The Let's Play Archive

Battletech

by PoptartsNinja

Part 135: Political Vote 7 - Freedom

Freedom: Political Vote 7



The soft squeak of poorly-lubricated axels caught Julien Tiepolo’s wearied attention.

“Ah, Precentor Miraborg,” her greeted coolly, not rising from his throne.

Miraborg did not rise either, the angry glare in his eye searching Tiepolo’s face for mockery. There was none, the Primus was simply old and unwilling to stand. Miraborg, of course, could no longer stand at all. A pressure bandage still covered his left eye—the Clans had shot his Grasshopper out from under him on Richmond. Miraborg had barely survived.

“Primus,” Miraborg growled. “I have been out of touch, how goes the war with the Clans?”

Barely survived physically, Tiepolo amended. Miraborg’s mind was still fierce as ever. A thin smile crossed his lips. “I fear I have little news. It’s possible we’ve stopped them in their tracks—”

“I doubt that very much,” Miraborg interjected. “I’ve fought them. They are implacable.”

“That is precisely why I wished to see you, Precentor Miraborg.”

Tor Miraborg offered only an angry, one-eyed glare in response.

“You have fought the Clans, firsthand. You, of all my precentors, may have an insight into how they think.” Tiepolo leaned forward, his fingertips pressed together. “I wish to elevate you to the rank of Precentor Martial, and set you to the task of training the Com Guards for one purpose: the defeat of the Clans.”

Miraborg didn’t budge. “… You know my price, Primus.”

Tiepolo nodded. “… When we succeed… ComStar will formally recognize the free state of Rasalhague—”

“And help reclaim it, from the Clans.”

Tiepolo nodded.

Miraborg remained unsatisfied, “And help defend it, for the next hundred years, from the Draconis Combine.”

It was Tiepolo’s turn to frown. He met Miraborg’s fiery gaze with a look so cold, so calculating that for a moment Miraborg’s fury waned.

“Very well.”



**********



Clovis Lestrade frowned, looking uncomfortable in the Ducal cape draped over his shoulders. Combined with the stark white paramilitary uniform, the new Duke of Skye felt he looked more like a tiny, not-bald parody of Janos Marik than a proper Duke.

The woman the people believed was Melissa Arthur Steiner sat behind him. They’d had very little time together, since the hasty wedding on Tharkad and even hastier journey to his new personal holdings on Summer.

Her fingertips brushed his shoulder. Clovis’ eyes flowed over the faces of the assembled leaders of nearly every planet in his demesne.

“You do me more honor than I deserve, today,” He began the anticipated speech. “It is with honor, and some sadness, that I accept the title of Duke of Summer. I wish to assure you, in light of my recent marriage, that I will not ignore your needs as my father continues to do.”

A hush fell over the assembled crowd.

“Citizens of the Skye,” Clovis continued, his rich voice apparently captivating his audience, “my father, the former Duke, has forsaken you in his bid for power. Have any of your fears been allayed since he seized control of the Lyran Commonwealth?”

The silence was filled with brief mutterings of discontent. Clovis hoped, silently, that they were not directed at him.

“Has he improved our economy as he promised? Has he protected our autonomy, as he promised?” His eyes met those of Greydon Brewer, the duke of Hesperus II. His gaze shifted to Iris Steiner, in her black dress and veil. Hers, he knew, would be the true lynchpin vote. Furillo was too important for the rest of Skye to ignore.

“Or has he sent our best and brightest off to die meaninglessly against a foe we do not yet understand?” Clovis stepped forward, trying to appear as tall as his miniscule height would allow. “No. The ex-Duke Lestrade styles himself the Archon of the Lyran Commonwealth. He’s seized power, and left his obligations to you as your Lord unfulfilled. And so they fall on me, your successor.”

His gaze swept the room again, the Griffins of the Home Guard flanking his throne a truly majestic sight, but also leant his words power in their silent support. They had accompanied the woman they believed to be the Archon from Tharkad—their duty was to her and her alone.

“Today, I announce the secession of the Isle of Skye, and the formation of the Skye Hegemony.” Clovis paused, his gaze sweeping the stunned crowd. “This is not treason,” he barked loudly, “for the Lyran Commonwealth has already betrayed us. We will protect our own! We will protect Skye interests from outside exploitation! We will no longer be ignored!”

“Furillio,” Duchess Iris Steiner spoke from the crowd, tears streaking her angry features. She’d taken the loss of her only son, the future Duke, hard. “Stands with you, Duke Lestrade.”

She glared daggers at Greydon Brewer, “… as do all worlds under our protection.”

The silence broken, a growing swell of assent rose from those assembled. Clovis swallowed.

Skye was free.



**********



Duke Lestrade twitched as his unfeeling fingers tore a missive in half. His hands shook with apoplectic rage, his features turning first red, then purple. With a roar of frustration, he swept a glass pitcher of water from the table in front of him, sending his economic advisor bolting for the door.

“Simon,” His words hissed through clenched teeth like steam escaping a teapot. “How could this have happened? How could I have underestimated my son so badly?”

He glowered, “… I see Melissa’s hand in this.”

“Perhaps not,” Simon Johnson mused, quietly unhelpful. “I wonder… how much of his buffoonery was an act.”

A quiet calm passed over Aldo Lestrade’s features so suddenly that for an instant Simon quietly feared the ex-Duke had suffered a stroke. “So he is a Lestrade,” Aldo whispered quietly, “after all.”

His expression placid, Aldo turned to Johnson. “I want spin teams on this immediately; and get Duke Frederick to Tharkad at once. It seems the fool will be Archon after all.”

Johnson nodded, then asked the obvious question, “… What will we do about Skye?”



Political Vote 7:
A) Well, fuck.
B) INVADE SKYE!