Part 175: Political Vote 9 Results and Combat Theater Vote 8 - Sword of the Dragon

Political Vote 9 Results & Combat Theater Vote 9

A heavy pall of smoke rose from the blackened corpses littering the Tairakana plains. With heavy footfalls and a pronounced limp, the massive form of an Atlas split the rising smoke as it staggered heavily towards the distant Imperial City—and the illusion of safety the city represented.

A massive Arrow-IV missile split the back of the Atlas’ knee as a Hell’s Horses Huitzilopochtli Assault Tank launched yet another salvo. The distant machine had devastated the Atlas’ lance of supporting Panthers in only a few salvos, and was not-so-slowly whittling the assault-weight Atlas down as well. The Hell’s Horses artillery tanks had been as relentless as they were unexpected and numerous, raining heavy missiles down on the House Kurita forces the moment the bulk of them had left the safety of their defenses. In the open, the DCMS hadn’t had much opportunity to retaliate. Worse, if the concentrated artillery had been devastating to the `Mech regiments, it’d proven apocalyptic to the ranks of infantrymen who’d followed in their wake. Of nearly a hundred-thousand assembled infantry, the Kurita commander could’ve assembled perhaps a battalion of active, unwounded troops.

Not that he had the time or opportunity to assemble them. The Warlord Samsonov’s Atlas twisted, loosing against the tank with its remaining PPC. Ferro-fibrous armor glowed white, then vaporized under the touch of the particle beam, bursting outward with the flash of an explosion that neutered the remainder of the beam’s potential damage.

Samsonov cursed as the beam failed to penetrate, simply adding another scar to the Clan tank’s armored hide. Two more massive missiles leapt from the Huitzilopochtli’s launchers and smashed the Atlas’ shoulder and right hip. The massive war machine staggered—just in time for a pair of missiles from a second tank to smash through what little armor remained over its broad chest. With a bright flash, the assault `Mech’s engine lost containment and flooded the cockpit with a wave of suddenly superheated air.




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The cameraman crouched low, weighted down by his massive holocam. The sweltering midday heat didn’t make his job any easier as he ran his camera through a final diagnostic. Everything would need to be near-perfect. His life now hinged on it. A few moments spent crouching, cramped, and sweating were a small price to pay for survival.

Clad in a black silk shirt in an understated Chinese style, citizen Justin Xiang made a motion with his black-gloved right hand. Biting back a wince, the cameraman crouched lower. Checking his small flatscreen viewer, he understood the logic. From this angle, Xiang would seem to stand a precise two inches taller than the cameraman’s focus rather than the ten or more inches he sported on her. The Cameraman flashed Xiang a thumbs-up, the traditional ‘ready to go’ signal for cameramen across the Inner Sphere. Xiang nodded slightly, and he began recording.

Resplendent in robes of state simultaneously majestic and subdued to symbolize her mourning, the newly-confirmed Chancellor Romano Liao did not offer her people even the barest hint of a smile. Her face was drawn, pale yet healthy, her eyes stained with artfully-rendered grief by the crew’s makeup technicians. She was radiant, the very image of a grieving daughter who had just had a life of supreme authority thrust upon her. Behind her, Justin Xiang’s jaw was set with the grim determination of a man seeking justice.

“People,” Romano began in strong tones that hinted only slightly at a very feminine vulnerability, “of the Capellan Confederation. You know me. I am the duchess Romano Liao, daughter of our Lord, Maximillian Liao. It is with a heavy heart that I must inform you of my father’s murder, and my ascension to the Celestial Throne.”

She paused momentarily, as if her voice had been stolen from her by grief. The cameraman smiled faintly, appreciating the drama of the moment yet never once allowing himself to dwell on it. He would weep later tonight, he decided, when the recorded broadcast was aired live.

“My father,” Romano resumed with only a slight hitch as anger crept into her tones, “was betrayed and murdered on his glorious inspection of the Tikonov commonality by the treacherous Northwind Highlanders! As we speak, brave Capellan soldiers are hunting down and annihilating these homeless traitors who abused our hospitality and murdered my beloved father in cold blood; and all for a bit of coin from Prince Hanse Davion, who’s very spymaster was caught and killed in a Highlander mobile command vehicle!”

Xiang gave Romano’s arm a surreptitious squeeze, a private gesture of support just barely high enough for the camera to catch. An expression of determination, which Xiang had spent hours coaching, crossed Romano’s features. “It has been said, in the past, that the actions of a few spoil the universe for us all. As your Chancellor, it is my duty to protect my realm and my people. To this end, I must insure that no future betrayals such as this can ever occur.”

“As my first act, as Chancellor of the Capellan Confederation, I must ask all mercenary units currently serving to swear fealty to the Celestial Throne and become, officially and irrevocably, House troops of the Capellan Confederation. Any mercenary unit unwilling to declare their full and public support will be allowed to leave Capellan space in peace, provided they sign a contract to serve neither House Marik nor House Davion for one full century or be declared officially rogue by ComStar.”

As if to illustrate the Chancellor Liao’s right to enforce such a claim, His Most Exalted Ambassador, Villius Tejh, Precentor Sian of the First Circuit stepped into the frame and dipped his head in a single slow nod. Romano then smiled disarmingly, “In happier news, Precentor Sian has just informed me of many recent successes in our war with House Marik. The young Captain-General himself acknowledges the rightness of our claim to old Capellan territories within his realm, and has put up only token resistance to our efforts and, I assure you, any rumors that Duncan Marik has found a strong ally in the periphery are completely unfounded.”





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“How could I have been so stupid, Duncan?”

“You’re too hard on yourself, my Lord,” Duncan Kalma, son of the Free Worlds League’s chief of intelligence clapped his hand on Duncan Marik’s shoulder. A few years younger, the two had grown up close. True, the lesser Duncan had gotten the greater in trouble more often than not, but the two were inseparable. There was no one in the universe Duncan Marik trusted more.

Kalma continued, smiling. “If you hadn’t gone for her, I’d have questioned your sanity. Then gone for her myself. A woman like the Red Corsair doesn’t drop into your lap every day.”

Marik frowned, “She’s gone, Duncan. Left without a word—just a pile of destroyed ComStar `Mechs, a Castle Brian full of two regiments of Corsair `Mechs, and a goddamned mystery.”

“Perhaps she was making peace with you, Duncan,” Kalma countered. “The Corsairs left their `Mechs to show they wouldn’t be doing any more raiding. Who knows, they may have been driven from the periphery by our new allies in the NRWR and are returning to settle peacefully?”

“That’s difficult to believe,” Marik replied. “She knows I would’ve granted them asylum—she was lying to me. Those DropShips in orbit were the rest of the Corsairs. The ones in Nagayan Mountain were fakes and we have enough survivors to prove it.”

“I still can’t believe ComStar would do such a thing,” Kalma shook his head. “They’re supposed to be neutral.”

“After what they did to my cousin Thomas? I can. They wanted that facility very, very badly; which means there’s something extremely important about it. I know your people have been busy hunting through, but when you get a free moment I’d like you to get in touch with your father and have him draw up a plan to capture every HPG in the Free Worlds League simultaneously as a last resort. Call it: ‘Operation Scorpion.’ What have you found out about Nagayan Mountain so far?”

“Understood, my Lord. I don’t know much, but I do know that Castle Brian has been providing drinking water for the entire planet. They’ve stored an entire ocean’s worth, and files we’ve recovered suggest that ComStar was planning on venting it all. It would’ve flooded the whole plain and killed us all, my Lord. The Red Corsair saved us.” Kalma grinned infectiously, “She’ll be back.”

“Raiding our borders,” Duncan Marik amended darkly.

“Or keeping our newest neighbors honest.”





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One Month Later (July, 3033)

Natasha Kerensky sat facing the Council of Invading Khans. With the ilKhans tragic and, she noted, idiotic death on Luthien, the Khans of the four invading, three auxiliary Clans, and the Snow Ravens had gathered to discuss the future of the invasion. The Goliath Scorpions had petitioned for a return to the Homeworlds for a vote, but Natasha had forced the issue: there would be no return to Clan space until the Return was successful. Instead, she had sent a missive to the Home Clans, suggesting that they elect a sa-ilKhan to handle their own affairs while the Invading Clans continued their conquest.

Her election to ilKhan by the Invader’s Council was, she was certain, inevitable. Her confirmation by the Home Clans would then be a formality.

Khan Grier Siedman of the Hell’s Horses strode purposefully towards the center of the room. His saKhan, Matsukaze Ravenwater, the Hero of Luthien, remained in his place. Silent. Observant. Natasha tipped her head approvingly.

“I am the Loremaster, all will hear my rede! As my grandson,” Grier began, drawing a cringe from the assembled Khans as he referenced his obvious and advanced age, “gave his life in the taking of Luthien. As we must resume the invasion within two months' time, we have no time to return to the Homeworlds to confirm our choice of Khan. This council’s duty is clear: we must elect a new ilKhan here, now.”

Khan Peregrine Mathus of Clan Jade Falcon slammed an open palm into his podium. “Then I nominate Natasha Kerensky to the task. She has led this invasion every step of the way. It is only fair that she continue to lead it to its inevitable conclusion.”

A calm voice cut through the chorus of assent like a Large Laser through a Fire Moth. “The Goliath Scorpions have seen the greatest gains of this invasion,” saKhan Ravenwater of the Hell’s Horses pointed out, “Barring our own success at Luthien. They should also be considered.”

“What about yourselves?” Khan Joseph Crow of the Snow Ravens demanded. “Is not your victory at Luthien worthy of contention?”

“honored Khans,” Grier Siedman growled, “the Hell’s Horses touman has been too damaged to continue to press our attacks at this time. Therefore, we will be consolidating into the territory we have already taken. The next wave of the invasion, by default, now belongs to the Jade Falcons.”

His announcement quieted the Council, and even Natasha sat stunned in her chair. It was as close to an admission of failure as any had ever heard. The Hell’s Horses were giving up their chance to become the ilClan to the Jade Falcons? It was almost unthinkable!

Siedman turned to spear Mathus with a hard gaze. “Jade Falcons, you will do us proud or I will crush you myself once our strength is recovered. Now, we have a vote to finish so we can get back to our invasion. Natasha Kerensky of the Widowmakers for ilKhan, Yea or Nay?”





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Bald and obese, Chandrasekhar Kurita stood on the tarmac, two of his three beautiful bodyguards fanning him slowly as he indulged in a ripe New Avalon naranji. The Mirza Abdulsattah stood at his right hand. Prince Hanse Davion tipped his head in a show of respect, but his eyes were on Chandy’s bodyguard, Jannike.

“Care to explain why there’s another Kurita ship landing at my spaceport, Ambassador?” Hanse asked bluntly. Chandrasekhar smiled at his ill manners, it had become something of a game to them over the past few months.

“I am sworn to secrecy, my friend,” Chandy replied, his expression losing its levity as the bright white flare signaling the arrival of the DropShip Enma-daiou appeared in the skies above. Hanse’s smile was unpleasant. He fully expected another Ambassador from the Draconis Combine after the fall of Luthien. Another sycophant to beg his leniency while the Draconis Combine lost their war against the Clans. He’d just been expecting them to come sooner, not that it mattered.

Operation Galahad had already been redirected. His first strikes at the Combine’s vulnerable underbelly would begin landing within two months’ time.

The Enma-daiou’s touchdown was uneventful. Fitting, Hanse thought quietly, that the Draconis Combine’s ambassador was being conveyed by the Japanese god who judged the souls of the damned. The doors to the loading gantry ground open with the soft hum of well-maintained machinery.

Hanse blinked in surprise as Theodore Kurita strode proudly from the gantry. Flanked on one side by a man Hanse recognized as Subhash Indrahar—although the wheelchair was an unexpected accessory; and on the other by the impressively unhandsome Ninyu Kerei Indrahar, Subhash’s adopted son and heir. Theodore wore, not the black and white robes of state entitled to him as Coordinator, but simple white robes of mourning.

At his side, Ardan Sortek suppressed a shudder. Theodore’s robes were those of a man about to commit seppuku. Theodore’s long strides closed the distance in a few moments, his intelligent blue eyes a mirror of Hanse’s own.

“We live in interesting times,” Hanse Davion began quietly. “What brings you to New Avalon, Coordinator?”

Theodore tipped his head. “I have come,” he announced in a powerful voice through teeth clenched tight, “bearing terms.”

Hanse waited, then asked. “Terms?”

Theodore bowed his head, his shame preventing him from meeting Hanse Davion’s gaze. “For the Draconis Combine’s surrender.”





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One Month Later (August, 3033)

Morgan Hasek paced through his father’s office, arms clasped behind his back. It was precisely as he remembered, from the heavy wooden desk to the plush carpet; the collection of ancient books and sparse decorations. A picture of the Duke with his wife and a young Morgan Hasek lay where it had been knocked askew. His father sat behind his desk, his eyes open and clear, looking almost peaceful.

Until one spotted the blood dripping from the hole in his temple.

A small-caliber pistol hung lifelessly from Duke Michael’s hand. Suicide, Morgan decided, in the face of Hanse Davion’s order to strip the Capellan March of its defenders to go protect the Draconis Suns’ new, formerly Kurita holdings. Morgan sneered at the name, one of Theodore Kurita’s ludicrous ‘conditions.’ To appease the people of the Draconis Combine, that their way of life would not be swept away in an instant.

It was ludicrous, as ludicrous as Hanse’s new teen bride, Morgan thought. Jannike Kurita, the daughter of the hated Yorinaga Kurita, had been on New Avalon right under MI5’s noses, and nobody had suspected a thing! Morgan’s fists clenched as held himself from sweeping his father’s desk free of its aesthetic assortment of antiques. Worse yet was, Hanse Davion’s new Spymaster, Subhash Indrahar. With Quintus Allard’s death provoking the Capellan Confederation to new heights of anti-Davion sentiment, Hanse Davion’s eyes were still turned firmly towards his new realm and the supposed threat the Clans represented.

Morgan’s eyes shifted back to his father. A Duke unable to balance the needs of his liege with the needs of his own people and torn between his duty to both. He could not strip troops from the increasingly militant border with the Capellan Confederation, yet he was to be forced to do just that to honor his duty to Hanse Davion. Suicide.

Yes, Morgan decided. Suicide would do nicely.

He turned quietly, stalking out of his Father’s office. He needed to prepare a speech, one that placed the blame for his father’s death squarely where it belonged: on Hanse Davion’s shoulders. A speech so rousing his people would demand the Capellan March’s secession. Demands which he would, as a dutiful Duke, be forced to give in to.





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One Month Later (September, 3033)
Combat Theater Vote 9

A: Ryuken, the Sword of the Dragon: Testing our Strength
With the surrender of the Draconis Combine and the formation of the Draconis Suns, Coordinator-Prince Hanse Kurita-Davion has, at his wife Jannike’s prompting, assembled a unit cobbled together from the best `Mechwarriors the Draconis Combine and Federated Suns had to offer. Dubbed the Sword of the Dragon or Ryuken by Jannike Kurita-Davion, the Ryuken will serve as a training cadre to familiarize the fledgling realm’s warriors with the way their foreign counterparts fight. Can this new unit survive their training simulations against both the Davion Heavy Guards and the Kurita’s First Sword of Light?

B: MacGregor’s Armored Scouts: Proving our Loyalty
Pressed into service as a Regular unit in the Capellan Confederation Armed Forces, the former-mercenaries of MacGregor’s Armored Scouts must prove their worth—and their mettle—by hunting down and destroying the rebellious Preston’s Lancers, who have balked at the Chancellor’s exceedingly generous terms.

C: 3rd Syrtis Fusiliers: Flexing our Muscle
With the secession of the Capellan March and the formation of the Duchy of New Syrtis, Duke Morgan Hasek must prove his strength to his neighbors. His first goal? To convince the Capellans that the Duchy is ready, willing, and able to engage them on any terms and come out victorious by bloodying the St. Ives Lancers.

D: Praetorian Guards: Annoying our Neighbors
The New Rim Worlds Republic has launched another raid on the Capellan Confederation to keep their allies in the Free Worlds League content and maybe, just maybe, abscond with a few valuables the Capellan Defense Force is stretched too thin to protect.

E: Solaris VII: Factory Semi-Finals
It’s semi-finals time on Solaris VII, and a knock-down drag-out fight in House Marik’s Factory is the name of the game; but where would the fun be without a House Marik twist? Which `Mechwarrior will be going on to duel the reigning champion Philip Capet? Only the Factory knows!



Combat Theater Vote 9:
A – Testing our Strength
B – Proving our Loyalty
C – Flexing our Muscle
D – Annoying our Neighbors
E – Factory Semi-Finals