Part 352: Political Vote 14

Political Vote 14



Coronet Espinosa brought his Cronus around. The Griffin was outpacing him, but his pursuit had been half-hearted. Any Mechwarrior with that much gumption didn’t deserve to be run down and killed like a mad dog. Besides, he had a DropShip to recce and as badly damaged as his machine was it was still more than a match for whatever infantry that ship might’ve carried. If the worst came to pass, he could always turn to the Marshall’s old standby riot control tactic: turning his back on any attacking infantry and hitting his jump jets to fry anyone who poked so much as a finger out the hatch.

“Capellan crew,” he announced arrogantly as he swaggered up on the broken, crippled vessel. “You are now the prisoners of the Taurian Concordat. If you surrender immediately we will consider you noncombatants and will allow you to expatriate back to the Confederation once this world is securely under Taurian control. This is your final warning: don’t make me kill y’all.”

The DropShip shuddered as the nearest Mechbay door opened perhaps a half-meter before the hydraulics failed. Joe chuckled—it was a wonder the ship’s power still worked at all. He expected the Capellan `Mechs that had taken the field had either jumped out before the ship hit or had managed to squeeze through one of the massive holes in the downed vessel. In spite of the obvious damage, the ship had crashed relatively gently; and could likely be repaired assuming the Capellans didn’t sabotage it.

A sound reminiscent of a ringing gong snapped Coronet Espinosa out of his momentary reverie and he stepped back as the DropShip’s egress door shifted slightly. The heavy double-layered bulkhead it was fastened to twisted under hatch’s weight, and metal protested with a piercing shriek for a few moments before giving way with a sound the young officer didn’t have the words to describe.

A man-shaped figure rose from the new rent in the DropShip’s side, its armored skin artistically airbrushed and lacquered in layers until it looked like polished jade. The only thing marring the effect was the massive bare-metal scar where paint had been stripped away on the left side of the BattleMech’s head. For a few critical moments, Espinosa stood frozen in shock. By the time he reacted, the Assault `Mech’s left arm had already swung in line with the Cronus’s exposed chest.

“Oh,” the Cronus’s loudspeakers boomed. “Hell—”



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“Don’t look like much from here, do they?”

“Uh-huh,” Sir Dr. Fatima Sequord didn’t even glance up from her no-longer LosTech datapad. The personal computer was as powerful as any she’d worked with, and small and light enough to fit in the palm of her hand. She’d designed it herself, using knowledge recovered from the intact Helm memory core—it hadn’t even been difficult! It was hard to believe just a few years before such a device would’ve been considered an almost holy relic!

“These Clanners. They don’t look like much. Just a few Overlords and—Sir Sequord, are you listening?”

“Dr. Sequord,” she corrected automatically, glaring at the speaker. She hadn’t actually been listening but the use of her knightly title over the one she’d actually earned was a quick way to incense her.

Sir Kemper Varas had a way of getting under the skin of nearly everyone he met. The Rim Worlder wasn’t even trying this time, but the Doctor’s momentary anger nonetheless made him raise a hand to tweak his rakish moustache in a failed effort to cover an insouciant smirk. He was, simply put, the least trustworthy individual the good doctor had ever had the misfortune to meet. In private, with Knight Commander Halas, she referred to Varas as “the weasel-knight.”

“You’re missing the landing. What do you make of them, doctor? It looks like they’re landing in unarmed ships.”

She looked back at her datapad, “I can’t see anything from here, Kemper. But the MagRes sensors can,” she held it up so he could take a look. “Those ships aren’t unarmed. The armament is internal, and those turrets are flush. With the right paint, they’re nearly impossible to spot, and the coverage is impressive. So no,” she finished with a glare, “they don’t look like much. That’s the point.”



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“Forgive the observation from my humble personage, Coordinator-Prince—”

“Humble, Grandfather?” Jannike Kurita laughed. “You have many virtues, but that has never been one.”

“And many vices as well,” Chandrasekhar Kurita slapped his belly and laughed raucously. “Nonetheless, and I do hope you’ll tolerate my lack of formality,” he continued, fully aware the man to which he spoke cared not one whit for good manners. “You both look exhausted. I took the liberty to bring you some tea.”

Chandrasekhar allowed a few moments for his offer to sink in, then smiled, “—and coffee.”

“You old rascal,” The disappointment fled Hanse Davion’s eyes in an instant. He was thoroughly sick of tea; but coffee was rare in the Draconis Combine. Even Hachiman, far more cosmopolitan than the Combine as a whole, went through phases where a good cup of coffee was nearly impossible to find. The arrival of Hanse and his entourage had quickly exhausted the planet’s limited supply, and even the regular arrival of smugglers—now newly legitimized cross-border traders—simply wasn’t enough.

Against protests that Galedon or Benjamin was the better choice, Hanse had set up a forward command center on the far-friendlier Hachiman—a mere five or six jumps from conquered Luthien itself—and had gone to work organizing the Draconis Combine’s massive JumpShip fleets for troop movements on a scale that dwarfed the Galahad maneuvers by an order of magnitude. It was a system he knew worked, but the coordination required had even the seemingly-tireless Subhash Indrahar and his thuggish son running ragged.

Of all of Hanse’s advisors, only Chandrasekhar ever seemed well rested.

“When you first told me your plan, I was skeptical.” Chandrasekhar said as one of the scantily-clad women—bodyguards, in theory—which he surrounded himself with poured Hanse a mug of fresh, black coffee. “The warlords of Galedon and Benjamin would have been up in arms if you’d stripped most of the troops from their borders with your realms—but stripping an equal number of the troops from the Draconis March to put the Sandovals on the same footing was brilliant! None of them need fear the other’s predations.”

“They’ll still manage to cause me headaches, I’m sure,” Hanse replied. “I left them troops enough to repel pirates, and the Outworlders could seize the opportunity to launch a strike.”

“After they petitioned to join us?” Jannike Kurita asked, as though she hadn’t considered the possibility.

“They’re terrified we’re going to invade them,” Hanse shrugged. “When I was younger, I might’ve even done it, just to remove a possible knife from my back. A man can be too paranoid.”

“Ah,” Chandrasekhar exclaimed, as though this were a great revelation. “You’ve been spending too much time with The Smiling One. Don’t disregard his advice, in my experience he is correct far more often than his bad karma alone might suggest. Have you chosen a name yet?”

“Grandfather!” Jannike exclaimed in horror, covering her mouth with both hands. Hanse turned, regarding his young wife inquisitively.

“You’ve not told him?”

“I wanted to be certain I’m bearing a proper son.”

“You would have shown far before then,” Chandrasekhar held his arms open helplessly. “Well, allow me to be the first to congratulate you both—but if I know, so does Subhash Indrahar. If Subhash Indrahar knows, so does Theodore Kurita.”

“You say that as though it’s worrysome,” Hanse countered. “What is it you know, Chandy?”

“Please,” Chandrasekhar smiled, “call me ‘Uncle.’ And you are right, you have little to fear from Theodore; but you must fear the Black Dragons. They may seek Theodore’s reinstatement against his wishes. That would mean your death.”

Jannike Kurita turned away, her Rasalhague-blue Kimono shifting as she clutched her belly protectively. “—And they will try, if I have anything other than a son. Believe me, Grandfather, that is not far from my mind. A daughter might be enough in the Federated Suns—but not in the Draconis Combine”

Hanse stood, setting his coffee down on the lacquered hardwood desk and sweeping his wife into his arms. “It will be alright, Jannike. Making yourself sick with worry won’t help.”

“I’ll let myself out,” Chandrasekhar turned, allowing the couple their privacy. Off-putting displays of public intimacy could be forgiven in a barbarian coordinator provided his heir could be properly educated. “If it’s all the same, I believe I may invest in some mercenaries. To protect my holdings here, so they can’t be used against me and so that I, in turn, won’t be used against you.”



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“You’re smiling.”

“Am I?”

“You are. I watch for them, they’re usually a sign of impending good fortune.”

“Mm,” Justin Xiang’s reply was noncommittal. He bowed his head low, as if regarding the gold paneling at the base of the Celestial Throne. “So I am. And Pavil Ridzik has the audacity to claim that you’re not very perceptive.”

“Have him killed,” Romano Liao’s expression darkened for a brief instant, then softened a moment later. “Quietly.”

Justin bowed, “Of course, Celestial Wisdom. It will be done.”

She touched his hand, his shoulder, and stepped past with a flourish of black robes embroidered with golden tigers. “The opportunity to kill that old traitor isn’t why you’re smiling. One of your operations has borne fruit. Tell me of it.”

Justin bowed low, but stepped aside. He made a gesture, and one of the distant guards turned to admit one of his operatives. Romano turned, froze, and simply stared with eyes that showed nothing resembling human emotions. She watched the newcomer, then turned to regard Justin with open suspicion. “My love,” her tones were cruel and distant, “what is the meaning of this?”

“One of your father’s projects,” Justin straightened, his smile thin and cruel. The other man bowed in a surprisingly Capellan fashion. His long, reddish-brown hair hung limply at the gesture and as he straightened he wasted precious seconds fixing it to appease his own vanity.

“A long-running program,” Justin explained, “which I maintained after his assassination. It’s been successful far beyond even your late father’s wildest dreams. Madam Chancellor, permit me to introduce you to Duke Morgan Hasek.”

Cogs turned as Romano’s eyes shifted between her lover and the handsome, red-haired newcomer. She tapped her lip with a long, carefully manicured talon and laughed. “My love, you’ve subverted the leader of the Capellan March?”

“Not subverted,” Justin corrected. “Replaced.”

Morgan nodded, “It’s true, Chancellor Liao. As I shared the original’s first name, age, and date of birth I was an obvious choice. Nonetheless—I volunteered gladly! It is an honor to serve the Celestial Throne!”

“A great opportunity has been presented to us,” Justin explained, turning to the embroidered map of the Inner Sphere embroidered on fine, rich silk which hung like a tapestry along the far wall. “Although I fear we’ll have to replace that yet again. We now have the capacity to claim the whole of the Capellan March as lawful Capellan territory, right from under Hanse Davion’s nose.”

Romano smiled at that thought, “That would put us within striking distance of New Avalon.”

“And give us Kittery,” Morgan explained, “and several of the richest worlds in the former Federated Suns. Hanse Davion likely expects he’ll be able to seize the Duchy effortlessly once his war with these ‘Clans’ is finished. Then, he would likely turn his military might upon the Confederation. Alone, neither our own glorious nation nor the fledgling Duchy will survive but as a Capellan protectorate and with the Duchy’s greater production capacity at your fingertips—”

“Your people would never roll over and accept Capellan leadership,” Romano’s expression darkened again. “They hate us—years of Davion propaganda and racism won’t be overcome by the words of one man, no matter how highly placed.”

“Forgive me, Excellency,” Justin smirked. “But that isn’t true—they just need an enemy they can hate more.”

“Which is why,” Morgan continued, “when I invited the Taurian President to New Syrtis for peace talks I routed him through a newly-contested world. Where he was, unfortunately, shot down and killed.”

“Then, a few words to the right people in the right places,” Justin continued, “and we convinced the newly-elected young President to seize his revenge against the Duchy.”

“The Taurians aren’t signatories of the Ares Convention,” Morgan interjected. “Assuming they haven’t already, it won’t be long before they take this war nuclear—and the moment they do the whole of the Duchy will be crying for Taurian blood. Their past animosity with the Capellan Confederation will be nothing by comparison.”

Justin finished, “an incident or two of Capellan troops assisting those of the Duchy and leaving the field peacefully and suddenly we have something in common.”

Romano’s eyes widened, “—the Periphery invasions?”

“Yes, the ones you initially thought foolish—simply part of the long plan. We’ll only need to stand down our primary invasion forces—many of our regiments have been in combat for months already and could use the rest—make an address denouncing the Taurians and their nuclear murder, and give Duke Morgan’s propaganda a chance to do its job.”

He stepped closer, his lips brushing Romano’s ear. “Then, you will finally rule a state that is the equal of every other power in the Inner Sphere—and our son will one day rule far more than even that. Just say the word, Chancellor, ”



Political Vote 14:

Capellan Confederation
A) Say The Word (Stand down the CCAF and withdraw from contested worlds, denounce the Taurians, manufacture an incident)
B) Say Something Resembling The Word (Stand down the CCAF, denounce the Taurians, wait for an incident)
C) Say Some Words (No new invasions, denounce the Taurians)
D) Empty Words (Denounce the Taurians)
E) Continue attacking the Duchy, to hell with Maximillian Liao’s overcomplicated plans!
F) Kill the fake Morgan Hasek!