since I have personally experienced such, Thomas.” And then the Primus’ face grew cold and somber. “But that is not what we are here to discuss this day, is it?”
“No, Primus, it is not. I can assure you that no orders originated on Taurus calling for an attack on the Jansen’s Hold compound—further, all those responsible will be identified and they will be punished for their actions; severely, I might add.”
“It is good to know that you take your responsibilities so gravely, Thomas—however, ComStar cannot allow such an affront to take place without . . . retribution.”
“We are prepared to offer restitution to ComStar for the facility and the loss of life,” Thomas said through jaws almost locked into place by his tense muscles.
“What value do you place upon a soul, Thomas? Eighty-eight of my people perished—eighty-eight souls who might have accomplished miracles in the future; now all have been cut short. Our neutrality has been violated, our territory intruded upon, our blood has been spilled. What price would you place on such?”
“That is for you to determine, Primus; we will, of course, offer to share all of our investigative findings with you on this matter.”
“Too little, too late,” Julian said with a grim smile. “My own advisors on the First Circuit tell me that you threaten the balance of power within Known Space, Thomas—combined with this attack, whose order most definitely originated from Taurus,” and Thomas hissed in shock, “these two together make Us question as to whether or not you desire to see peace . . . or if you are as blind as your fore-fathers and only want to see the Inner Sphere in flames?”
“This order—I did not authorize any such thing,” Thomas growled.
“Thomas, your name was not upon it; but I doubt that anyone would have dared to authorize such an action without your approval. Still, a Holy Interdiction of the Taurian Concordat will cause great pain and suffering to your people. Especially as we inform your neighbors that you are under Interdiction for Crimes waged against this Holy Order. Liao and Davion and the pirates of Tortuga will have a field day—and your forces will be isolated and alone; easy prey as they fall one world after the next.”
Thomas bit his tongue and he nodded. “What price do you demand as a starting point?”
“Am I a merchant to haggle, Thomas? No. I am PRIMUS of ComStar. You will pay full restitution for the reconstruction of the Class B HPG station on Jansen’s Hold—and pay full cost for the construction of a new Class B facility on another world. You will compensate the families of the dead for all of the future efforts which those Holy Servants were capable of making—and you will surrender unto US this WarShip which draws unto you greedy Successor Lords like flies drawn to honey.”
Thomas clenched his jaw. “The ship is ours—it belonged to Taurus before, it belongs to us now.”
“The ship will be the cause of your destruction, Thomas—I seek only to spare you and your people. ComStar does not desire this vessel for ourselves; indeed, we intend to cast it into your sun at the center of the Taurus system—to destroy it and remove from you the instrument which your enemies so greatly desire. With it gone, Peace shall have a renewed chance to flourish. Retain it . . . and you shall have more War and Pestilence and Famine,” and Julian smiled again, “and Death, oh, yes, Death; you shall have more of these things than you can possibly imagine, Thomas.”
The Protector swallowed and Julian raised his hood. “It is great burden, leading the Taurian people, Thomas. And it is difficult for you to accept that this must be done—but it must. And it shall be. If it is not, then a Holy Interdiction shall I declare upon your people and your worlds. Still, it is a shock to you, after all. I give you . . . four days—ninety-six hours in which to make your decision. I trust that you will come to the realization that only one course is the correct one—the true one; the one which will preserve the lives of your people, Thomas. Precentor Taurus will remain here to put you in contact with me at any time before the expiration of that dead-line. But my patience is not finite, Thomas—come the passing of that dead-line and Excommunicated from all messages you shall be.”
The image flickered and then it winked out. Thomas blinked, and he glared at Precentor Taurus, who just smirked—SMIRKED—at him. “Escort him out of this Holy Sanctum.”
Thomas didn’t say a word when he rejoined his guard detail; he didn’t say a word as they walked across the flag-stone lanes of the manicured ground; he didn’t say a word until after the ground car was sealed and swept for bugs and driving quickly away. When he did speak, it was but a single sentence, and then Thomas sat gazing out upon the capital city of his realm as the car traveled to home.
“Assemble the War Council—make certain that Helena Vickers and her people are present.”
Samantha City, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
October 24, 3025
Thomas gritted his teeth as the robed figures searched him—physically patted him down! But he endured the indignity without a word as the Adepts and Acolytes completed the check for weapons, and their leader nodded.
“Your guards—they are not needed within the confines of this Holy Structure,” the man spoke from behind the folds of his hood. “Only you have authorization to pass this point, Protector Calderon.”
John MacLeod—the head of his security detail—bristled, but Thomas held up one hand. “Taurian law requires that the Protector be escorted, Adept.”
“Taurian law does not apply here within the Sanctum, Protector Calderon—only the Holy Writ of Blake and the will of the Primus. They shall remain at this juncture or you shall all be required to depart.”
Thomas glared at the man, but he forced himself to swallow the first answer that boiled to the surface of his brain. Telling the man to have intercourse with himself would not, after all, be in the best interests of the Concordat.
“Agent MacLeod,” he said at last, “you and the detail will remain here until my return—that is a direct order!”
“Yes, my Lord,” the body-guard answered through gritted teeth of his own.
“Then if you will follow me, please, Protector Calderon,” the Adept said with a wave of his arm.
The Adept led, and Thomas followed, trailed by three beefy looking fellows, who—despite their robes—obviously were security. Winding passageways led them deep within the domed structure that stood in the center of the ComStar compound—and Thomas inhaled deeply at the sight before him. A massive piece of machinery being swarmed over by Adepts and Acolytes, chanting lines of liturgy as they made adjustments to the control systems, filled the room to capacity; one long arm—resembling nothing else so much as a cannon of some sort—almost touching the hemi-spherical ceiling high above.
“That is the Hyper-Pulse Generator?” he asked.
“Indeed . . . it is the Sanctified and Divine Device through which communications is made possible—designed by the Blessed Blake as he wrote down his teachings which guide us to this day.”
Thomas stood there, and he gawked—until one of the three beefy men behind him pushed him forward. The Adept lowered his hood and he shook his head. “None of that, Acolyte—the Protector is a guest. Still, guests must abide by the restrictions their hosts place upon them. You are no Servant of the Blessed Blake, Protector Calderon—the Engines of his Magnificence and Holy Power are not yours to observe; you have had sufficient privilege to cast a merest glance upon them. This way,” he said, pointing towards a chamber set to one side.
The chamber was dim and the Adept ushered him within—to where Precentor Taurus stood waiting. “Ah, Protector Thomas; thank you for answering our request to attend us at this hour.”
“It was an offer that I literally could not refuse, Precentor,” Thomas answered slowly.
“Of course, you could have—if you wished to sign the death warrant of the Concordat,” the leader of the Taurus A Station replied with a smile. “If you will stand there,” and the Precentor indicated a circle upon the floor, “we are ready to proceed.”
Thomas stepped into the circle and the lights dimmed still more—then a light began to emerge from the darkness. It coalesced into the image of a man dressed in the purest of white robes—Julian Tiepolo, the Primus of ComStar.
“Thomas Calderon, I greet you in the Name of the Blessed Blake. Peace be upon your House this day.”
“Primus,” Thomas said simply with a bow of his head.
“Ah, you are almost a stereotype of Taurian intransigence and refusal to bow down to anyone. It has been too long since I have personally experienced such, Thomas.” And then the Primus’ face grew cold and somber. “But that is not what we are here to discuss this day, is it?”
“No, Primus, it is not. I can assure you that no orders originated on Taurus calling for an attack on the Jansen’s Hold compound—further, all those responsible will be identified and they will be punished for their actions; severely, I might add.”
“It is good to know that you take your responsibilities so gravely, Thomas—however, ComStar cannot allow such an affront to take place without . . . retribution.”
“We are prepared to offer restitution to ComStar for the facility and the loss of life,” Thomas said through jaws almost locked into place by his tense muscles.
“What value do you place upon a soul, Thomas? Eighty-eight of my people perished—eighty-eight souls who might have accomplished miracles in the future; now all have been cut short. Our neutrality has been violated, our territory intruded upon, our blood has been spilled. What price would you place on such?”
“That is for you to determine, Primus; we will, of course, offer to share all of our investigative findings with you on this matter.”
“Too little, too late,” Julian said with a grim smile. “My own advisors on the First Circuit tell me that you threaten the balance of power within Known Space, Thomas—combined with this attack, whose order most definitely originated from Taurus,” and Thomas hissed in shock, “these two together make Us question as to whether or not you desire to see peace . . . or if you are as blind as your fore-fathers and only want to see the Inner Sphere in flames?”
“This order—I did not authorize any such thing,” Thomas growled.
“Thomas, your name was not upon it; but I doubt that anyone would have dared to authorize such an action without your approval. Still, a Holy Interdiction of the Taurian Concordat will cause great pain and suffering to your people. Especially as we inform your neighbors that you are under Interdiction for Crimes waged against this Holy Order. Liao and Davion and the pirates of Tortuga will have a field day—and your forces will be isolated and alone; easy prey as they fall one world after the next.”
Thomas bit his tongue and he nodded. “What price do you demand as a starting point?”
“Am I a merchant to haggle, Thomas? No. I am PRIMUS of ComStar. You will pay full restitution for the reconstruction of the Class B HPG station on Jansen’s Hold—and pay full cost for the construction of a new Class B facility on another world. You will compensate the families of the dead for all of the future efforts which those Holy Servants were capable of making—and you will surrender unto US this WarShip which draws unto you greedy Successor Lords like flies drawn to honey.”
Thomas clenched his jaw. “The ship is ours—it belonged to Taurus before, it belongs to us now.”
“The ship will be the cause of your destruction, Thomas—I seek only to spare you and your people. ComStar does not desire this vessel for ourselves; indeed, we intend to cast it into your sun at the center of the Taurus system—to destroy it and remove from you the instrument which your enemies so greatly desire. With it gone, Peace shall have a renewed chance to flourish. Retain it . . . and you shall have more War and Pestilence and Famine,” and Julian smiled again, “and Death, oh, yes, Death; you shall have more of these things than you can possibly imagine, Thomas.”
The Protector swallowed and Julian raised his hood. “It is great burden, leading the Taurian people, Thomas. And it is difficult for you to accept that this must be done—but it must. And it shall be. If it is not, then a Holy Interdiction shall I declare upon your people and your worlds. Still, it is a shock to you, after all. I give you . . . four days—ninety-six hours in which to make your decision. I trust that you will come to the realization that only one course is the correct one—the true one; the one which will preserve the lives of your people, Thomas. Precentor Taurus will remain here to put you in contact with me at any time before the expiration of that dead-line. But my patience is not finite, Thomas—come the passing of that dead-line and Excommunicated from all messages you shall be.”
The image flickered and then it winked out. Thomas blinked, and he glared at Precentor Taurus, who just smirked—SMIRKED—at him. “Escort him out of this Holy Sanctum.”
Thomas didn’t say a word when he rejoined his guard detail; he didn’t say a word as they walked across the flag-stone lanes of the manicured ground; he didn’t say a word until after the ground car was sealed and swept for bugs and driving quickly away. When he did speak, it was but a single sentence, and then Thomas sat gazing out upon the capital city of his realm as the car traveled to home.
“Assemble the War Council—make certain that Helena Vickers and her people are present.”
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
Well I think yjr Blakist have overplayed there hand there, Only the Co XO and other officers are casulties The Blakist adits that they are reading there mail I thik that Com* is in for a rude suprise in 96 hrs when Taurian forces arrive at Com* bases if they are getting interdicted anyway so wht have they got to lose and if they pull it off why cant anyone else??
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
ComStar HPG Station Prime
Hilton Head Island, North America
Terra
October 24, 3025
“And now we wait,” said the Primus as the transmission ended and the lights slowly brightened in the central hub of the HPG network. “Your thoughts, Precentor ROM?”
Nicholas sighed. “I am worried that we went too far—pushed Thomas too much. You all but admitted to him that we are reading their mail, Primus!”
“In a conversation which he has no proof of—no copies, no data. Just his word against that of ComStar . . . following an incident in which his troops slaughtered our people.” Julian smiled. “That was nicely done, by the way, Nicholas—how long have you had Boris Tharn on our payroll?”
“A few years, now, Primus,” Precentor ROM answered with a grateful bow. “Although he wasn’t expecting the retirement package he received—still,” Nicholas mused, “it would not have been possible if you had not altered Shraplen’s message to push him into attacking the facility. Certainly his troops would have not have followed him without that order.”
Julian smiled. And then the smile faded as another—bitter—voice spoke up.
“Yet, you did not address the Data Core,” Myndo Waterly spat. “We could have wrapped up this entire operation in one fell swoop had you insisted upon that as well.”
“THAT would have pushed Thomas over the edge, Precentor Dieron,” Julian snapped back. “And it would have risked revealing to the entire human race that we—ComStar—are engaged in stopping technological progress of all of the Houses both Great and Minor alike! ROM will destroy the Core, preventing the dissemination of technology—demanding that it be surrendered would have been one demand too many, yes?”
“I disagree,” Myndo said as she shook her head. “We are talking about the Taurians here—a minor power with little, if any, ability to defy you. A Great House—perhaps. Perhaps, a Great House would have stood against you, but Thomas Calderon? A broken man leading a broken people, clinging to delusions of greatness from four centuries ago? No. He would have complied with your demands because he knows that is the only way he can preserve his Concordat.”
“They fought the Star League for twenty years when all they had to do to stop the conflict was to join the League, Precentor Dieron,” Nicholas said. Myndo Waterly spun around, and she sneered.
“I did not ask for your opinion, Precentor ROM—speak when you are spoken to! Unless you wish that tongue removed!”
“I am pleased with Nicholas at this moment, Precentor Dieron,” Julian snapped again. “In fact, I would hear more—Nicholas?”
Nicholas swallowed and he nodded and then composed his thoughts. “Thomas might be no Nicoletta or Henry or Mitchell . . . but he is a Calderon. If we push him too far, too fast, there is a good chance that he will simply say ‘fuck it’, and strike back at us—the consequences be damned. Threatening an Interdiction against a Great House with four or five hundred star systems is one thing—the Concordat has just twenty-eight inhabited star systems outside of the Hyades Nebula. Twenty-eight, Primus, Precentor Dieron. Half of those lack HPG Stations to begin with. Because of that, Thomas already maintains a courier system in place—inefficient, yes. But he has enough JumpShips that he can keep one or two stationed at every system. I fear that our Interdiction threat might not be received in the same light as a Great House where you can cut the communications lifeline on ten or twenty times as many worlds.”
“You fear too much, Precentor ROM,” Myndo sneered. “Thomas will be cowed by this threat—and even if he is not, his friend Grover was certainly . . . vocal enough about his displeasure over Thomas’ brat and his covert mission to New Avalon. Though I do wish that he had complained about the specifics more to Tharn—still, it is enough to know that Edward Calderon is en route. If Interdiction will not deter Thomas, then perhaps holding his eldest son and heir as hostage will,” she mused.
Nicholas winced. “Precentor—Primus. My personnel are already occupied with planning operations against that ship and the Data Core—adding another high-risk mission . . .,” he began.
“I wasn’t asking for your personnel, Nicholas,” Myndo cooed. “I am handling this particular tangent myself. With the permission of the Primus, of course.”
“Of course,” Julian answered with a slight frown. “Alive, Myndo,” he enunciated very slowly. “Alive and unharmed—Thomas Calderon is already unstable, and I doubt that news of the death of his eldest son and heir at our hands would result in a change of this situation to our liking.”
“Oh, do not worry, Primus,” Myndo answered with a smile. “Soon enough he will be in our clutches—and then, whether or not Thomas chooses to cooperate, we can . . . instruct Edward. Make him believe in Blake and the supremacy of ComStar.”
“Brainwash him,” muttered Nicholas. “Not a reliable technique.”
“Where is your faith, Precentor ROM?” Myndo hissed. “Once we have Edward and he is one of us, then we have little need of Thomas should he prove . . . intransigent, I believe was the word that you used, Primus.”
Julian nodded. “We have many arrows in our quiver—best to use them all to make certain that this Memory Core does not spur a technological renaissance.” He sighed. “Very well, Myndo. Edward is yours to toy with—do not make me regret this.”
“Why, never, Primus,” she chuckled, and then left the two men behind her. For a moment there was silence, and then the Primus said a single word.
“Nicholas?”
Precentor ROM sighed. “Yes Primus. I will have my people watch hers—closely.”
“Good, Nicholas.”
“I remain concerned about the ultimatum you delivered, Primus,” Nicholas pressed on. “I’d like permission to increase the threat alert of all of our operations in the Concordat—just in case.”
Julian considered. “You think Thomas might—in truth—attack ComStar, Nicholas?”
The younger man sighed. “I don’t know—and that scares me. He can’t run the HPG stations—but he can certainly abduct our people and tear their knowledge from their bodies before dumping their corpses in the nearest star. Damn, I’d feel better if we had a few battalions of the ComGuard and Militia out there.”
The Primus nodded, frowning. “Do it. Put all of them on alert—but without being able to work the HPGs, I think we can discount an all-out attack. Your other idea—that sounds like Thomas to me. And no, we can’t deploy the CGM so quickly, but . . .,” the voice of the Primus trailed off. “We have hired mercenaries in the past to defend our installations. And there are some out there who would jump at such a safe contract. I will contact them, myself.”
“Yes, Primus,” Nicholas said with a bow as the Primus turned to go, but the older man stopped and stood in the entrance way.
“And despite what Myndo wants, Nicholas—I believe that we will leave the pot alone to cook for a while. We have too many spoons in the pudding as it is. Too many cooks arguing about the recipe. Time to leave it alone and trust our agents to do their jobs.”
“Yes, Primus—by your command.”
Hilton Head Island, North America
Terra
October 24, 3025
“And now we wait,” said the Primus as the transmission ended and the lights slowly brightened in the central hub of the HPG network. “Your thoughts, Precentor ROM?”
Nicholas sighed. “I am worried that we went too far—pushed Thomas too much. You all but admitted to him that we are reading their mail, Primus!”
“In a conversation which he has no proof of—no copies, no data. Just his word against that of ComStar . . . following an incident in which his troops slaughtered our people.” Julian smiled. “That was nicely done, by the way, Nicholas—how long have you had Boris Tharn on our payroll?”
“A few years, now, Primus,” Precentor ROM answered with a grateful bow. “Although he wasn’t expecting the retirement package he received—still,” Nicholas mused, “it would not have been possible if you had not altered Shraplen’s message to push him into attacking the facility. Certainly his troops would have not have followed him without that order.”
Julian smiled. And then the smile faded as another—bitter—voice spoke up.
“Yet, you did not address the Data Core,” Myndo Waterly spat. “We could have wrapped up this entire operation in one fell swoop had you insisted upon that as well.”
“THAT would have pushed Thomas over the edge, Precentor Dieron,” Julian snapped back. “And it would have risked revealing to the entire human race that we—ComStar—are engaged in stopping technological progress of all of the Houses both Great and Minor alike! ROM will destroy the Core, preventing the dissemination of technology—demanding that it be surrendered would have been one demand too many, yes?”
“I disagree,” Myndo said as she shook her head. “We are talking about the Taurians here—a minor power with little, if any, ability to defy you. A Great House—perhaps. Perhaps, a Great House would have stood against you, but Thomas Calderon? A broken man leading a broken people, clinging to delusions of greatness from four centuries ago? No. He would have complied with your demands because he knows that is the only way he can preserve his Concordat.”
“They fought the Star League for twenty years when all they had to do to stop the conflict was to join the League, Precentor Dieron,” Nicholas said. Myndo Waterly spun around, and she sneered.
“I did not ask for your opinion, Precentor ROM—speak when you are spoken to! Unless you wish that tongue removed!”
“I am pleased with Nicholas at this moment, Precentor Dieron,” Julian snapped again. “In fact, I would hear more—Nicholas?”
Nicholas swallowed and he nodded and then composed his thoughts. “Thomas might be no Nicoletta or Henry or Mitchell . . . but he is a Calderon. If we push him too far, too fast, there is a good chance that he will simply say ‘fuck it’, and strike back at us—the consequences be damned. Threatening an Interdiction against a Great House with four or five hundred star systems is one thing—the Concordat has just twenty-eight inhabited star systems outside of the Hyades Nebula. Twenty-eight, Primus, Precentor Dieron. Half of those lack HPG Stations to begin with. Because of that, Thomas already maintains a courier system in place—inefficient, yes. But he has enough JumpShips that he can keep one or two stationed at every system. I fear that our Interdiction threat might not be received in the same light as a Great House where you can cut the communications lifeline on ten or twenty times as many worlds.”
“You fear too much, Precentor ROM,” Myndo sneered. “Thomas will be cowed by this threat—and even if he is not, his friend Grover was certainly . . . vocal enough about his displeasure over Thomas’ brat and his covert mission to New Avalon. Though I do wish that he had complained about the specifics more to Tharn—still, it is enough to know that Edward Calderon is en route. If Interdiction will not deter Thomas, then perhaps holding his eldest son and heir as hostage will,” she mused.
Nicholas winced. “Precentor—Primus. My personnel are already occupied with planning operations against that ship and the Data Core—adding another high-risk mission . . .,” he began.
“I wasn’t asking for your personnel, Nicholas,” Myndo cooed. “I am handling this particular tangent myself. With the permission of the Primus, of course.”
“Of course,” Julian answered with a slight frown. “Alive, Myndo,” he enunciated very slowly. “Alive and unharmed—Thomas Calderon is already unstable, and I doubt that news of the death of his eldest son and heir at our hands would result in a change of this situation to our liking.”
“Oh, do not worry, Primus,” Myndo answered with a smile. “Soon enough he will be in our clutches—and then, whether or not Thomas chooses to cooperate, we can . . . instruct Edward. Make him believe in Blake and the supremacy of ComStar.”
“Brainwash him,” muttered Nicholas. “Not a reliable technique.”
“Where is your faith, Precentor ROM?” Myndo hissed. “Once we have Edward and he is one of us, then we have little need of Thomas should he prove . . . intransigent, I believe was the word that you used, Primus.”
Julian nodded. “We have many arrows in our quiver—best to use them all to make certain that this Memory Core does not spur a technological renaissance.” He sighed. “Very well, Myndo. Edward is yours to toy with—do not make me regret this.”
“Why, never, Primus,” she chuckled, and then left the two men behind her. For a moment there was silence, and then the Primus said a single word.
“Nicholas?”
Precentor ROM sighed. “Yes Primus. I will have my people watch hers—closely.”
“Good, Nicholas.”
“I remain concerned about the ultimatum you delivered, Primus,” Nicholas pressed on. “I’d like permission to increase the threat alert of all of our operations in the Concordat—just in case.”
Julian considered. “You think Thomas might—in truth—attack ComStar, Nicholas?”
The younger man sighed. “I don’t know—and that scares me. He can’t run the HPG stations—but he can certainly abduct our people and tear their knowledge from their bodies before dumping their corpses in the nearest star. Damn, I’d feel better if we had a few battalions of the ComGuard and Militia out there.”
The Primus nodded, frowning. “Do it. Put all of them on alert—but without being able to work the HPGs, I think we can discount an all-out attack. Your other idea—that sounds like Thomas to me. And no, we can’t deploy the CGM so quickly, but . . .,” the voice of the Primus trailed off. “We have hired mercenaries in the past to defend our installations. And there are some out there who would jump at such a safe contract. I will contact them, myself.”
“Yes, Primus,” Nicholas said with a bow as the Primus turned to go, but the older man stopped and stood in the entrance way.
“And despite what Myndo wants, Nicholas—I believe that we will leave the pot alone to cook for a while. We have too many spoons in the pudding as it is. Too many cooks arguing about the recipe. Time to leave it alone and trust our agents to do their jobs.”
“Yes, Primus—by your command.”
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
I have a feeling that Comstar is going to find that they've gone quite a bit too far... and Myndo is only going to exacerbate matters. Should be a wild ride, to be sure
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
General Headquarters, Taurus Defense Force
Mount Santiago Defense Complex, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
October 24, 3025
“They want MY ship? They want to send MY ship into the fucking sun?!?” snarled Helena Vickers. “I’ll shoot a fucking nuclear warhead right up his god-damned ass, if you let me, Protector Calderon!”
“Aside from the small matter that Sam cannot leave this system at the moment, Marshal Vickers,” interjected Henri, “we also have a dead-line on this ultimatum. And confirmation that they are reading our mail—is there anything out there that I need to know about, ladies and gentlemen?”
“No,” growled Thomas. “I have made certain that nothing about Edward’s mission was spoken of over HPG—and none of our people are stupid enough to leak any information on the Core . . . yourself excepted, Henri.”
“Thought of as lazy and stupid—just the cover us intelligence types dream of, my Protector,” Henri said with a laugh.
“On the dead-line—we do have a contingency for this already prepared. CASE CYAN,” Brenda Calderon said bluntly. “We can dust it off and update it; be ready to go in . . . thirty-six hours,” she said after a moment of consideration.
“Odds of success?” asked Thomas.
Brenda shrugged. “We’ll take the compounds—ComStar doesn’t have shit to keep my boys and girls out. And with a little bit of luck we’ll do it before they wreck the machinery too bad.” She sighed. “We’ve planned this for quite some time—over a hundred years, Marshal Vickers, Protector Thomas. But the plan requires lethal force—you might not have that many survivors to put the question.”
“Jack?” Helena asked.
The chief engineering officer from TCS Samantha Calderon shrugged. “I can’t make promises on equipment I’ve never seen—or read about. But, my boys and girls are the absolute friggin’ best at what they do. If anyone can make it work, we can. It would help to know what the blasted thing is supposed to look like, but I don’t expect the archives have any pictures, do they? Or even better, an Operator’s Manual?”
Nervous laughter erupted from the table, but Thomas Calderon just smiled. “John,” he summoned his body-guard over to the table with a wave. “I can’t do it myself—I just can’t.”
“Understood, Sire,” the man said as he took out a cord; the table grew quiet as Thomas held up held and the guard held it steady with one arm—and then inserted the plug at the end into Thomas’ cybernetic eye. “That’s got it,” he said as he attached the second end of the cable into a slot on the table—and a holographic image arose.
“That’s the HPG itself, Commander Fletcher,” the Protector said. “I’ll download the data and Henri here can distribute the pictures—he’s the one who installed the video camera and dedicated memory after all.”
“I was hoping that they wouldn’t remove your artificial eye—even paranoids have limits, my Protector,” the Intelligence Chief laughed.
“So they do,” answered Thomas as he nodded. “Done, John.”
The body-guard removed the plug and there was a CLICK as the hidden port in the eye closed once more. Thomas shuddered. “Will that suffice, Commander Fletcher?” he asked—but the engineer from the past was staring at the hologram, zooming in on various components.
“SON OF A BITCH!” he yelled. “That’s a heavily modified miniature Kearny-Fuchida projector—not a drive, but a fucking projector!”
“WHAT?” shouts rose from the table.
“Jack,” Helena said gently, “you can’t operate a K/F system in a gravity well—what makes you think this is one?”
“Not and transport ships, skipper,” Jack Fletcher said in an awed voice. “This was theorized ever since Kearny and Fuchida made their first equations. Think back to Jump Engineering 101—Artificial jump points, skipper. Artificial jump points,” he continued in an awed voice.
Vickers frowned. “I remember that from the Academy—but the energy costs were too high; it would require the total power output of this planet to create one large enough to send a ship through.” And then the light bulb went off. “Oh, bloody hell. How big a bubble do you have to create to send a burst transmission?”
“A few centimeters in diameter? Perhaps even a millimeter?” Jack shook his head. “Protector, you don’t need the technical shit—get me in there, and I’ll make that son-of-a-bitch work!”
Thomas snarled. “That confident, are you Commander? Good; because we are going to get you in there. The Primus of ComStar wants to threaten me? He wants to threaten the Concordat? I think he has already declared WAR on us, ladies and gentlemen—and that he was behind the Hussars attacking Jansen’s Hold. I would put money on it—that smirking bastard Precentor Taurus, he knows something. That one, I want alive.”
He exhaled deeply. “ComStar wants a war? Well, they’ve got one. CYAN is approved, Marshal Calderon. Marshal Vickers, mind if we borrow Commander Fletcher for a bit?”
“Will I get a chance to blow a very nasty, very big hole in Julian Tiepolo?”
“Doubtful at the present time, Marshal—but if he and his continues to piss me off, once we get your ship repaired, I might let you nuke Hilton Head Island on Terra.”
Helena Vickers laughed. “I’d hock my soul for that chance, Protector Thomas! You’ve got a deal.”
“Good. Understand me, ladies and gentlemen, as of this moment—WE ARE AT WAR.”
Mount Santiago Defense Complex, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
October 24, 3025
“They want MY ship? They want to send MY ship into the fucking sun?!?” snarled Helena Vickers. “I’ll shoot a fucking nuclear warhead right up his god-damned ass, if you let me, Protector Calderon!”
“Aside from the small matter that Sam cannot leave this system at the moment, Marshal Vickers,” interjected Henri, “we also have a dead-line on this ultimatum. And confirmation that they are reading our mail—is there anything out there that I need to know about, ladies and gentlemen?”
“No,” growled Thomas. “I have made certain that nothing about Edward’s mission was spoken of over HPG—and none of our people are stupid enough to leak any information on the Core . . . yourself excepted, Henri.”
“Thought of as lazy and stupid—just the cover us intelligence types dream of, my Protector,” Henri said with a laugh.
“On the dead-line—we do have a contingency for this already prepared. CASE CYAN,” Brenda Calderon said bluntly. “We can dust it off and update it; be ready to go in . . . thirty-six hours,” she said after a moment of consideration.
“Odds of success?” asked Thomas.
Brenda shrugged. “We’ll take the compounds—ComStar doesn’t have shit to keep my boys and girls out. And with a little bit of luck we’ll do it before they wreck the machinery too bad.” She sighed. “We’ve planned this for quite some time—over a hundred years, Marshal Vickers, Protector Thomas. But the plan requires lethal force—you might not have that many survivors to put the question.”
“Jack?” Helena asked.
The chief engineering officer from TCS Samantha Calderon shrugged. “I can’t make promises on equipment I’ve never seen—or read about. But, my boys and girls are the absolute friggin’ best at what they do. If anyone can make it work, we can. It would help to know what the blasted thing is supposed to look like, but I don’t expect the archives have any pictures, do they? Or even better, an Operator’s Manual?”
Nervous laughter erupted from the table, but Thomas Calderon just smiled. “John,” he summoned his body-guard over to the table with a wave. “I can’t do it myself—I just can’t.”
“Understood, Sire,” the man said as he took out a cord; the table grew quiet as Thomas held up held and the guard held it steady with one arm—and then inserted the plug at the end into Thomas’ cybernetic eye. “That’s got it,” he said as he attached the second end of the cable into a slot on the table—and a holographic image arose.
“That’s the HPG itself, Commander Fletcher,” the Protector said. “I’ll download the data and Henri here can distribute the pictures—he’s the one who installed the video camera and dedicated memory after all.”
“I was hoping that they wouldn’t remove your artificial eye—even paranoids have limits, my Protector,” the Intelligence Chief laughed.
“So they do,” answered Thomas as he nodded. “Done, John.”
The body-guard removed the plug and there was a CLICK as the hidden port in the eye closed once more. Thomas shuddered. “Will that suffice, Commander Fletcher?” he asked—but the engineer from the past was staring at the hologram, zooming in on various components.
“SON OF A BITCH!” he yelled. “That’s a heavily modified miniature Kearny-Fuchida projector—not a drive, but a fucking projector!”
“WHAT?” shouts rose from the table.
“Jack,” Helena said gently, “you can’t operate a K/F system in a gravity well—what makes you think this is one?”
“Not and transport ships, skipper,” Jack Fletcher said in an awed voice. “This was theorized ever since Kearny and Fuchida made their first equations. Think back to Jump Engineering 101—Artificial jump points, skipper. Artificial jump points,” he continued in an awed voice.
Vickers frowned. “I remember that from the Academy—but the energy costs were too high; it would require the total power output of this planet to create one large enough to send a ship through.” And then the light bulb went off. “Oh, bloody hell. How big a bubble do you have to create to send a burst transmission?”
“A few centimeters in diameter? Perhaps even a millimeter?” Jack shook his head. “Protector, you don’t need the technical shit—get me in there, and I’ll make that son-of-a-bitch work!”
Thomas snarled. “That confident, are you Commander? Good; because we are going to get you in there. The Primus of ComStar wants to threaten me? He wants to threaten the Concordat? I think he has already declared WAR on us, ladies and gentlemen—and that he was behind the Hussars attacking Jansen’s Hold. I would put money on it—that smirking bastard Precentor Taurus, he knows something. That one, I want alive.”
He exhaled deeply. “ComStar wants a war? Well, they’ve got one. CYAN is approved, Marshal Calderon. Marshal Vickers, mind if we borrow Commander Fletcher for a bit?”
“Will I get a chance to blow a very nasty, very big hole in Julian Tiepolo?”
“Doubtful at the present time, Marshal—but if he and his continues to piss me off, once we get your ship repaired, I might let you nuke Hilton Head Island on Terra.”
Helena Vickers laughed. “I’d hock my soul for that chance, Protector Thomas! You’ve got a deal.”
“Good. Understand me, ladies and gentlemen, as of this moment—WE ARE AT WAR.”
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
Damn. Constant definitely put their foot in it. And if knowledge on how to operate the HPGs gets out to the other Houses (Davion especially - he has an axe to grind with them, no?), then Comstar's days are numbered.
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
Shraplen Estate
Samantha City, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
October 25, 3025
“House arrest! I cannot believe that Thomas thinks I deliberately had anything to do with this attack, Henri—you must tell him. You must convince him,” Grover begged to the head of Taurian Intelligence.
“You misunderstand the reason for this visit, Governor Shraplen,” Henri said very quietly. “I have already questioned your men—and they have been most revealing. About how you raged at Thomas when he told you that he was seeking an accommodation with Hanse Davion.”
“We can’t trust the Davions—Thomas should never trust the Davions! They stole our worlds! They took from us our strength! Without them, the Star League wouldn’t have come for us!”
Henri shook his head. “Governor Shraplen, you are wrong on so many levels that it is not even funny—you believe that Maximillian Liao would be a better choice for an ally? The Liao do not have allies . . . they have servants and enemies.”
Grover began to reply, but then he shut his mouth. “You cannot prove anything.”
The Intelligence Chief chuckled. “In Wartime, Governor Shraplen, Special Intelligence and Operations has special . . . authority. And yesterday, the Protector declared WAR. On ComStar.”
“ComStar?” Grover spat. “He will destroy the Concordat when our communications are sundered and Hanse Davion invades! We should regain our worlds, now—ally with the Capellans, and make restitution to Terra!”
“Such a noble son of Taurus, Governor Shraplen—how long have you been taking money from Maximillian Liao?” Henri asked, and Grover’s face went white.
“Aren’t a good poker player, are you? As I said, in wartime, my office has special authority. Over the past decade—at least that far—you have received quite a bit of funding from Sian. Quite a bit. Now, that doesn’t—exactly—make you a traitor, Grover, although it does make you stupid . . . but Thomas will not be at all pleased with you all the same.”
“Damn you,” Grover whispered.
“I want to know one thing, Grover. One little thing,” Henri paused. “You see, I have spoken to Thomas’s valet—the one that you suggested he hire because of his qualifications. And the valet told me that he . . . informed you that Edward Calderon was leaving the Concordat secretly. Travelling into the Federated Suns to start talks with Hanse Davion.”
Grover snarled, but Henri just shook his head and he drew his pistol—Grover stared at the man in shock.
“Did you share that information with Boris Tharn? With anyone else by HPG, Governor Shraplen? HPGs run by ComStar—whom we are now at war with . . . and who read our mail. Did you?” Henri smiled. “Before you answer, consider that by this time tomorrow the Samantha City ComStar Compound will be taken by force and I will have access to their archives—lie to me, and you will not survive the week.”
“I-I,” Grove sputtered, and then he swallowed heavily. “I might have mentioned it to Boris—not who he was meeting, but that he was travelling incognito to New Avalon.”
“Incognito? Did you mention his heavily armed escorts?”
“No.”
“You are certain of that?”
“YES!”
“Good,” Henri said as he stood and holstered the pistol. “Our interview is at an end, Mister Shraplen—I believe that Thomas will probably strip from you your title and your world for your selling of information to Max Liao. Such a pity that is—a stain upon your name, and it alerts Max to the fact that we knew about you.” Henri sighed. “Of course, you are too much the coward to take the honorable exit—so I am doing it for you.”
“WHAT!” shouted Grover as two of Henri’s men stepped forward and grabbed the powerful nobleman. A third unzipped a leather case and extracted a syringe and a vial; the powerful drug concoction sprayed into the air after he loaded the syringe.
“You CAN’T! I have RIGHTS!” Grover shouted as Henri rolled up the man’s sleeve and his agent fixed a rubber tourniquet around his bicep. Finding the vein, he inserted the needle—and the overdose of the illegal narcotics within. Grover twitched as the tourniquet was released, then he spat and began to spasm—before he collapsed, bubbles foaming at his mouth and nose amid the blood.
Henri nodded and the agent bent down and placed Grover’s hand and fingers on the syringe, and then the three gathered their gear and left.
“Good-bye and good riddance, Grover,” Henri said as he placed his hat on his head and exited through the servant’s wing of Shraplen’s empty manse.
TCOSIO Headquarters
Samantha City, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
October 25, 3025
Henri worked quickly and alone as he slowly encoded the message that simply had to be sent before the attack. The code used was old—but it had never before been used for communication. He shrugged as he double-checked it; not even ComStar could be expected to break this—not without additional samples, not on the first use ever.
Satisfied, he finished the message form and then he pushed the buzzer on his desk. Summoned by the shrill noise, his secretary entered his office.
“Amanda,” he said as he passed the document across to her. "I need this sent to,” and he checked his file again, “one Riva Allard on New Avalon—by a courier not associated with this office. Immediately, I am afraid—can we squeeze this one in?”
The middle-aged woman smiled. “Consider it done, Chief. Standard or priority?”
“Oh, priority. And use Governor Shraplen’s account codes—no sense in depleting our own. He won’t be missing them.”
“Yes, Sir. Will you working late again, Sir?”
“Unfortunately, yes, Amanda.”
“Well, remember to eat—it isn’t healthy to miss too many meals,” she chided as she left the office with the document case.
The Palace of the First Prince
Avalon City, New Avalon
Federated Suns
October 26, 3025
“Not bad news, one hopes?” Hanse Davion asked after the guards left, leaving Quintus Allard and the First Prince alone—Allard had insisted.
“Incredible news, my Lord,” the Intelligence Minister answered. And then he sighed. “My daughter received this communication this morning—and she recognized the first line. Knowing my work, she then delivered it into my hands.”
Hanse frowned, and he picked up the piece of paper. “Go tell the Spartans, stranger passing by, that here obedient to their laws we lie.”
“It is a code phrase that Henri Jouett and I agreed upon when we met for the first and only time ten years ago,” Quintus said simply. “It means that we need to talk—the body of the message was thoroughly encrypted. But I have the decryption key,” he smiled as he handed Hanse a second sheet.
The First Prince began to read—and then he looked up in shock. Quintus nodded, and Hanse resumed—he started from the beginning, not once, not twice, but three times. And when he was finished, he sat down the paper and he stood, beginning to pace.
“Thomas Calderon is sending Edward Calderon here—to negotiate with me over the price for a copy of the Vickers Core. Did I read that right?”
“You did.”
“And he is—probably at this very moment—attacking ComStar facilities across the Concordat and is about to suffer an Interdiction? I read that right—that isn’t code, is it?”
“No, Sire. You read it correctly, Sire.”
“And this—Henri Jouett—that runs their intelligence believes that ComStar is going to try to kidnap or kill Edward . . . and he wants me to protect him.”
“In return, Prince Hanse, for the secrets of HPG operation—which he claims the Concordat has available.”
Hanse nodded and he walked over to his wet bar and poured an amber liquid in a crystal glass before he downed it. Then he poured another.
“Is this real, Quintus—or am I dreaming?”
“I’m not wearing the French maid outfit again, am I, my Prince?” Quintus answered with a laugh. “If not, this is real—if I am, you are dreaming.”
Hanse snorted. “I’d be picturing Melissa Steiner in a French maid outfit, not you, old friend,” and then he sighed. “If this is real . . .,” and his voice trailed off.
“Yes.”
“Pass the word—NOW. Before the interdiction begins—abort all operations in the Taurian Concordat. MI4 is to observe only—the Rabid Foxes are to return to base immediately.”
“And Edward?”
“We need to get Ardan in on this,” Hanse said with a smile. “It seems that this is tradition he is establishing of rescuing heirs to the throne.” He took another swallow and then he grabbed a second glass and the bottle and set it on his desk. Pouring another for himself and one for Quintus, he raised the crystal again. “If this isn’t a dream . . . then we have a chance to damn those bastards to hell, Quintus.”
“Amen, my Prince,” Quintus answered as he clicked his glass against that of his sovereign and both men drank deep.
Samantha City, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
October 25, 3025
“House arrest! I cannot believe that Thomas thinks I deliberately had anything to do with this attack, Henri—you must tell him. You must convince him,” Grover begged to the head of Taurian Intelligence.
“You misunderstand the reason for this visit, Governor Shraplen,” Henri said very quietly. “I have already questioned your men—and they have been most revealing. About how you raged at Thomas when he told you that he was seeking an accommodation with Hanse Davion.”
“We can’t trust the Davions—Thomas should never trust the Davions! They stole our worlds! They took from us our strength! Without them, the Star League wouldn’t have come for us!”
Henri shook his head. “Governor Shraplen, you are wrong on so many levels that it is not even funny—you believe that Maximillian Liao would be a better choice for an ally? The Liao do not have allies . . . they have servants and enemies.”
Grover began to reply, but then he shut his mouth. “You cannot prove anything.”
The Intelligence Chief chuckled. “In Wartime, Governor Shraplen, Special Intelligence and Operations has special . . . authority. And yesterday, the Protector declared WAR. On ComStar.”
“ComStar?” Grover spat. “He will destroy the Concordat when our communications are sundered and Hanse Davion invades! We should regain our worlds, now—ally with the Capellans, and make restitution to Terra!”
“Such a noble son of Taurus, Governor Shraplen—how long have you been taking money from Maximillian Liao?” Henri asked, and Grover’s face went white.
“Aren’t a good poker player, are you? As I said, in wartime, my office has special authority. Over the past decade—at least that far—you have received quite a bit of funding from Sian. Quite a bit. Now, that doesn’t—exactly—make you a traitor, Grover, although it does make you stupid . . . but Thomas will not be at all pleased with you all the same.”
“Damn you,” Grover whispered.
“I want to know one thing, Grover. One little thing,” Henri paused. “You see, I have spoken to Thomas’s valet—the one that you suggested he hire because of his qualifications. And the valet told me that he . . . informed you that Edward Calderon was leaving the Concordat secretly. Travelling into the Federated Suns to start talks with Hanse Davion.”
Grover snarled, but Henri just shook his head and he drew his pistol—Grover stared at the man in shock.
“Did you share that information with Boris Tharn? With anyone else by HPG, Governor Shraplen? HPGs run by ComStar—whom we are now at war with . . . and who read our mail. Did you?” Henri smiled. “Before you answer, consider that by this time tomorrow the Samantha City ComStar Compound will be taken by force and I will have access to their archives—lie to me, and you will not survive the week.”
“I-I,” Grove sputtered, and then he swallowed heavily. “I might have mentioned it to Boris—not who he was meeting, but that he was travelling incognito to New Avalon.”
“Incognito? Did you mention his heavily armed escorts?”
“No.”
“You are certain of that?”
“YES!”
“Good,” Henri said as he stood and holstered the pistol. “Our interview is at an end, Mister Shraplen—I believe that Thomas will probably strip from you your title and your world for your selling of information to Max Liao. Such a pity that is—a stain upon your name, and it alerts Max to the fact that we knew about you.” Henri sighed. “Of course, you are too much the coward to take the honorable exit—so I am doing it for you.”
“WHAT!” shouted Grover as two of Henri’s men stepped forward and grabbed the powerful nobleman. A third unzipped a leather case and extracted a syringe and a vial; the powerful drug concoction sprayed into the air after he loaded the syringe.
“You CAN’T! I have RIGHTS!” Grover shouted as Henri rolled up the man’s sleeve and his agent fixed a rubber tourniquet around his bicep. Finding the vein, he inserted the needle—and the overdose of the illegal narcotics within. Grover twitched as the tourniquet was released, then he spat and began to spasm—before he collapsed, bubbles foaming at his mouth and nose amid the blood.
Henri nodded and the agent bent down and placed Grover’s hand and fingers on the syringe, and then the three gathered their gear and left.
“Good-bye and good riddance, Grover,” Henri said as he placed his hat on his head and exited through the servant’s wing of Shraplen’s empty manse.
TCOSIO Headquarters
Samantha City, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
October 25, 3025
Henri worked quickly and alone as he slowly encoded the message that simply had to be sent before the attack. The code used was old—but it had never before been used for communication. He shrugged as he double-checked it; not even ComStar could be expected to break this—not without additional samples, not on the first use ever.
Satisfied, he finished the message form and then he pushed the buzzer on his desk. Summoned by the shrill noise, his secretary entered his office.
“Amanda,” he said as he passed the document across to her. "I need this sent to,” and he checked his file again, “one Riva Allard on New Avalon—by a courier not associated with this office. Immediately, I am afraid—can we squeeze this one in?”
The middle-aged woman smiled. “Consider it done, Chief. Standard or priority?”
“Oh, priority. And use Governor Shraplen’s account codes—no sense in depleting our own. He won’t be missing them.”
“Yes, Sir. Will you working late again, Sir?”
“Unfortunately, yes, Amanda.”
“Well, remember to eat—it isn’t healthy to miss too many meals,” she chided as she left the office with the document case.
The Palace of the First Prince
Avalon City, New Avalon
Federated Suns
October 26, 3025
“Not bad news, one hopes?” Hanse Davion asked after the guards left, leaving Quintus Allard and the First Prince alone—Allard had insisted.
“Incredible news, my Lord,” the Intelligence Minister answered. And then he sighed. “My daughter received this communication this morning—and she recognized the first line. Knowing my work, she then delivered it into my hands.”
Hanse frowned, and he picked up the piece of paper. “Go tell the Spartans, stranger passing by, that here obedient to their laws we lie.”
“It is a code phrase that Henri Jouett and I agreed upon when we met for the first and only time ten years ago,” Quintus said simply. “It means that we need to talk—the body of the message was thoroughly encrypted. But I have the decryption key,” he smiled as he handed Hanse a second sheet.
The First Prince began to read—and then he looked up in shock. Quintus nodded, and Hanse resumed—he started from the beginning, not once, not twice, but three times. And when he was finished, he sat down the paper and he stood, beginning to pace.
“Thomas Calderon is sending Edward Calderon here—to negotiate with me over the price for a copy of the Vickers Core. Did I read that right?”
“You did.”
“And he is—probably at this very moment—attacking ComStar facilities across the Concordat and is about to suffer an Interdiction? I read that right—that isn’t code, is it?”
“No, Sire. You read it correctly, Sire.”
“And this—Henri Jouett—that runs their intelligence believes that ComStar is going to try to kidnap or kill Edward . . . and he wants me to protect him.”
“In return, Prince Hanse, for the secrets of HPG operation—which he claims the Concordat has available.”
Hanse nodded and he walked over to his wet bar and poured an amber liquid in a crystal glass before he downed it. Then he poured another.
“Is this real, Quintus—or am I dreaming?”
“I’m not wearing the French maid outfit again, am I, my Prince?” Quintus answered with a laugh. “If not, this is real—if I am, you are dreaming.”
Hanse snorted. “I’d be picturing Melissa Steiner in a French maid outfit, not you, old friend,” and then he sighed. “If this is real . . .,” and his voice trailed off.
“Yes.”
“Pass the word—NOW. Before the interdiction begins—abort all operations in the Taurian Concordat. MI4 is to observe only—the Rabid Foxes are to return to base immediately.”
“And Edward?”
“We need to get Ardan in on this,” Hanse said with a smile. “It seems that this is tradition he is establishing of rescuing heirs to the throne.” He took another swallow and then he grabbed a second glass and the bottle and set it on his desk. Pouring another for himself and one for Quintus, he raised the crystal again. “If this isn’t a dream . . . then we have a chance to damn those bastards to hell, Quintus.”
“Amen, my Prince,” Quintus answered as he clicked his glass against that of his sovereign and both men drank deep.
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Eternal_Freedom
- Castellan
- Posts: 10370
- Joined: 2010-03-09 02:16pm
- Location: CIC, Battlestar Temeraire
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
Henri Jouett, I have sorely misjudged you. You are truly a magnificent bastard.
And Thomas Calderon is channeling William Adama. His enemies are therefore screwed.
And Thomas Calderon is channeling William Adama. His enemies are therefore screwed.
Baltar: "I don't want to miss a moment of the last Battlestar's destruction!"
Centurion: "Sir, I really think you should look at the other Battlestar."
Baltar: "What are you babbling about other...it's impossible!"
Centurion: "No. It is a Battlestar."
Corrax Entry 7:17: So you walk eternally through the shadow realms, standing against evil where all others falter. May your thirst for retribution never quench, may the blood on your sword never dry, and may we never need you again.
Centurion: "Sir, I really think you should look at the other Battlestar."
Baltar: "What are you babbling about other...it's impossible!"
Centurion: "No. It is a Battlestar."
Corrax Entry 7:17: So you walk eternally through the shadow realms, standing against evil where all others falter. May your thirst for retribution never quench, may the blood on your sword never dry, and may we never need you again.
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
ComStar Class A HPG Station
Samantha City, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
October 27, 3025
“Hey, Bob,” one of the guards called out to his companion, who sighed.
“Look, Jeremy—Chief Waters is going to have both our asses if you keep talking when you are supposed to be standing post. What?”
“You ever seen one of those before?” the relatively new ComStar recruit pointed at the ‘Mechs moving along the boulevard—a late night exercise, according to the TDF. Nothing to worry about, the guard thought. The Taurians often conducted exercises of tanks and ‘Mechs and infantry at odd hours—even here in the core of the capital.
“They’re ‘Mechs, Waters,” he said . . . but then he actually looked at them. And he frowned. They were ‘Mechs, to be certain, but of a design he had never before seen. And the Battalion marching by . . . every last one of the ‘Mech were that same unfamiliar design. What the hell? No one fielded entire battalions of the same BattleMech—not since the Fall of the League, at least. And that insignia—Robert Grey knew the shoulder flash of every TDF unit on Taurus, but he had never before seen that flash . . . and his eyes grew wide. Not outside of a museum, the cold realization came bubbling up from the depths of his memory.
He reached down and placed his hand on the phone—and that was when the line of ‘Mechs and tanks and infantry carriers suddenly wheeled and began advancing on the compound. “SHIT!” he screamed—but the incoming PPC bolt tore apart the guard shack before he had the opportunity to trigger the alarm.
Of course, the explosions and weapons fire was more than enough to alert the men and women who called the ComStar compound home.
********************************************************
“What is happening?” Precentor Taurus screamed as he entered the control center—he was still pulling on his robes of station.
“Thomas has gone mad—I do believe that this is his answer to the Primus,” the ROM Chief of Station said bitterly. “He’s attacking the facility.”
The ComStar leader blanched . . . and then he cursed. “The HPG—I’ve got to get to the HPG,” he said. “Can you hold them off?”
“How long do you need?” the ROM officer asked with a grimace—and both men ducked as an outlying structure erupted in a fireball . . . and hundreds of Taurian infantry darted in through the breaks in the compound walls.
“Five minutes minimum—ten would be better.”
“My boys can give you three—maybe four. May I suggest you implement the Omega Protocol, Precentor?”
Precentor Taurus nodded. He inserted a key into one of the computer stations of the command center; entered a short code, and then he turned the key. “Omega Protocol activated,” he said. But the ROM Agent was already gone, leading the men and women of the security force in trying to hold back tanks and ‘Mechs and infantry with only small arms.
Damn you, Thomas Calderon. You have condemned the entire Concordat to death with this action, he thought as he knelt in the entrance—looking at the twenty meters that separated him from the entrance to the communications dome at the center of the compound. Twenty meters—just twenty meters. However, it was twenty meters filled with weapons fire. Gritting his teeth, Precentor Taurus dashed out, zigging and zagging as he rushed toward the entrance of the dome. He never saw the Taurian paratrooper drifting down from above who fired a burst into his back as he sprinted across the open courtyard.
********************************************************
The outer compound was child’s play to secure—but the dome itself featured multiple levels, many beneath the city streets. And the tight quarters, plus fear of causing damage to the invaluable HPG restricted the weapons that Corporal Mueller and his maniple could carry to light-weight SMGs and pistols, along with a handful of flame incinerator units.
Say what you want about their beliefs, he thought, the robes were throwing up heavy resistance in his path. And that made him wonder—why does a religion that preaches peace need to have so many well-trained and heavily-armed people? He stopped next to a corridor junction and then he nodded at one of his men—the one carrying the flamer. The trooper gritted his teeth and he stepped forward, extending his arms around the bend and squeezing the trigger . . . and screams began to fill the corridor, along with a few initial gunshots.
“Go,” Mueller ordered, and the maniple of ten troopers rounded the corner—firing single shots into the burning figures ahead of them. It was a mercy, really, he thought. Better than letting the fire finish its work.
A single pistol shot snapped ahead of him, and Mueller crouched—but he didn’t hear the passage of the bullet. And then another. And a third.
He broke into a run and entered the HPG chamber itself, and without thinking he raised his SMG to his shoulder and fired three bursts into the back of the security officer who was casually shooting the technicians in the head. Shooting his own people in the fucking head, Mueller thought as he swore.
The next tech in line, the one that the ROM agent had been about to execute, sobbed. “Thank Blake,” he cried. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Mueller and his men spread out and they searched the chamber—but the security man with the pistol had been the last line of defense. “Bravo Three-Two,” he broadcast. “HPG secure—we have live prisoners,” and then Mueller frowned as he saw the red flashing lights on one console. That can’t be good, he thought. Then he blanched. “Central, they’ve set their reactor on overload—we have . . . three minutes to core detonation.”
********************************************************
“I thought you were the best, Harper?” the sergeant growled at the Explosive Ordnance Disposal tech. “Disarm the bloody thing right quick, now!”
“It ain’t a bomb, Sarge! It’s a bloody damned fusion reactor! And the controls are locked!” Patricia Harper snapped as she wiggled her way into the wire-filled outer containment vessel.
“Just turn the damn thing off!” the Sergeant bellowed again. Already, the Taurians were evacuating the troops above—and the civilians in nearby residential sections. If this thing blew . . . well, several thousand people would have a very bad morning. Pat crawled through the outer containment vessel and then she found what she was looking for.
“Got it!” she snarled. “Time to core overload?”
“Forty seconds,” the radio squawked.
“It’s all about the fuel,” she said as she worked. “These things can’t sustain a reaction without the fuel feed—cut the lines and avert the overload.”
“Can’t be that simple, can it?” asked the Sergeant.
“Making a bomb is easy, Sarge—making one that will go off on a moments notice and NOT blow up when someone bumps into on a daily basis; well, that’s a bit more difficult. But they don’t need to use a bomb, not when they can overload this generator.”
“Thirty seconds.”
“Problem is, unlike a bomb, it takes time to build up to detonation—and a LOT of fuel. Cut,” she grunted as she finished wrapping the det cord, “the fuel lines and the whole thing goes cold.”
“Unless you breach containment—you are right up against the interior vessel, Harper.”
“Twenty seconds.”
“Teach your grandmother to suck eggs, Sarge. I’ve got it—backing out now,” and she began to crawl away from the fuel lines . . . and then she cursed.
“Fuck,” she whispered as she tried to move—but she was caught on the wiring, hung up good.
“Ten seconds,” the radio whispered.
“Get out of there, Harper!” the Sergeant yelled.
“No time, Sarge,” she whispered as she lifted the trigger for the detonator. “No time,” and she closed her eyes as she hit the clacker twice. The explosion tore apart the fuel lines—and the reactor’s safeties automatically shut off the fuel flow as sensors indicated a leak in the outer containment vessel. Without the fuel, the fusion reactor in the INNER vessel slowly weakened and dissipated.
She had saved thousands of lives—at the cost of her own. And she was only one of hundreds of Taurians who sacrificed themselves for their Protector, their nation, their people that day.
Samantha City, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
October 27, 3025
“Hey, Bob,” one of the guards called out to his companion, who sighed.
“Look, Jeremy—Chief Waters is going to have both our asses if you keep talking when you are supposed to be standing post. What?”
“You ever seen one of those before?” the relatively new ComStar recruit pointed at the ‘Mechs moving along the boulevard—a late night exercise, according to the TDF. Nothing to worry about, the guard thought. The Taurians often conducted exercises of tanks and ‘Mechs and infantry at odd hours—even here in the core of the capital.
“They’re ‘Mechs, Waters,” he said . . . but then he actually looked at them. And he frowned. They were ‘Mechs, to be certain, but of a design he had never before seen. And the Battalion marching by . . . every last one of the ‘Mech were that same unfamiliar design. What the hell? No one fielded entire battalions of the same BattleMech—not since the Fall of the League, at least. And that insignia—Robert Grey knew the shoulder flash of every TDF unit on Taurus, but he had never before seen that flash . . . and his eyes grew wide. Not outside of a museum, the cold realization came bubbling up from the depths of his memory.
He reached down and placed his hand on the phone—and that was when the line of ‘Mechs and tanks and infantry carriers suddenly wheeled and began advancing on the compound. “SHIT!” he screamed—but the incoming PPC bolt tore apart the guard shack before he had the opportunity to trigger the alarm.
Of course, the explosions and weapons fire was more than enough to alert the men and women who called the ComStar compound home.
********************************************************
“What is happening?” Precentor Taurus screamed as he entered the control center—he was still pulling on his robes of station.
“Thomas has gone mad—I do believe that this is his answer to the Primus,” the ROM Chief of Station said bitterly. “He’s attacking the facility.”
The ComStar leader blanched . . . and then he cursed. “The HPG—I’ve got to get to the HPG,” he said. “Can you hold them off?”
“How long do you need?” the ROM officer asked with a grimace—and both men ducked as an outlying structure erupted in a fireball . . . and hundreds of Taurian infantry darted in through the breaks in the compound walls.
“Five minutes minimum—ten would be better.”
“My boys can give you three—maybe four. May I suggest you implement the Omega Protocol, Precentor?”
Precentor Taurus nodded. He inserted a key into one of the computer stations of the command center; entered a short code, and then he turned the key. “Omega Protocol activated,” he said. But the ROM Agent was already gone, leading the men and women of the security force in trying to hold back tanks and ‘Mechs and infantry with only small arms.
Damn you, Thomas Calderon. You have condemned the entire Concordat to death with this action, he thought as he knelt in the entrance—looking at the twenty meters that separated him from the entrance to the communications dome at the center of the compound. Twenty meters—just twenty meters. However, it was twenty meters filled with weapons fire. Gritting his teeth, Precentor Taurus dashed out, zigging and zagging as he rushed toward the entrance of the dome. He never saw the Taurian paratrooper drifting down from above who fired a burst into his back as he sprinted across the open courtyard.
********************************************************
The outer compound was child’s play to secure—but the dome itself featured multiple levels, many beneath the city streets. And the tight quarters, plus fear of causing damage to the invaluable HPG restricted the weapons that Corporal Mueller and his maniple could carry to light-weight SMGs and pistols, along with a handful of flame incinerator units.
Say what you want about their beliefs, he thought, the robes were throwing up heavy resistance in his path. And that made him wonder—why does a religion that preaches peace need to have so many well-trained and heavily-armed people? He stopped next to a corridor junction and then he nodded at one of his men—the one carrying the flamer. The trooper gritted his teeth and he stepped forward, extending his arms around the bend and squeezing the trigger . . . and screams began to fill the corridor, along with a few initial gunshots.
“Go,” Mueller ordered, and the maniple of ten troopers rounded the corner—firing single shots into the burning figures ahead of them. It was a mercy, really, he thought. Better than letting the fire finish its work.
A single pistol shot snapped ahead of him, and Mueller crouched—but he didn’t hear the passage of the bullet. And then another. And a third.
He broke into a run and entered the HPG chamber itself, and without thinking he raised his SMG to his shoulder and fired three bursts into the back of the security officer who was casually shooting the technicians in the head. Shooting his own people in the fucking head, Mueller thought as he swore.
The next tech in line, the one that the ROM agent had been about to execute, sobbed. “Thank Blake,” he cried. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Mueller and his men spread out and they searched the chamber—but the security man with the pistol had been the last line of defense. “Bravo Three-Two,” he broadcast. “HPG secure—we have live prisoners,” and then Mueller frowned as he saw the red flashing lights on one console. That can’t be good, he thought. Then he blanched. “Central, they’ve set their reactor on overload—we have . . . three minutes to core detonation.”
********************************************************
“I thought you were the best, Harper?” the sergeant growled at the Explosive Ordnance Disposal tech. “Disarm the bloody thing right quick, now!”
“It ain’t a bomb, Sarge! It’s a bloody damned fusion reactor! And the controls are locked!” Patricia Harper snapped as she wiggled her way into the wire-filled outer containment vessel.
“Just turn the damn thing off!” the Sergeant bellowed again. Already, the Taurians were evacuating the troops above—and the civilians in nearby residential sections. If this thing blew . . . well, several thousand people would have a very bad morning. Pat crawled through the outer containment vessel and then she found what she was looking for.
“Got it!” she snarled. “Time to core overload?”
“Forty seconds,” the radio squawked.
“It’s all about the fuel,” she said as she worked. “These things can’t sustain a reaction without the fuel feed—cut the lines and avert the overload.”
“Can’t be that simple, can it?” asked the Sergeant.
“Making a bomb is easy, Sarge—making one that will go off on a moments notice and NOT blow up when someone bumps into on a daily basis; well, that’s a bit more difficult. But they don’t need to use a bomb, not when they can overload this generator.”
“Thirty seconds.”
“Problem is, unlike a bomb, it takes time to build up to detonation—and a LOT of fuel. Cut,” she grunted as she finished wrapping the det cord, “the fuel lines and the whole thing goes cold.”
“Unless you breach containment—you are right up against the interior vessel, Harper.”
“Twenty seconds.”
“Teach your grandmother to suck eggs, Sarge. I’ve got it—backing out now,” and she began to crawl away from the fuel lines . . . and then she cursed.
“Fuck,” she whispered as she tried to move—but she was caught on the wiring, hung up good.
“Ten seconds,” the radio whispered.
“Get out of there, Harper!” the Sergeant yelled.
“No time, Sarge,” she whispered as she lifted the trigger for the detonator. “No time,” and she closed her eyes as she hit the clacker twice. The explosion tore apart the fuel lines—and the reactor’s safeties automatically shut off the fuel flow as sensors indicated a leak in the outer containment vessel. Without the fuel, the fusion reactor in the INNER vessel slowly weakened and dissipated.
She had saved thousands of lives—at the cost of her own. And she was only one of hundreds of Taurians who sacrificed themselves for their Protector, their nation, their people that day.
-
masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
ComStar Class A HPG Station
Samantha City, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
October 27, 3025
Thomas stepped gingerly through the rubble of the formerly immaculate courtyard in what had once upon a time been the premier ComStar installation on Taurus. Despite protests from his security—and Brenda Calderon, and Helena Vickers, and Henri Jouett—he had insisted on seeing this with his own eyes. Well, his own eye, he thought with a slight snicker.
But the amusement faded away as he saw the lines of dead being respectfully covered and the wounded being tended.
“How many, Brenda?” he asked.
“Ours or theirs?”
“Fuck theirs—how many of ours?”
“Fifty-three dead, three times that wounded. Primarily in the infantry—ComStar didn’t give up without a fight.”
“Could have been worse,” muttered Henri Jouett.
“It would have been worse if not for Tech-Corporal Harper,” Brenda Calderon said with a sigh. “She saved a lot of civilians—and a lot of our people, not to mention the HPG itself.”
“John,” Thomas said to his body-guard, “made a note that I want to see her family myself—at the Chateau, when they have had time to grieve.” He nodded to himself. “Ask them if they are willing to accept the Standard of Taurus on her behalf.”
“Yes, Protector,” the body guard said with a bow, and Brenda nodded her agreement.
Conversation came to a halt as Thomas knelt down next to a wounded soldier, and spoke with him quietly, then he moved on to the next, and then the next. Finally, the Protector left the wounded men and women and the group moved on.
“Has your Commander Fletcher had any luck in figuring that thing out?”
Helena snorted. “He’s happier than a pig covered in slop, Protector Thomas—as soon as the reactor is repaired, he thinks that he can bring the HPG on-line.” She chuckled. “Of course, having several live technicians from ComStar helps; and the fact that their own security was trying to kill before we took over has rather . . . inspired some of them.”
Thomas nodded and he frowned. It was amazing how much finding out that your own people wanted you dead could focus one’s attention—the surviving techs, most of them Alpha Division, had (for the most part) experienced a conversion experience in the maelstrom of that assault. Some were cooperating—others, not so much. But some of them, shocked beyond belief that ComStar lacked any trust in their ability to keep silent, that the organization would rather kill these men and women themselves than risk their secrets emerging . . . ah. It rather warmed Thomas’ heart that a few of these had their eyes opened.
And then he smiled grimly as he came upon another stretcher.
“Precentor Taurus—did you receive my answer on this morning?” Thomas asked the wounded man as he was being carried past.
“You are a dead man, Thomas Calderon,” the ComStar leader whispered. “ROM will not rest until you and all your heirs are dead—until the Concordat is history, lifeless and depopulated. You have started a war that you cannot imagine—and you will pay for it with all that you hold dear.”
Thomas knelt and his smile faded. “If the Primus of ComStar wants a war, then a war he has, Precentor. As for you—well, there are many secrets that need to be extracted from that skull of yours. And even if you die before saying a word, Precentor, I promise you that death will be long in coming—and pain will fill every last moment of your life until the end.” Thomas stood. “Maybe I’ll send the Primus your head—as an example of what ComStar can expect if they interfere with the Concordat.”
“You’ve damned yourself beyond all redemption,” the Precentor whispered. “Blake will devour your soul.”
“My dear Precentor,” Thomas said gently, “Blake was just a man. Not a god—a man. I know—it was my own ancestor that nominated him to be the last Director of the Star League Communications Division. Your fraudulent mysticism and fabricated beliefs do not frighten me.”
“You will learn to fear the Word of Blake before your end, Thomas Calderon,” the Precentor spat, and then he grimaced at the pain from his wounds.
“Not likely, charlatan,” Thomas whispered in the ear of the man. “See to it that his wounds are treated—I want him healthy when he is questioned,” the Protector ordered the medics.
“Helena,” he continued to the Marshal. “Light a fire under your man—I’ve got a message to send to the Primus . . . one that will make him sit and take notice.”
“Of course, Protector Calderon,” she answered quietly as Thomas continued his tour of the damaged compound, speaking with the people who earned this victory.
Samantha City, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
October 27, 3025
Thomas stepped gingerly through the rubble of the formerly immaculate courtyard in what had once upon a time been the premier ComStar installation on Taurus. Despite protests from his security—and Brenda Calderon, and Helena Vickers, and Henri Jouett—he had insisted on seeing this with his own eyes. Well, his own eye, he thought with a slight snicker.
But the amusement faded away as he saw the lines of dead being respectfully covered and the wounded being tended.
“How many, Brenda?” he asked.
“Ours or theirs?”
“Fuck theirs—how many of ours?”
“Fifty-three dead, three times that wounded. Primarily in the infantry—ComStar didn’t give up without a fight.”
“Could have been worse,” muttered Henri Jouett.
“It would have been worse if not for Tech-Corporal Harper,” Brenda Calderon said with a sigh. “She saved a lot of civilians—and a lot of our people, not to mention the HPG itself.”
“John,” Thomas said to his body-guard, “made a note that I want to see her family myself—at the Chateau, when they have had time to grieve.” He nodded to himself. “Ask them if they are willing to accept the Standard of Taurus on her behalf.”
“Yes, Protector,” the body guard said with a bow, and Brenda nodded her agreement.
Conversation came to a halt as Thomas knelt down next to a wounded soldier, and spoke with him quietly, then he moved on to the next, and then the next. Finally, the Protector left the wounded men and women and the group moved on.
“Has your Commander Fletcher had any luck in figuring that thing out?”
Helena snorted. “He’s happier than a pig covered in slop, Protector Thomas—as soon as the reactor is repaired, he thinks that he can bring the HPG on-line.” She chuckled. “Of course, having several live technicians from ComStar helps; and the fact that their own security was trying to kill before we took over has rather . . . inspired some of them.”
Thomas nodded and he frowned. It was amazing how much finding out that your own people wanted you dead could focus one’s attention—the surviving techs, most of them Alpha Division, had (for the most part) experienced a conversion experience in the maelstrom of that assault. Some were cooperating—others, not so much. But some of them, shocked beyond belief that ComStar lacked any trust in their ability to keep silent, that the organization would rather kill these men and women themselves than risk their secrets emerging . . . ah. It rather warmed Thomas’ heart that a few of these had their eyes opened.
And then he smiled grimly as he came upon another stretcher.
“Precentor Taurus—did you receive my answer on this morning?” Thomas asked the wounded man as he was being carried past.
“You are a dead man, Thomas Calderon,” the ComStar leader whispered. “ROM will not rest until you and all your heirs are dead—until the Concordat is history, lifeless and depopulated. You have started a war that you cannot imagine—and you will pay for it with all that you hold dear.”
Thomas knelt and his smile faded. “If the Primus of ComStar wants a war, then a war he has, Precentor. As for you—well, there are many secrets that need to be extracted from that skull of yours. And even if you die before saying a word, Precentor, I promise you that death will be long in coming—and pain will fill every last moment of your life until the end.” Thomas stood. “Maybe I’ll send the Primus your head—as an example of what ComStar can expect if they interfere with the Concordat.”
“You’ve damned yourself beyond all redemption,” the Precentor whispered. “Blake will devour your soul.”
“My dear Precentor,” Thomas said gently, “Blake was just a man. Not a god—a man. I know—it was my own ancestor that nominated him to be the last Director of the Star League Communications Division. Your fraudulent mysticism and fabricated beliefs do not frighten me.”
“You will learn to fear the Word of Blake before your end, Thomas Calderon,” the Precentor spat, and then he grimaced at the pain from his wounds.
“Not likely, charlatan,” Thomas whispered in the ear of the man. “See to it that his wounds are treated—I want him healthy when he is questioned,” the Protector ordered the medics.
“Helena,” he continued to the Marshal. “Light a fire under your man—I’ve got a message to send to the Primus . . . one that will make him sit and take notice.”
“Of course, Protector Calderon,” she answered quietly as Thomas continued his tour of the damaged compound, speaking with the people who earned this victory.
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
I'm liking this Protector. Walking among the wounded so soon after the battle, taking time to talk to them. That's a sign of a good leader, one whose troops will storm the gates of Hell for him if he asked them to.
Can't wait to see what his message to Comstar entails.
Can't wait to see what his message to Comstar entails.
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Vehrec
- Jedi Council Member
- Posts: 2204
- Joined: 2006-04-22 12:29pm
- Location: The Ohio State University
- Contact:
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
It's the 31st century. There are probably hundred of 'manuals' for young men in house and planetary militias that teach the 'skills' of being a good leader and showing concern for your troops. Anyone who doesn't walk among the men after a high-profile mission is either ignoring thousands of years of institutional memory, or just an arrogant sot.
Commander of the MFS Darwinian Selection Method (sexual)Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
knowing what to do and actully doing it ae 2 diffrent things.