Part 594: Political Vote 19

Aftermath and Political Vote

“Let them go, Noretti.” Jason was decisive, but sounded tired. The battle hadn’t lasted for more than a few minutes, but they were all still a blur. Noretti’s gloved hand rubbed her sweat-slicked brow, catching what little moisture had slipped past her neurohelmet’s liner. She could’ve fought for hours more, she thought, but with the sudden lull in the fighting her adrenaline levels had crashed unexpectedly.

“Understood,” she replied, breaking off her pursuit. The Viper fired a desultory shot from its large laser to discourage her. She didn’t even bother firing a shot back—the Sea Foxes had lost this fight, and she’d hurt that warrior more by letting them know they weren’t even worth hunting down and finishing off. She shook her head at the unClan sentiment, but all the same it was gratifying to know even the best the Sea Foxes had to offer had been no match for the Demon Hawks on the ground. It made the dull ache of her own loss and capture hurt a little less.

“That was only the tip of the spear,” the Republic Major, Beckett, announced. His tone was grating, for reasons she couldn’t explain. It felt as though he was denigrating the Demon Hawk’s success rather than updating them on the flow of the battle as a whole.

“The nine-oh-four Amaris Cavaliers intercepted the Clan’s main body shortly after we engaged their vanguard forces here. The battle’s still undecided,” Beckett paused, “but Clan morale seems to be flagging. Since we’re safe for the time being and since the Snow Ravens have recalled the bulk of their fighter forces into space, I’ve taken the liberty of calling in a recovery DropShip.”

The Major fell silent for a few moments, muting himself as he took an inbound communique. Finally, he added, “Lord Amaris sends his regards for a job well done. I am to, ah, pretend not to notice if you decide to drag one or two of the more intact Clan machines off the field. Good work, Demon Hawks.”



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Tall and gaunt as a scarecrow, the man known as Justin Xiang stalked the halls of the Celestial Palace. His arms hung ‘at ease’ behind his back, but his right middle and index finger beat an irregular pattern against his artificial left wrist, as though to reassure himself that the Davion-made prosthetic was still there. His lips had long-since curled into a perpetual scowl and even his taking another of his frequent thinking walks did little to improve his mood. He would have relished an opportunity for true exercise, but his old injury at the hands of the now-deceased Gray Noton made such endeavors frustrating and impossible. Romano Liao preferred other forms of exercise to the T’ai Chi Justin had favored in his youth, and he found few quiet moments during the day to practice.

Things were not going well on the border with the Duchy. Even with the false Duke Hasek sabotaging his nation’s defenses, the New Syrtans were putting up a far better fight than the disorganized Free Worlders had. To make matters worse, the Taurian invasion in the periphery had done nearly as much damage to Capellan forces as it had to the Duchy—the Taurian influence on the ultimate outcome of the war was admittedly negligible, but their attacks, conventional or otherwise, could only be described as indiscriminate at best.

All of this had been enough to set Romano Liao seething, but the all-too-real fear that Hanse Davion would decide to stop humoring the New Syrtis separatists and reassert Davion control over the region by main-force was tormenting her in ways even Justin’s calm reassurance couldn’t fully ameliorate. It never failed to amuse him that the Celestial Wisdom, the godlike leader of the Capellan Confederation, needed to be reassured of her own divinity by the man she’d chosen to make most aware of her own limitations and mortality.

The nascent Duchy of New Syrtis needed to be destroyed. It had to die so utterly and completely that it took all thought of a free and independence Dukedom along with it. But it wouldn’t be enough to simply defeat the New Syrtans militarily, the independent-minded border-worlders wouldn’t simply accept the Capellan way of life. Worse, the Confederation was already inundated with new servitors taken in the Free World’s League. Winning a victory through standard means could well mean losing the entire Confederation. No, Justin needed to win a victory that turned the fury of an angry, nationalistic populace elsewhere. He simply needed to make the Capellan Confederation the lesser of two evils. Unfortunately, poised as they already were to serve his needs, even a nuclear arsenal wasn’t enough to turn the Taurians into a credible threat.

Besides which, it would be a waste to vent the fury of a nation into the periphery. With the Duchy—and, most importantly, Kathill—under Confederation control the CCAF would be perfectly positioned to seize Talcott, Salem, and Panpour, depriving the Federated Suns of four of its key manufacturing centers and cutting its industrial capacity by nearly a third. And from Talcott, New Avalon was only four jumps away…



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The innermost set of the trio of heavily armored airlock doors leading into the Catherine Humphreys Memorial Staging Area—Central, as the RWA called it—roared to life as the massive myomer bundles controlling their opening mechanisms pulled taut. The doors ran on massive tracks that angled downwards towards the center—without a force actively holding them open they’d roll shut of their own accord in less than a minute. Work never truly stopped in the Republic’s central staging area, `Mech techs and astechs constantly scurried from one job to the next, patching armor here and replacing broken weapons there.

That didn’t stop them all from pausing to look at the newcomers. There was no shortage of things to do but any time those gates opened it meant another unit with damaged machines to triage and invariably something would be set off to the `Mech graveyard and a new-production replacement would need to be broken out of mothballs and warmed up.

It was the sudden hush that fell over the typical drone of a dozen simultaneous, shouted conversations that drew Duncan’s attention away from the work being done to restore his battered Atlas. Damaged frame members had been stripped away and replaced in a matter of days, and cranes still supported the housing that would become the machine’s new left shoulder. A factory-new replacement arm lay on what a casual observer might mistake for a flatbed train car. In truth, the car was powered by the pair of inset train tracks it rolled upon—Central was concerned about emissions, and a dozen diesel trams would’ve made the `Mechbay uninhabitable if they had to seal up and shut down external ventilation to resist an orbital bombardment or atomic attack.

Duncan’s hand fell to his sidearm as the first `Mech crossed through those doors. The Thunderbolt was an old and unassuming design, an old SLDF workhorse, reliable without being flashy and a solid performer in spite of its slow speed. The `Mech itself was less notable than its paint: a brilliant, almost pearlescent aquamarine with highlights in blue and green that accentuated the `Mech’s own natural shadows. The Sea Fox emblem on its left breast was unmistakable, as were the white flags lashed to either shoulder with rope.

The machines that followed were the same: Orion, Warhammer, JagerMech, Victor. Familiar designs with somewhat unusual lines, and truce flags tied or hurriedly welded to at least one extremity. A trio of tired-looking Clanners with dark rings under their eyes sat on the Victor’s left shoulder, lashed to an aerial antenna so they wouldn’t have to cling to it for dear life.

“The fucking hell is this travesty?” Bethany’s hand found Duncan’s right shoulder. Bethany had taken to Inner Sphere curses like a duck to water, though Duncan found her expletives weren’t very inventive. He didn’t glance her way, nor did he remove his hand from his sidearm. The presence of two full lances of RWA BattleMechs leveling their firepower directly at the rear armor of the new arrivals was only a slight comfort, a single missed shot would undoubtedly kill as many people as the Clan pilots themselves would if they went mad.

“Battle captives?”

“Better,” Stefan Amaris VI answered, stepping from an office with a laugh. He wore a simple suit of navy blue, but the power-armored bodyguards that flanked him looked to be all business. He tipped his head Duncan’s way and explained, “Defectors.”

Bethany’s hand clamped down on Duncan’s shoulder hard enough to make him wince. “I question the wisdom,” she murmured just loud enough for Duncan to hear, “of his stepping out in the open like this. Clan defectors are unheard-of, even if they are second-class warriors. If their defection is genuine—they may still see more value in launching a suicidal attack to kill an Amaris than in following through with their defection.”

“You worry too much, Lieutenant Cochraine,” Amaris replied. Duncan stared, unsure whether or not it would be wise to question how the man had picked her faint voice out of the `Mechbay’s din—and not certain he wanted to know the answer in any case. “Where is your partner, Captain Kalma? Still convalescing?”

Duncan nodded. The Demon Hawks had been battered hard since they’d first arrived, with ten pilots injured and one killed outright they were down to a single lance of effectives. Even the Republic’s doctors couldn’t turn the rest around in less than a month and Takashi, Gordon, and Lam’ah would likely take at least two. Which seemed to suit Amaris—Duncan wasn’t sure what title to refer to him by, he seemed to hate the generic appellation ‘Lord’—just fine. In the week since the fight at the Nergal reactor, the Rim World Army had made no offensive moves. Clan forces seemed tired, reluctant to engage or simply too busy hunting for forces hidden on their flanks to launch a major offensive. To Duncan’s trained eye, their latest operational failures seemed to have done damage to more than just Clan pilots and war materiel.

“Well, no matter. I had hoped he’d be able to join us for this historic event—the first ever recorded defection of a Clan lance! But I suppose you alone will be sufficient. Please join me in greeting our new guests—and Lieutenant Cochraine as well, of course. I do so love a credible witness.”

An offer Duncan couldn’t refuse. He slipped his pistol from its holster, burying it in the pocket of his uniform jacket as he took up a position beside and respectfully behind the senior Amaris. He left his hands in his pockets, his fingers wrapped around his needler’s grip as though it were some magical talisman. Bethany flanked him, her long, strong legs keeping pace with an easy grace that made Duncan a tad jealous.

They stopped a dozen paces from the Thunderbolt’s foot, just in time for the pilot to drop the last three meters from the ascending ladder to the ground. He absorbed an impact that would’ve made Duncan wince on bent legs, his taut muscles flexing beneath a cooling vest that wouldn’t have been out of place on an Inner Sphere pilot. He pulled off a bulky, heavy neurohelmet that was pitted and chipped with centuries of wear, and set it on the Thunderbolt’s foot. Bethany had called the pilot second-rate, which may have been a judgement of skill, although his unit’s entrance had seemed competent enough. The enemy pilot’s equipment absolutely wasn’t up to the specifications of the Clan units Duncan had faced in battle previously.

He regarded Stefan Amaris with eyes gray as a stormy sea, not seeming to see Duncan or the two armored bodyguards in the RWA’s blue-and-red parade colors. He sported a poorly-healed scar that ran from forehead to chin, and while he was well-muscled and trim he lacked even Bethany’s bulk. His grizzled, unshaven stubble was fading to a salt-and-pepper gray and his hair was shaven completely, which did nothing to hide the battered ruin of his left ear. He looked like he’d been the victim of some animal attack, although Duncan had met a few Mechwarriors who’d suffered such injuries in combat.

“Star Commander Azar,” he introduced himself bluntly. Duncan got the impression that ‘blunt’ would prove an apt description of the man’s interpersonal repertoire. He continued, making the same mistake the Demon Hawks had. “President Amaris, we would be obliged if you would direct us to the pilot of that machine.”

The man’s hand raised, pointing over Duncan’s shoulder at his partially-skeletonized Atlas. Duncan squeezed his eyes shut in momentary annoyance and thumbed his needler’s safety off. Amaris clapped his hands together, then gestured Duncan’s way. “Of course, Star Commander. It’s my pleasure to present you to Captain Duncan “Demon” Kalma, co-leader of the Demon Hawks Mercenary Company LLC, and pilot of that very Atlas.

Azar stared at Duncan for a long moment, as if trying to look into Duncan’s thoughts. Duncan stared back defiantly, hands thrust casually in his pockets as though the Clansman was neither a threat nor a concern. The musclebound Mechwarrior held his tongue for long moments, and Duncan made no attempt to break the ice. At long last, the Clan warrior’s will seemed to break. He fell to one knee, his head bowing low.

“Captain Duncan “Demon” Kalma,” the man said formally. “My Star and I have grown tired of the way our Clan has mismanaged this invasion. We are freeborn warriors all, our lot is to serve in second-line and defensive positions with little chance of winning honor. This is a lot we had accepted gladly—we are the shield which protects our Clan and kin while our Trueborn brethren are the sword that cleaves and kills our Clan’s enemies. But it has not been so.”

Azar didn’t rise, holding his kneeling position with an enthusiasm that might’ve made a Drac general envious. “Instead, our Clan has chosen to eschew its shield, striking and blocking with sword alone—and after only a short time that sword is chipped and worn and near to breaking while the shield does naught but gather dust. We,” Azar swallowed, “have been told all our lives that we are inferior. That those free born are nothing compared to the martial skill and prowess of those True. But you and yours, freeborn “detritus” like ourselves, have stood against the sharpest blades our Clan can wield against you—and you stand still, while they lie shattered.”

He straightened finally, staring proudly into Duncan’s eyes, his scarred features twisted into something Duncan could only describe as hope. “I have taken my Star into voluntary exile with one hope: to join with the warriors who have so thoroughly and completely humiliated the Tr—trashborn fools who have led our Clan to ruin. We see—we all know—that Clan Sea Fox will not walk away from Andurien. We have lost nearly one-sixth of our `Mechs and warriors after only a single month of battle and our leaders has declared another third unfit to serve in any capacity other than ballast,” he snorted, “to keep our DropShips from blowing away in the rain.”

“We are warriors and a few trusted technicians who have grown tired of “the way things must be.” Allow us to serve a leader who knows how to wage war. We are here to defect to you, Captain Duncan “Demon” Kalma, and to you alone. Allow us a chance to prove ourselves worthy to join you.”



After Action Report:
I thought you’d appreciate me diving straight into the next political vote rather than another turn of maps. This was a rough battle for me, and not because I was mismanaging things. It’s very hard to attack a position defended by an organized and committed opponent with even numbers, and even my reserves weren’t really enough to make a dent. I had originally thought to bring in Undines just to throw the ‘no Battle Armor’ people for a loop, but ultimately decided against it. I knew there was no way I was going to lure any players into fighting underwater, so we’ll save them for a later mission. My only other comment is: if you don't know what an ability does, ask me about it!



MVP votes time!
Two players, one OpForce. Pretty standard for big engagements. As always, votes prior to this update aren't being counted!



Political Vote:
A) Give Azer’s Star a chance to prove themselves
B) Reject them