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SL/L-N-524141501-9035-768
JumpShip Eureka (GSS Kepler, ex-Explorer)

"There's another one."

Atalanta turned to the bridge holotank while Manfred occupied himself with the various repeaters that clustered around his command couch. Floating in the tank was the remnants of a WarShip.

In tri-vid or holo-d a wreck was almost always easily identifiable. The hull-lines remained largely unbroken even if hull plating was missing. There were usually few holes, and those that were did little to change the wreck's profile.

This one was a shattered riot of metal. The front-third of the vessel had been smashed back into the middle third which had then exploded outward. The end result was the spacedrive that ended in a riot of confused metal splinters.

"Hmm," Manfred hummed softly.

Atalanta turned from the holo-tank.

"Navigation, do we still have a lock on that beacon?"

"Aff, Skipper!"

"Then take us there. No need for more sight-seeing, I think," Manfred said as he stood and crossed the bridge. "What do you think?" he asked, pitching his voice for Atalanta alone.

She shrugged slightly.

Manfred nodded in reply and looked at the holo for a moment, then reached out and punched up a comm-channel. "Flight Ops. Tell Kaden I want a close flyby on that wreck. An optical pass. Tell him I want a good look at the stern."

Atalanta spared him a glance. "What is it?" she asked as he released the intercom stud.

"The thruster assemblies look intact."

"So?"

"So what made them come free of the wreck?"

Atalanta frowned at the other warrior as the holo-tank flickered, and then refreshed as new data was added. It flickered again, and then a third time before it steadied once more.

The thruster assemblies with their large, directional firecans, were very definitely floating free of the wreckage. Unlike the rest of the wreck, however, the edges were…straight.

"I think someone pulled the power plant as well as the drive core," Manfred said.

"Surely the core would have taken too much damage."

"Oh, yes, most definitely," Manfred agreed. "But we are talking about a not insignificant chunk of germanium. Even a destroyed drive-core would be worth a great deal in raw material alone."

"Automated challenge."

"Do we have the correct response?" Manfred asked without turning away.

"Yes, Skipper."

"Then send it."

"Transmitting response… Identification request."

"Send our number."

"Belay that." Atalanta gave Manfred a steady look. "Send Explorer's number."

Manfred pursed his lips before nodding. "Well? You heard the Star Major," he jibed at her, "send Explorer's number."

"We are receiving approach instructions."

"Transfer to helm and execute. Put Dawn Trader on point and Basset in behind us."

LC-2385185-1185-235
SLDS Torin Kerr, (Confederate-class DropShip)

"Surely your training reports are not that bad."

I looked up at Thirteen who had arched an eyebrow expectantly.

"No," I agreed reluctantly. "They aren't bad. On the other hand…"

"Welcome to the joys of unit command," she said. "Not only are you responsible for your people, but higher authority will do everything they can to sow chaos in your path."

I cocked my head. I'd always liked being able to get my hands dirty, and I was good at it, which helped explain why after nearly fifteen years of war I'd dropped on Terra at the head of a company. Well, that and for as much action as we'd seen, we hadn't seen a lot compared to some SLDF units, and General Kerensky had been...resistant (to say the least) to dispersing our personnel through his field armies. But, hell, I didn't wanted a battalion...but I'd done a decent job on Planting and followed it up with good performances on Ridderkirk and Tamar.

It was an axiom that if you refused promotion no military would ever promote you…or give you a job worth doing. Considering who I was and who I knew that was probably unlikely. Except that Amanda also knew as much as I didn't want a battalion, I'd never back down from a challenge and that, frankly, I needed something to keep my mind busy.

Fucking too-smart-for-their-own-good teenagers.

Thirteen, however, had been slated for high command from the moment she entered DCMS. She had more line experience, staff time, and Wisdom of Dragon—the DCMS's answer to the SLDF's Combat Arms College and the School of Command and the General Staff. Which meant, given that we were both stuck on the same dropper, that she was a resource that I could use.

While I was thinking this, she placed her own dataslate on a retention disk and braced her feet against the table to 'recline' in her chair as best she could in micro-gravity. "What has Command done to inspire you to use such language?"

"They're taking back the Buccaneers," I said. "Murray was salvageable and its frame was mostly intact but it needed extensive rebuilding. Command decided to have all of them brought in for a qualitative upgrade since Murray's going to be in the shop anyway."

"It makes sense," Thirteen said. "Prometheus cannot work on a vessel with a jump-core, not if there is a chance that itself may need to jump, and its talents are wasted without something to work on."

"Okay, granted. But they're still taking away the Bucs—most of them at least."

"Why?" she asked.

"They're 'too useful' to allow me to concentrate so many of them in my TOE. And they're making sounds of wanting the engineering and cyber detachment back as well."

"What are they authorizing you for replacement droppers?"

"An Overlord and two Bucs," I said, doing my best not to grimace.

"Two is something."

"I'm going to try requesting a mixed lance of Prowlers and Firemen since something has to be better than nil, but even if the flight deck is convertible—and I'm not sure that I'd want to even if it is—I'm going to have more than the ship can carry."

"You're going to have to give up that third command lance," Thirteen said. "I know, it worked for you on Ridderkirk, and all the simulations say it has the potential to be well-worth it. I can even see it being very workable at the regiment level. But you aren't there, and you just don't have the space available in your DropShips. Especially if you get that request granted."

"That still leaves me over budget on mechs."

"Ask for a Lee?"

"It'd be better than an Overlord anyway. Assuming, of course, that there's one free. I'd probably have to revise my OrBat."

"What do you have so far?" Thirteen asked. "For that matter, how are they revising the Buccaneers?"

"Mostly they're taking on five hundred tons to upgrade the armor, weapons, and drive. I don't think they've settled on a final design yet. One proposal has the center 'mech hanger eplaced with a fighter bay." I brought up plans on my data-slat and flicked them over to her.

"Have you considered a total force of, say, sixty-four mechs?"

"No…why?"

"AeroSpace fighters require more square-meters of deck-space than tonnage-equivalence of 'Mechs, but 'Mechs require more overhead. It would be easier to leave the carrying configuration as-is, than it would for the AeroSpace squadron proposed in these plans. I can see they plan to lower it to gain the additional volume, though I am unsure that moving some of these systems will be as easy as they think. Why bother if you do not have to? For that matter, it would almost be easier to increase that central mechbay to carry four than it would be to replace it with as much hanger space as they are contemplating."

"They're offering to let me have two. You're suggesting I ask for four?"

"If they would alter them to hold sixteen it would get you out of the Overlord. And you could make the case that you have no provisions for fighter assets in your order of battle. An Overlord with two of what they are proposing would give you more than two squadrons worth."

"A point."

"You could also attach a mech element to your companies. Perhaps one engineer and one electronic-warfare specialist or artillery-mech. That would give each command element a full lance, and fit one company to each Buccaneer. If they leave the carrying capacity as is, you are going to have to trim out your supports, though."

I shook my head slowly. "If I go that way I'd throw the line troops—" Thirteen rolled her eyes at me, "—an engineer and an ADA platform. Keep the arty concentrated. That'd give the command troop two command lances, an e-war element, and a six-mech arty section with five arty mechs and one ADA mech."

"Was that really so hard?"

"Hard enough," I said with a shrug. "I'm still going to have to put together a plan in case they shaft me with an Overlord. Several, actually. If they do eliminate the central mechbay eliminate the engineers and one of the arty mechs, and the ADA rides with the command group. If they leave as-is, we're bang-on sixty-four mechs. And if they go with your idea and expand the central mechbay, but stick me with the Overlord, I can split off Sergeant Major Irons after all."

"And aerospace assets?"

"VTACs, probably, if there are enough still flying. The 3d's air squadrons were hammered pretty hard. Or maybe I should detail them as escorts for the droppers? I'll dig through the unit lists later and see if something pops out at me. And then I'm going to have to draft a memo to have my command lances trade in their mechs."

"What's wrong with them?" Thirteen asked with a puzzled look. "They are hammers, true, but sometimes what you need is a club, not a katana."

"True, they are hammers…and that sort of made sense when I could detail one to each troop to act as a hammer. But now I'll only have two, okay, maybe I'll get three. I could go with that anyway, but Durandal has that fancy high-density power plant and the others don't. That means they also can't keep up with my arty units in a flat run. Mobility is our biggest asset. I can't afford to sacrifice that for hammers. The arty should be the slowest units I field. As it is I'll be satisfied if my command sections can at least pace the arty batteries."

Thirteen gave me a considering look and straightened in her chair. "You did well against them in your two engagements," she noted in a more serious tone than before.

"I got lucky on Planting," I corrected. "They came at me piecemeal and I made them pay for it. The Marines alone took down one of their companies. Giving their lance commanders an extra, separate mech gives them as much the flexibility, if not more, of our company command-element formation; and they get more firepower out of it than we do—mechs being equal. And their machines are nothing to sneeze at either."

"Not as good as yours."

"Oh they're better. They just aren't better in ways that compare easily, and what they do with it…"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, take their tactical organization… It makes a lot of sense for a lot of the same reason why we split the company commander off. They just didn't utilize it effectively. I'm not sure why. It'll probably come out in the sociocultural interviews."

I wanted to get up and pace, unfortunately we were ahead of schedule. Our next jumper had another three hours of recharge time—including the time necessary to collapse its sails and make other preparations. We had already docked, and without the acceleration of the n-space drive, or cross-decking and heading for the grav-ring on the jumper, there was nothing to create the sensation of gravity.

"I haven't seen any official reports yet, but I've gotten some idea of their capabilities and, frankly, I think our superior mobility is causing some people to underestimate them."

"Go on," she encouraged.

"They don't have the hot-conductor," I said. "That probably means they can't have efficient helium-3 harvesting so they're stuck with hydrogen-fusing engines. But most of the Legion doesn't have the 3He engines either, or any of the other goodies that are tied into them—the new myomers, for one.

"We do seem to have a solid edge in ballistics, but it's marginal. If they're still in the Ultra/LB-X branches like I think they are, the primary disadvantages for them are logistical, not tactical."

"Being able to both rapid-fire your guns and fire flak munitions is not a small thing," Thirteen disagreed.

"I'm not saying it isn't," I replied. "Nor, for that matter, is the deeper magazines from the semi-combustible casing we're using. What I'm getting at is the way it simplifies our logistics is more telling than the slight battlefield flexibility. It's a strategic strength, not a tactical one."

"Ah." Thirteen said.

"And really, it's a transitory strength." She frowned at me. "Most of what makes the Omni-X work is the ammunition and that is no great engineering feat."

Thirteen scowled then, and nodded choppily. "Making changes to their ammunition would be far easier to implement than building He3 fusion engines, even if they knew how to create them."

"Yep. And that they don't have that ammunition plays in our favor because of the strain on their logistics. And that isn't the only one. That modular equipment harness they've built into their mechs gives them a great deal of forward repair capability and tactical flexibility. But their garrisons don't have it. At least, they don't if what they started to land on Planting is indicative of what their usual garrisons look like."

"Which doubles up their logistics again," she said. "Not that ours are any better," she added wryly. "We don't have any logistics to ship."

"That needs to change, and is happily over my pay-scale," I replied, cracking the first grin I'd had in...well, it's been a while now. "Our gauss rifles are better, mostly for the same reasons as our engines, and I didn't see anything like the new railguns though we don't have many of those."

"From what I understand, they don't need the superconductors for the railguns," Thirteen said. "There is no reason they couldn't build them if they wanted to."

"No," I agreed. "But the genius that came up with the new alloy that resists ablation so well, didn't manage to figure it out until after he'd played around with the capacitors for the gauss rifles and those lead back to the superconductor. Assuming they don't get a lead—from captured equipment or someone spilling their guts—I figure odds are pretty good they won't figure it either. And the gauss rifles do require the conductors.

"But, Thirteen, their missiles and energy weapons are better than ours. A lot better.

"Their launchers aren't as robust as ours, but let's face it, the launchers the 3d has been using are a bust. Oh, they're effective enough in primary mode, and we were far enough behind the lines, which is why they weren't replaced. But robustness aside, their only virtue is their ability to engage multiple targets. And the aiming is so horrendous, that unless you are engaging a mob, or disbursing or clearing mines like we were on Planting, they suck. The multi-environment launcher the Marines have is useful, but it's a niche weapon.

"The launchers used by the Clans are smaller and lighter. The seekers built into their missiles isn't quite as good as ours, but it doesn't need to be because the target-data-handoff is much, much better than anything I've seen before. And their energy weapons are longer ranged, harder hitting, and generally smaller and lighter. Their primary particle cannon hits fifty percent harder. Minimum, it may well be more. And it has more range."

"How much more?" she asked.

"Lots and lots."

"It's that bad?" she asked in dismay.

"It's almost certainly worse," I said. "Their pulse lasers have nearly a third again the range of our standard lasers, call it double the range of our pulse lasers. More in some cases. And their standard lasers are worse, sixty percent more range at a minimum."

"What about extended range lasers?"

"Okay, so they only have a twenty-five percent range advantage there. And they still hit harder."

Thirteen muttered something in Japanese that was...disapproving, to say the least.

"Just about the only thing we haven't seen is as small PPC, but considering what else they have I can see why they might not have felt a need to bother."

Thirteen nodded slowly.

Energy weapons, ballistics, and missiles made up the trinity of modern weapon systems. Each had their own advantages and disadvantages, and the only one as telling as a laser or PPC's lack of need of ammunition was a ballistic weapon's relative lack of waste heat. Not only did this mean that you didn't have to worry about running out of ammo (or having it destroyed) and leaving you with a useless weapon, it meant that the tonnage that might have otherwise been spent on a magazine could be devoted to…other things.

"What about their armor?" she asked after a moment.

"Good, tough," I replied. "Not as bulky as Royal-standard. Same goes for their endo-steel."

"Command and Control?"

"No sign of AVIX," I acknowledged. "I suppose they could be transmitting on something we didn't pick up or recognize. And I didn't see anything like ARES in their cockpits. And we saw on both Planting and Ridderkirk that they seemed to go for one-on-one duels, at least initially. That kind of tactical doctrine goes against the principals that AVIX is designed around and ARES makes AVIX useable on a battlefield."

"A point."

"Here's another one," I said. "At neither Planting nor Ridderkirk did we see any evidence of a combatant vehicle, and to the best of my knowledge no one saw anything to deter ground vehicles at Tamar. Well, aside from that wall they were building and all of those vibrobomb minefields, but they'd be just as effective against mechs."

"You think they've developed a tactical doctrine that totally excludes ground vehicles?" Thirteen asked sharply. "I mean, I can see it on an individual unit basis, and even using those units unsupported, especially when you enjoy the kind of tech advantage over your enemies that they seem to, but—"

"I know. And I know the Colonel—and probably everyone else—agrees with you, but I don't think so. We experimented with pure Mech and Mech/Aerospace units and found them effective after all."

"We also found ways they could be exploited, if you recall," she said dryly.

"That's not their only combined-arms failing."

Thirteen frowned, then very slowly she straightened. "Tell me."

"Okay, first, the lack of ground vehicles."

"That we know of," she cautioned. "But I'll accept the point."

"Second, the location of their artillery assets. That wasn't the kind of unit you pick to defend a base, in the case of Planting. And on Ridderkirk it was both too far out to support their main thrust, and its rear security was…hell, calling it 'lacking' doesn't do it justice. Fast, though, they were really, really quick to respond and it turns out they're just fine using Arrow IV as a close-assault weapon."

"Granted."

"Third, their fighters came at us piecemeal. They didn't hit us at once, and they didn't try to coordinate with a ground unit."

Thirteen was frowning now. "If those…armor infantry units are effective enough it is possible that they have developed an entirely new combined-arms doctrine that de-emphasizes artillery and totally eliminates conventional armor. Has there been any word on how effective the suits actually are yet?"

"Not officially," I said. "We've only seen a general-purpose suit. Whether that means that we just haven't seen any specialty suits yet, or they just use the one, I don't know. Personally I'm inclined that they have special units—probably no more than a handful—rather than just special suits, but that's me."

"So you think we're a lot closer to an equal footing, our advantages off-setting, than Command believes?"

I was saved from having to reply by an admittance chime.

"Enter!" I called.

The hatch slid open and a naval rating kicked off the lip of the hatch and sailed smoothly across the cabin, planting his feet to rob him of momentum before the traction strips on the soles of his ship-boots secured him in place. "Message for you, sir," he said. "Straight off the HPG from FleetCom."

I didn't bother to point out that there wasn't a Fleet Command anymore. Instead I receipted the message with a scan of my thumbprint and he transferred the message to my dataslate. I had to wait long enough for him to glide back out and the hatch to securely shut before I keyed in the encryption releases.

Orders.

"I hope you don't mind being delayed a while," I said.

"New orders?" she asked.

"New orders," I said as I scrolled down the message form. "To a rather different destination that the one we'd intended."

"What about jumpers?"

"Apparently it's being seen to," I said

There were a couple of ancillary files, briefings, position papers, background intelligence—probably, there may not have been time to gather a whole lot yet. One was clearly a personal message for me from Amanda, and a second was from the General. The message with the actual orders was short and concise, the way all such things were, but it was bad enough.

"Take a look," I said as I sent the dataslate spinning towards her without opening any of the other files. Time enough to read them later.

SL/L-N-524141501-9035-768
JumpShip Eureka (GSS Kepler, ex-Explorer)

"That," Manfred said dryly, "is what we Spacers call a type-two rock."

The rock in question looked somewhat like an overly-lumpy potato. Rather like most of the other asteroids Atalanta had ever seen.

"Any indication of why here?"

"None."

"Skipper, we have been requested to release our helm to approach control."

"And automated docking sequence, quiaff?"

"Aff, Skipper. That is what it seems like."

Manfred glanced at Atalanta. If his bridge crew's persistent refusal to address him as 'captain' amused her she gave no sign. "Those systems probably have not seen a maintenance cycle in almost three centuries. They could run us right into a rock."

"If this is an automated facility, what are the chances of it allowing us manual docking?"

"Actual docking? You assume it could prevent us. For that matter, we could land troops or shuttle a survey party across."

"But we do not know where the facility actually is. Only that the navigation beacon led us to this…type two rock."

"True."

"Go ahead and turn your helm over, Captain. Or better yet, send Dawn Trader in first."

In the holotank the asteroid flickered, and then a perfectly circular hole appeared. Where there had been nought but the battered and cratered surface of an asteroid was a dull disk of metal that was starting to slowly peel open.

LC-1920118-3920926514-919-12351915135 (a thoroughly uninteresting red dwarf system)
SLS Ernst Jünger

Captain (Major-Promotable) George Kirkland luxuriated in the gravity-ring office that was 'his' for the next two hours.

The door chime buzzed.

He stretched a little further, then snapped his chair up straight and locked it in place. "Enter!"

The door opened and a man entered. He was tall, square-faced, with broad shoulders, grey eyes, and dark brown hair shaved back the way MechWarriors will to improve connectivity with neurohelms. His shipsuit was unadorned save for a nameplate and three cords braided together around his left wrist.

"Latharn Fetladral, reporting as ordered!"

"Sit," George said, gesturing towards the chair opposite his desk. The man who had been once trying to kill him sat at attention, but there was something not quite relaxed. More…anticipatory. "Let's pretend I haven't read our socio-cultural analysis of your people. Explain this bondsmen thing."

"If a warrior is captured, one of two fates befall him. Either he can be returned to his Clan with no more disgrace than having lost, or, if the Clan that captured him thinks he will be a benefit to that Clan, they can make him a bondsman. A bondsman is expected to do tasks as assigned by the bond-holder, usually menial in nature. In return, the bond-holder will instruct the bondsmen in the way of his new Clan. The bondcord represents the bondsmen's integrity, fidelity, and martial prowess to his new Clan. When his bondholder is satisfied the bondsman has mastered the dictates of his new Clan in one of these areas he cuts the bondcord. Once the bondcord has been fully severed the bondsman is abtakha, a full warrior of his new Clan."

"And bondsref?" George asked.

"If a would-be bondsman does not feel he can honorably become part of another Clan, he may invoke bondsref and take his own life. It is…uncommon. It must be invoked prior to taking bondscords, and since the death will usually be wasteful it is common for a warrior to suggest he would ask for bondsref before the bondcord is offered. In that way would-be bondsholder can instead suggest the warrior be returned to his Clan. May I ask why the interest?"

George drummed his fingers on his desk for a moment before shrugging. "The usual procedure calls for you to be in a POW camp until conclusions of hostilities, followed by repatriation. On the other hand, we have a fair amount of experience in flipping former hostiles. Your bondsman tradition is a bit more codified, but essentially the same deal."

Latharn frowned slightly before nodding in agreement.

"About thirty percent of captured personnel, mostly higher ranking, mostly those with…bloodnames?"

Latharn nodded.

"Have requested bond-status. Given the limitations we face, we've received orders from higher to integrate captured personnel where possible. The flipside of that is that there have been incidents. The worst gutted an ICU ward on the hospital ship Mercy."

Latharn blinked. "Someone attacked a hospital ship?"

"The one bloodnamed warrior we captured who specifically did not request a bondcord, rigged an igniter in a high-oxygen atmosphere in an attempt to invoke 'bondsref'. The bondholder was still engaged in combat on the planetary surface, and our medical staff isn't allowed to asset or stand-by in self-termination except under very special circumstances which did not obtain at the moment."

"That was…" Latharn closed his eyes and slowly shook his head. "I am unable to accurately convey how grossly that warrior was in violation of our honor precepts," he said. "I am sorry for your lost personnel. There is little I can do at this remove, however."

George considered the man sitting across from him. "Your bond-holder isn't in the system. I don't know when he'll be back. Actually, I rather strongly suspect we'll go out to meet him. I'm his XO so I supposed I'll be standing in for him occasionally."

Latharn nodded slightly.

"Any problems fighting against your former Clans?"

"My only former Clan is Clan Wolf, and no. We all accept that we may be abtakha. There is no dishonor in it provide our new Clan gives us an opportunity to continue advancing down the honor road."

"You realize that if we accept you, you'll be falling under our military law and doctrine? If you are captured, even by your former Clan, you'll have to hold out for a prisoner exchange because we don't do bondsmen. If we capture you in another uniform, we'll hang you. Do the Clans even recognize POWs?"

"Aff…yes. I realize that this unit is…very different from the Clans, and that I have much to learn. And no, not as such. Captured warriors who are not made bondsmen are returned to their Clan as a matter of course."

"That hasn't exactly been happening to date, so far as I'm aware."

"That is a decision well above my station," Latharn replied. "But there is...a great deal of negative feelings for...spheroids among my former trothkin. The way you have despoiled the remnants of the Star League does not sit lightly upon them."

"Heh," George chuckled bitterly. "We'll come back to that point. Could we bargain for POW status and what rules of engagement are to be used?"

"It is generally agreed that battles will be fought in zellbrigen," Latharn said slowly. "There is no reason why…other rules of engagement, including treatment of captured warriors, could not be part of your batchall, your opening challenge. Technically there is a great deal of flexibility in what can be brought to the battlefield, or how a trial should be fought, or what a trial is fought over, but they have become…formulaic. Tradition and custom more than rule of law governs them now.

"Still, there is no technical reason why both sides could not come to an agreement before battle. If you are looking for something more…wide-spread than simple agreement between opposing units, you could issue a Trial of Possession for specific rules. Such a Trial would be issued to the Khan of a Clan. Some, Ulric, would be likely to accept. Others, however, are so…contemptuous if the Inner Sphere that they might laugh you away."

"What about all the Clans?"

"The ilkhan, Leo Showers, is the war-leader of all the Clans. The Grand Council sets policy, but he is an executor of that policy and there is a great deal of deference to how he does so. He would be one to laugh in your face," Latharn replied. "He might also issue a Trial of Refusal against any Khan who accepted your Trial of Possession."

"And if he lost he'd issue another against the outcome?"

"Possibly. Our Honor Code usually looks down upon a Warrior who feels the need to refight a battle that has already been decided. Technically the Refusal could be launched against two separate things, accepting your bid and the outcome of the Trial of Possession. Under normal circumstances that would be too fine a line even if there is nothing technically dishonorable about it. Under these, there are probably enough Khans who would detest such an agreement that they would overlook it."

George considered what he had just been told.

"Alright," he said at last. "Roland Talbot is unavailable. He's your…bondholder. He asked me, as his XO, to put two things to you. If you accept, great. If not, he'll find you another post."

Latharn frowned and started to reply, but George held up his hand.

"We will likely disagree about points of honor. As long as we agree that both sides are acting with honor as they see it, we'll be fine."

Latharn nodded slowly.

"First, we're putting together a tidy little artillery unit to be attached to our squadron," George said. "Roland wants you to lead it."

"I do not…" Latharn stopped and touched his bondcord. "Warrior status must be earned."

"And how, exactly, do you normally prove—what did you call it?—martial prowess?"

Latharn nodded slowly. "This unit…"

"Is still somewhat in flux as to exact composition. Currently it stands at five arty mechs, four air-defense, three engineer/spotters. The engineers and three of the air-defense would be normally be detached to the line troops, but you'd be responsible for training and equipage and integrating both into the squadron's overall air-defense and artillery-fire plans. The senior engineer would have lance-level command of the engineers though in practice they probably won't operate together. The senior ADA will drop with the artillery mechs, but have overall responsibility for the air-defense environment. You'd have direct command of the artillery, and one step higher for the engineers and ADA."

"This, I think, I can do," Latharn said. "But would you not prefer one of your own people in such a position?"

"It's a new unit so there isn't much to gain by putting one of our people in charge. They'd still need to build it up, and you understand how the Clans use artillery and fighter support, which gives you a leg up."

George gave a grunt of satisfaction as Latharn nodded once more.

"And the second thing?"

"Roland wants you available to him as an expert on the Clans. Right now, our OpPlan calls for us to be part of a task group sent out to harass and slow the…" George turned to his comp-terminal and unnecessarily looked up… "the Jade Falcons."

"I…" Latharn broke off with a troubled look. "May I know which of the Successor Lords you—we—work for? Or are we…mercenaries?"

He did a pretty good job at keeping the distaste off his face, George thought.

"That's an interesting question," he said. "The answer is none, at the moment. And we aren't mercs either."

"But…" Latharn shook his head. "Now I am very confused."

"Join the club," George grunted. "Coming back to that point you raised earlier about the Star League. The honest answer is that we suffered a catastrophic mis-jump. TH-X1138 was supposed to be jumping to Terra…in 2782."

Latharn was frozen and George gave him a moment. Suddenly his whole body jerked, followed by a violent shake like a dog shedding water. "That is... That is…" he shook again.

"I don't know what Command is eventually going to decide to do," George said in an almost-gentle voice. "I do know that, from our perspective, we just finished fighting one of the most violent wars humanity has ever fought, and now you're invading the Star League."

"Which hasn't existed in over two hundred years!" Latharn said.

"To us, that was just last month."

?

Penelope St. John-Orsini sipped a martini—most definitely stirred, thank you—and contemplated what circle of Hell the ancient named Dante would have assigned to the person who had altered the course of history by deeming that martinis should, properly, be shaken during preparation. All that shaking ever managed to accomplish was turn a drink that was properly colorless and crystalline in its clarity into a cloudy opaque froth of air bubbles.

And bruise the gin, of course.

"I'll have what she's having."

Penelope glanced at the man slipping into the chair next to her. Tallish, nice shoulders, hair was thick and wavy and worn longer than was locally fashionable. The outfit was well-coordinated, stylish, and fitted well. The shoes were real leather, but that wasn't particularly uncommon. The chronometer on his wrist was of high quality but not extravagantly so. The lapel pin looked like a relatively inexpensive doodad…and it concealed a microcommunicator.

Not just a relatively well-off manager at a prosperous firm then.

She added a digit to her initial estimation of the man's worth as she returned to her drink. Her memory picking out the details that transformed the suit from chosen-off-the-rack-by-someone-who-knows-what-he's-doing to specifically-hand-tailored-to-look-chosen-off-the-rack-etc.

"Say, this is pretty good. What is it?"

She glanced at the man and raised an eyebrow. "It's a martini."

"I've had martinis," he said with a frown. "This is better."

"Being able to select a good vermouth helps," she replied in an offhand manner as she scrolled through a news feed. Planting, where the Clans had suffered their first loss, remained under Federal control but was now totally cut-off. For some reason the Clans seemed reluctant to try taking it a second time.

Interesting.

"But let me guess, you have yours shaken."

"Is there another way to prepare them?"

Ridderkirk had fallen, but not before the same people that had thrown the Clans off Planting had been able to evacuate the local military detachment. "Stir the ice, then strain. All shaking manages to accomplish is bruise the gin, and it traps air-bubbles in the drink."

"This is more aesthetically pleasing," the man agreed.

Tamar, where they had unseated the Duke and then…nothing. It had been almost two weeks. They should have been at Skokie or perhaps Dell, and they had not. Now they should be at Wheel, or possibly Hainfeld. And still…nothing.

How odd.

A body slid onto the stool to her left and Penelope turned to look. Nice clothes, nicer jewelry. Unlike the man she wasn't trying to play down her wealth, but she was subtle about what she had…and unsubtle about showing it if you knew what you were looking at. Long legs, high breasts… Penelope picked out the telltales of some after-market work on the face. Excellent cutter, the natural faults had been worked in rather than trying to sweep them away or cover them up, but the work had left her looking real and gorgeous. If she—almost certainly a she—had touched up the breasts as well—Penelope was willing to bet more than even money that she had not—then it had quite literally been a touch-up and just as subtle and understated.

"I rather feel like I'm being hunted," Penelope said, hiding her smile behind her drink.

"You are," the man said with an easy grin.

"Isn't that what makes life fun?" the woman asked.

Oh, yes, definitely.

Penelope put her drink down and got to business. "Let's discuss limits, shall we?"

SL/L-N-524141501-9035-768
JumpShip Eureka (GSS Kepler, ex-Explorer)

"That is a hell of a thing."

Manfred Steele found he could do little more than nod.

Even among the Clans it was not often one could touch the exterior of a WarShip with a bare hand. There were pressurized environmental slips that were occasionally used to allow technicians to work in a 'shirt sleeve' environment. But they were relatively small affairs, used for repairs to a rather limited area. Aside from that…

And yet his command, all one-hundred-and-twenty-kilotons of it, was snugged down in an entire bay that was pressurized. If he wanted, he could walk over every last square meter of her. Or he could don a harness with miniaturized gas exhaust ports and 'fly'.

They were 'standing' on a gantry, firmly anchored by the magnetic clamps in the soles of their boots, and Manfred had long-since stopped looking towards the massive doors that were the only thing between himself and death. Looking at those doors put the bay into stomach-wrenching perspective. The only good thing, if it was actually a good thing, was that Kepler pretty much filled the bay.

He tried very, very hard to not think about the many millions of cubic meters of atmosphere that had spent centuries sitting around in tanks just on the off-chance of a situation such as this…

"Right. Time for me to be off."

Manfred pulled himself away from slowly stroking the side of his ship. Star Captain Atalanta was wearing a Marine Combat Utility—a pressure suit produced by Hell's Horses for their non-Elemental Marines. He did not know how she found one in her size, but Goliath Scorpion patches had been rather crudely—deliberately so, he was sure—placed to almost—but not quite—cover those of the Horses. An Avenger shotgun peeked over her right shoulder, a gauss pistol rode in a tactical holster low down on her thigh, and she cradled a Mauser IIC in her arms. The MCU was covered with extra powerpacks, grenades, ammunition for the shotgun and gauss pistol, explosives, data-slates, microcomputers, and other equipment.

If all of the extra mass bothered her it was not apparent.

"You could just let the other teams do their jobs," he noted.

"I am a Seeker. It is my job to Seek," she replied and the spaulders covering her shoulders lifted fractionally in what was probably a shrug.

New Avalon

Hanse Davion braced his hands on his knees and blew noisily to rid his body of carbon-dioxide. He forced his breathing into a deep, steady rhythm his body protested even as his heart hammered at his ears. It took another two breaths, then he forced his protesting body erect again. It was getting harder and harder to convince himself that he could still strap on a 'Mech and fight all day, and then go out and party all night.

Pretending that he didn't know he was being watched by a half-dozen guards as well as his 'exercise buddy', Hanse turned towards the wall-mounted holo-display. It was fully functional of playing a variety of music or other entertainment media to keep his mind occupied while he exercise, or to act as a communications terminal if something happened that couldn't be postponed long enough for him to shower, change, and return to his office. Thankfully there wasn't much call for the latter use. Even with the HPG (and a priority real-time routing), the nature of interstellar communications and—especially!—travel meant that very few snap-decisions ever needed to be made at his level.

Right now it displayed a series of graphic bars with information about the time, local weather, and other such phenomena on each of the capital planets of the Inner Sphere. Above the twinned blue/gold bars that represented the twin capitals of the Federated Commonwealth, in the place of honor, was a blue-green bar for ancient Terra. Even as he watched the clock set to the Greenwich Mean Time that mankind had used as 'universal time' for more than a millennium, changed to 1 August, 3050.

"Good luck, Victor. God speed."

He could not, would not, ask for Victor to come home safe. Not when so many others didn't know to ask for the same.

SL/L-N-524141501-9035-768
Star League Automated Repair Facility

Who am I?

I am Atalanta.

Just Atalanta. One name only, like Madonna or Prince.

No, no. It has nothing to do with the leader of the Federated Suns—

Your pardon, nothing to do with the leader of the Federated Commonwealth. You really do not know who—

Which would you rather have? A discussion covering twelve hundred years of history of humanity's oft-failed taste in music, or my story?

Yes, I suppose I am.

Why would I hold anything back? My Harbinger has been pressing me for my account of my…family, I suppose you would call them, since I acquired her.

My Harbinger, Susan? She is my chronicler, or perhaps biographer.

I see. I am sorry if your record-keeping insists on a last name that I do not have. I suppose you can call me 'Atalanta Goliath Scorpion'.

No, I did not make it up.

Would you tell Jaimie Wolf his name is outlandish?

Why would you not? It is the name of an Old Earth predator.

So all it would take for 'Goliath Scorpion' to not be outlandish would be for me to lead a brilliant military campaign against the Federated Commonwealth? Are you so certain that it can handle another military adventure at this point?

No, that was not a threat.

I am trying to be very helpful, in fact. I am trying to answer your questions. It is hardly my fault it the answers you receive make your paperwork untidy.

Perhaps you should consider transitioning to an electronic format? You will still have to file in triplicate, but you can at least CC to your end points and—

Lost tech? Carbon Paper? I begin to wonder if the Crusaders have uncomprehendingly fallen upon wisdom. Oh, their rational is deeply in error, but their conclusions…

[Pause]

Are you mad?