Part 407: Political Vote 15

Political Vote 15

The man who stepped boldly from the Princess-class Dropship Koan’s entry gantry didn’t look the sort to warrant such a vessel. He was ugly to be sure, scarred, burned and healed until he was nearly unrecognizable. A lattice of fine white scars radiated out from his right eye, giving his face a craggy, almost volcanic appearance. Even being told that it was nerve damage and partial paralysis that caused his mouth to curl into a perpetual scowl likely wouldn’t have brought the man much sympathy. He wasn’t the sort to ask for consideration nor was he, since his maiming, the sort to give others any consideration in return.

The man who met him didn’t look much like the President of the largest Periphery nation in mankind’s history. He was a young man in his mid-twenties with dark-tanned skin and black hair, and his eyes—so dark they almost looked black—sparkled with a dangerous, calculating intelligence. He didn’t wear the ornate robes of state one might expect in the Capellan state, or the simpler ones of House Kurita. Nor did he adorn himself in the flashy paramilitary garb favored by the Mariks, Davions, and Lyrans. Stefan Amaris VII wore the simple vest of a clavesman over a cloth tunic and leather breaches. He looked more like a colonist than the leader of a nation, and in any court in the Inner Sphere he would likely have been assumed a simple commoner and tossed out.

Stefan Amaris VII and Precentor Martial Anastasius Focht stared at each other across the intervening space. Neither had brought bodyguards. Stefan Amaris stood so casually it was as though he simply couldn’t envision anything happening to him on New St. Andrews, while Focht’s appearance seemed a calculated gesture suggesting there was simply nothing Amaris could do that could hurt him. They stood in silence for a few moments before Stefan stepped in with a grin and thrust his hand forward for a brisk shake.

“It’s good to see you again, Ian.”

Somehow, the scarred man managed to scowl even harder. “It’s Anastasius Focht.”

Amaris seemed contrite as he clapped the man on the back, but the infectious-seeming smile never left his face. “Oh, right! My apologies, old friend, but you never write! I never was quite sure which confirmation name you settled on. I do try to keep abreast but the preparations on Andurien require so much attention. How’s the family?”

Focht grunted as though he were apathetic and turned to follow Amaris as the man led him through the spaceport. “They have a son on the way.”

“ROM works fast. Do they know yet?”

The scarred man shook his head. “Yes, but not the gender. They want it to be a ‘surprise.’ Damned reckless and knowing m—knowing Hanse Davion—they haven’t even started talking about names. He wouldn’t want to jinx things.”

“From your stories,” Amaris continued casually, “I have a feeling he’s probably going to name a boy after you.”

Focht seemed shaken for a moment. “He wouldn’t dare.”

Amaris turned, and elbowed the older man in the side. “Hanse doesn’t think of himself as the ruler of the Federated Suns. My analysts think he sees himself as a custodian for a true heir, rather than a worthy leader himself. If you were to turn up on New Avalon tomorrow, he’d probably abdicate in your favor.”

Stefan’s guest barked a laugh. “And you compliment ROM’s efficiency?”

“I don’t have spies. Just analysts.” Amaris shrugged, then offered a sly smile. “You just wanted to command `Mechs. Like Frederick Steiner, and Takashi Kurita. You won’t show yourself to him because you think he’s doing a better job than you could’ve; but just think: You could rule the largest and most powerful nation the Inner Sphere has ever seen in ComStar’s name and bring about a true Pax Blake.”

“My compliments to your analysts,” the sound of hard-soled boots on stone punctuated Focht’s sour retort. “They are partly correct.”

“Their son will probably be a lot like you,” Amaris continued, ignoring the slight shift in Focht’s tone. “With any luck, he’ll inherit his mother’s sense of duty and his father’s cunning. It’ll be a real problem if he inherits Kurita anger and Davion impatience. Will you be forcing Primus Tejh to re-sign our mutual noninterference treaty next year?”

“Every time you open your mouth, I’m reminded just how dangerous and erratic you are.” The pair stepped into an empty concourse, save for a single distant figure. The space should normally have been crawling with technicians, janitors, and possibly even waiting travelers. The display of power wasn’t lost on Focht, although Amaris hadn’t shown any bodyguards they were clearly present. “You really gave our analysts fits when you forged and then immediately broke an alliance with the Free Worlds League.”

“I had reasons,” Amaris replied flippantly.

When he said no more, Focht pushed. “And you’re not planning to enlighten me.”

“And leave ROM nothing to do?” Amaris grinned as the pair approached the passive, white-robed figure of William Cameron Blake. The real Jerome Blake had no children of record, and aside from a cadet branch of House Cameron that’d vanished with General Kerensky none remained—apart from Amaris himself—who might draw a lineage to the First Lords of old. As Precentor of one of the two most important worlds in the Republic, Precentor New St. Andrews William Blake—along with the equally-important Precentor Canopus IV—were allowed to sit in on first-circuit meetings although neither was allowed to vote. In practice, Blake had never done so, but he remained the highest-ranking member of ComStar not on the First Circuit.

“Of course not,” Amaris continued unperturbed. “You’re not here for me anyway. William! Shame on you for not telling me one of the Precentor Martials was coming for a visit!”

Blake bowed his head differentially, not to Focht but to Amaris. “My apologies. I had hoped to have this meeting over and done with before you learned of it.”

“William,” consternation crossed Amaris’s rough and friendly face. “You’re not planning on turning down New Avalon, are you? This is your calling, William. You must answer. We’ll be fine here, don’t sacrifice everything for the sake of misguided loyalty.”

Cameron bowed his head in apparent contrition, “Of course.”

Amaris slapped Focht on the shoulder, “See? He can be reasoned with. I expect you’ll also be calling up Emiliar Grinn to replace Tejh in the Confederation?”

Focht stared for a few moments. “Yes, we will.”

Amaris clapped his hands, “He’ll be glad to hear that! I’ll send word to Canopus so you won’t have to make a trip to visit him as well.”

“I shouldn’t have had to make the trip here!” Focht growled as anger reddened his features, making the sharp white scars even more obvious.

Amaris held his arms open wide, and shrugged as though he were helpless. “You should have spoken with me. You know I would’ve said something on your behalf!”

Focht’s good eye twitched, “This is an internal ComStar affair. I shouldn’t have had to speak with you at all!”

The apparent friendliness left Stefan Amaris VII’s face in an instant. Focht started at the sudden change in the man’s demeanor, he’d met the man face-to-face on numerous occasions but had never once seen this side of the normally friendly and gregarious young man. For a brief moment, he entertained one of the old rumors that occasionally circulated or, probably more accurately, recirculated every so often among the ComStar offices on Terra that the entirety of House Amaris was actually mad.

“There are quite a few people out here in the deep periphery,” Amaris’s tones were distant, and cold as hard vacuum, “who worry about the new direction ComStar seems to be taking. They worry that you no longer mean to bring peace to the Inner Sphere but are more concerned about bringing to it the Word of Blake. You can hardly blame them. Being so far from “civilization” anyone might have doubts if the rumors start coming frequently enough. Tell me, Precentor Martial, does ComStar still recognize House Amaris as the First Lord of the Star League?”

“Yes,” Focht’s response was automatic, but for once his twisted expression seemed more uncertain than angry.

Amaris VII stared at Focht with the same intensity and regard a child with a magnifying glass might regard an ant. “Does “The Master?””



********************



The roar of the Karnov’s twin-engines was deafening as it touched down. A half-dozen or so enemy machines tracked the unarmed helicopter’s every movement but at least it seemed the red cross emblazoned on its white frame was something the Clans still respected. As the twin rotors whined and spun to an eventual stop, the pilot slumped into his chair and simply shook. He’d flown combat patrols before but never once had he been asked to land while staring down the barrel of a hostile PPC.

Dr. Jagika Uhelj rose from the passenger seat and pushed her way out of the side door without waiting for the rotors to fully stop. A blast of wind whipped her short hair about but found no real purchase. Her loose doctor’s coat fwapped and twisted, and a Clan Lucerne with an ivory paintjob adorned with subtle dark patterns that made the machine seem more a colossal piece of carved scrimshaw than a BattleMech twisted to follow her. The machine guns jutting from their mountings on its chest spun up and down, as though the pilot were a scant moment away from opening fire.

She could hardly blame the enemy pilot for his nervousness, behind his machine one of the massive hundred-ton command vehicles was still burning with an eerie green light that told her something that probably shouldn’t be capable of burning had decided to go ahead and do so. Corpses littered the field where they’d been crushed under falling repair gantries or trod on by passing war machines.

Dr. Uhelj didn’t wait to be queried, but instead shouted, “I’m Dr. Uhelj, Eighteenth Marik Militia Aerial Battlefield Support Hospital! We’re here to offer our support! We can do triage, or—”

“Go away, freebirth,” A chill passed down the Doctor’s spine as the voice that issued from the massive, boxy BattleMech sounded more bored than angry or frightened, as though the carnage surrounding it was something expected or normal rather than the result of a brutal surprise attack. “We have the situation under control. You are unwanted here.”

“We’re doctors!” Dr. Uhelj shouted, “We can—”

The paired three-barrel machineguns spun back up to full speed with an audible whine. “Go away freebirth. We have the situation under control. You are unwanted here. We do not need your leeches, barbarian! Leave immediately or I will—”

“Stand down, Mechwarrior!” A woman peeled herself away from a cluster of distant Clanners. A collection of white-robed doctors followed in some distress. Her face was bloody and burned and even from a distance Dr. Uhelj thought the woman would likely lose her left arm and eye. White robed technicians holding instruments and equipment the doctor didn’t recognize continued to flutter around the woman like a cloud of mosquitoes.

Dr. Uhelj took an involuntary step back as the woman stared at her with one good eye and another that was bloodshot and cloudy. One of her doctors fitted something resembling a pressure bandage over the side of the injured woman’s head.

“I am Loremaster Lynn McKenna,” she hissed. “You will take me to Duncan Marik immediately.”



********************



“I will be honest with you,” Duncan Marik didn’t rise although his guest had refused a seat. If she was at all concerned about her grievous injuries it didn’t show in her sharp, angry eyes. Duncan Marik chose to pay it no mind, although one of her bandages was currently dripping fresh blood on his hardwood floor. In truth he felt he owed the Clans an explanation but didn’t much care if they chose to accept it.

“The attack by Kemper Varas was not ordered nor planned by any Free Worlds League personnel, but it has put me in an exceptionally poor position.” He drummed his fingertips together irritably and continued, “This attack means I can no longer deny you the right to pass freely through Free World Space.”

The woman, Lynn McKenna, started at the revelation. “Our trial was incomplete.”

“You’ve told me the Clans are not monolithc. Would you deny the rights of another Clan to avenge themselves upon someone who interfered in one of your own trials?”

She stared, “We would join them.”

“You would not permit, nor would I allow, an alliance between the Free Worlds League and the Clans.”Duncan stood, slamming his palms into the top of his desk. “Every fiber of my being is telling me that I should be fighting you and your people. You’ve been honest with me and I appreciate that.”

“Your society is monstrous,” He stared at McKenna. It was the cold, hard stare of a man who was fed up with the cards the universe was dealing him. “And now Stefan Amaris has tied my hands. He forged an alliance with me to create a battlefield to fight you in, and then broke it so I wouldn’t feel compelled to help him. And now that he’s attacked you openly during “negotiations,” I can’t deny your request for vengeance.”

“I am sick to death of being manipulated,” Marik hissed. “Sick and I’m furious. I can’t fight you myself, so take your fleets and go. I’ll inform the systems you plan to pass through that they may trade for food or water or whatever you may need but you shall not set one foot on another planet of the League; and if you harm even a single one of my citizens I will fall on you so hard you’ll think the Star League had collapsed a second time. Am I understood?”

Lynn McKenna regarded Duncan Marik in silence for a few moments, and then laughed. “Captain-General, when I first met you to “negotiate,” I thought you a weak man. Say what you will of our culture, we respect strength and you? You are not weak. I will speak with the Khans, we shall cause you no trouble as we pass. We wish this fight with Stefan Amaris VII as much as you claim he wishes one with us. Meet all of your challenges with this strength. I think I would very much enjoy doing battle with you, someday.”

Duncan Marik’s reply was as direct as it was concise.

“Get the hell off my planet.”



********************



“That could’ve gone worse.”

Dechan Fraser kicked at a stone, his hands thrust into the pockets of his leather jacket. The weather on Summit wasn’t noted for its inclemency, but the Steel Vipers had sited their supply depot high in the mountains. Out of his Shadow Hawk’s cockpit, a cooling vest wasn’t enough to ward off the chill for more than a few minutes at a time. Each breath came short as his body struggled with the relative lack of oxygen, the simple act of breathing left his head shrouded in steamy white mist.

“It could’ve gone better,” Fraser’s voice lacked conviction. They’d gotten damn lucky only two of the Clan pilots had been able to bring their machines online.

Fraser stared pointedly at the burnt-out husk of Rose’s Thunderbolt. She’d borne the brunt of a Lucerne’s counterattack while Frasier and the other members of the lance had dealt with a closer Swordbreaker. Fraser could still hear her Scottish brogue in his ear, telling him to help the rest of the lance while she held the Clan heavy at bay.

“Don’t let it get to you,” A hand harder than stone closed on Dechan’s shoulder. The faceless expanse of the Bounty Hunter’s strange, nearly headless armor swung into view. The contents of that armor remained a mystery even after several months of close contact. He spoke with a voice that was recognizable but electronically distorted and inhuman nonetheless, “She wanted that fight.”

Dechan couldn’t argue that, it was true enough. Marie Rose had quit the Northwind Highlanders in a rage when they’d refused a contract in Lyran space to help fight the Clans. She’d told him the story once in a half-drunken stupor during the long transit from Galatea. She’d raged that the Highlanders had put “their purses” over the safety of the Inner Sphere. She’d wanted to fight the Clans even if the Lyran Commonwealth’s entire economy collapsed completely; and hated the decision that’d seen the remaining Highlander regiments sign on with Skye instead.

“I’ll see to it her `Mech is returned to her family.”

“We all knew this was risky when we signed on,” Jason Youngblood interjected. He was a year or so older than Dechan himself, and another Lyran Commonwealth native. Like Fraser he had plenty of reason to hate the Clans and like Fraser he hadn’t asked too many questions when given the chance to fight back. He’d fought brilliantly but even with the Bounty Hunter’s amazing field upgrades Jason’s Phoenix Hawk had lost an arm. “Three captured Clan machines. If we put them on the open market, we could retire and ten generations from now our descendents would still be living lives of leisure.”

“If you can call retirement living,” The Bounty Hunter interjected. It sounded like a joke but to Dechan’s ears there was an element of seriousness to the statement that stopped his laughter before it could start. The hunter turned away, staring pointedly at a Clan design shaped a lot like a marauder with a Catapult’s missile pod strapped to one shoulder. “For me? This was just a warm-up. My real fight is with Clan Widowmaker.”

The Bounty Hunter didn’t explain further, “I expect the Steel Vipers will realize something’s wrong in about six hours. They can have a force here in eighteen. We’ve got twelve to get loaded and gone. I don’t want even a scrap of armor left behind.”

“Alright gang,” Jason replied with mocking over-enthusiasm. “Let’s leave the snakes with a mystery on their hands!”



********************



Khan Michael McKenna stared silently at the holotank in his office. A string of numbers flowed through the display: coordinates, frequencies, times, dates. It was a message but simultaneously it was gibberish. It told him nothing and at the same time it was an invitation. Stefan Amaris VII, the descendent of the bastard progeny of the Usurper, wanted to talk.

The disc containing the HPG frequencies and coordinates had been recovered from the battlefield encased in a chunk of ferrocrete. Only a signal beacon on the outside—silent, while in the radius of the enemy’s impressive electronic countermeasures—had sung a siren’s call to every Clan BattleMech in ten kilometers once the enemy’s assault force had vanished.

“I’m here,” it sang, planting a beacon on every radar and even going so far as to draw arrows of falsified heat and magnetic resonance data in every pilot’s hud. “I’m something important. I’m something you’re not going to like.”

It was right. Khan McKenna had no desire to speak to any Amaris. He only had one use for that ancient house: in his eyes the Clan who claimed the head of the last living Amaris had better claim to being ilClan than one who simply took ancient Terra. The latter was still a laudable feat but the former protected the Inner Sphere from the machinations of a family that had destroyed the Star League and everything it’d stood for and humiliated McKenna’s ancestors—and those of every living Clan warrior. The two tasks were incomparable in scope, retaking Terra would restore a portion of the Clans’ lost honor but only the extermination of House Amaris could restore all of it.





Does “The Master”?
A) Yes.
B) No.
C) “Yes.”
D) Better you than me.

Respond to Amaris’ Invitation?
A) Yes, and tell the other Clans prior to responding.
B) Yes, but don’t tell the other Clans.
C) No, tell the other Clans of Amaris’ insulting request.
D) No, tell no one.
E) No, tell no one while also destroying the disk.