Part 653: Political Vote 22

Cavern of the Skull
New St. Andrews, Deep Periphery
New Rim Worlds Republic
14 July 3035

Heat radiated from the flagstones lining the Cavern of the Skull’s outer courtyard, desiccating those few weeds that tried to grow up through the cracks. New St. Andrews had its temperate regions, but the harsh deserts along the equator were as inhospitable as they came. The cavern’s aboveground portions, known locally as Castle Amaris, were a semi-recent addition to the ancient Brian Cache. Originally constructed by Stefan Amaris III as an administrative complex to handle the Republic’s growing colonial ventures and moderate defense needs. Since his elevation to power three years prior, the Republic’s regnant Princeps had expanded the facilities devoted to the latter nearly tenfold in the face of what he called the ‘inevitability’ of the return of Kerensky’s descendants. The local clan enclaves had first scoffed at the expense, Amaris V had always maintained that Kerensky’s children were a distant and passive threat. The invasion barely a year later had quieted them. Not that any believed Stefan Amaris VII was prescient, he’d simply viewed the same sketchy information trickling in from their outposts in the Kerensky Cluster and drawn different conclusions than his intelligence advisors.

Captain Serena Brannigan strode through that wide courtyard, fanning out her loose-fitting clothing. Castle Amaris’ surface facilities were not the place to be caught wearing a dress uniform—not unless you planned on dying of heat strike. Brannigan was a member of the smallest of the four Scottish clans that had settled New St. Andrews after fleeing repeated conquests by the Lyran Commonwealth. The clans had many homes after the years, but the old Republic had welcomed them with open arms after they’d fled the conquest of Donegal. When it became clear that the Commonwealth meant to decimate their home once again the Brannigans, MacGregors, Sterlings, and Stewarts had gathered as much of the Republic’s military as they could muster and had retreated to the distant long-abandoned SLDF outpost. Of the four, the Brannigans had the least love for the Republic’s former neighbor—the Lyrans had taken too much from them for that vendetta to fade. It had proven gratifying watching the Commonwealth fracture these past few decades—and even more gratifying to hear they’d crawled on hands and knees begging Skye for military aid.

Brannigan suppressed a smile as her mind wandered. Wearing a smile today, for any reason, would undoubtedly be a dangerous thing. She’d just come from the HPG, bearing a verigraphed missive from Andurien. She was no fool: there was plenty of traffic that passed between Andurien and the facilities on New St. Andrews, but only one message was grave enough to require verification of the recipients genetics before it would play: Stefan Amaris VI, the Republic’s President—the ceremonial head of state and chief diplomat in service to the Consul—must have been killed either by accident or enemy activity. Republic forces there were clearly fighting on—word of the planet’s fall would not have come from Andurien itself.

Brannigan frowned deeply. Stefan Amaris VI was the most celebrated President in the Republic’s admittedly short history. The man had held little real political power but he’d been earnest and forthright about the challenges the Republic was going to face. His interest in maintaining the peace and genuine desire to promote prosperity throughout the colonial reach had made him something akin to a living Saint even among the highly religious and pragmatically skeptical natives of New St. Andrews.

Captain Brannigan knocked twice on the door to the Consul’s private quarters before she was admitted by a stone-faced guardsman with a clan Stewart haircut. She nodded silently and stepped into the antechamber fully prepared for a long wait.

Consul Amaris was already waiting for her. Slender and unassuming, his darkly-tanned complexion felt even more suited to the desert than her own. He wore his hair short, but it wasn’t shaved at the temples the way most Mechwarriors favored. The people of the Republic were largely peace-loving, and even in the face of the Clan invasion their military had been made up entirely of volunteers. It wouldn’t do for the ruling Consul to be seen openly supporting anything close to the paramilitary styles often favored by the Great Houses.

“My father’s dead, then,” it was almost heartbreaking. The youngest living Amaris sounded as though he’d resigned himself to this outcome once word that the battle for Andurien had begun arrived months ago. He didn’t sound relieved, but his grief had been completely subsumed by the same quiet anger that always gripped him when he was dealing with bad news.

“I can’t confirm,” Serena Branigan held still, moving only to hand Amaris the verigraph. He set it on his desk, not even bothering to unlock it. She finished all the same, “but yes. That’s the only thing it could be. News of victory or defeat would come through standard RSDF channels.”

She paused momentarily, and when Amaris made no move to watch the message, she spoke again. “Someone is trying to be kind, to make sure you’re the first to know. In case you need to keep the news a state sec—”

Amaris’s thumb stabbed down on the verigraph’s DNA tester. A holographic scanner imaged him a moment later, taking fingerprints and retinal scans all at once. It wasn’t impossible to fool a Verigraph, but it was extraordinarily difficult—it was the most secure way to send a message short of delivering it in person. He picked the disc back up and handed it back to Serena.

“I already know what this says, I was present when it was recorded.” He took a deep breath, but the subtle raggedness when he let it out was yet another sign of the fury he couldn’t publically show. “My father died a hero. Take that to the command center and see to it that it’s transmitted throughout the Republic. I’ll prepare an official announcement for ComStar and the House Lords later, not that they will care. Send an official request to the RSDF—I’d like to know how, when, and why this was allowed to happen.”

He held his tongue for a moment, unwilling to dismiss her while he did what he always did: what he’d been born to do. His mind worked on ways to turn a potentially dire situation into an advantage. He hadn’t forgotten her, and he would have waved her away if she’d been unnecessary. So she lingered in silence, waiting for his next move. It wasn’t long before he spoke again.

“Serena,” his voice was kind, focused. His anger was gone, his voice had taken on the same tone it usually did whenever he solved some political or economic puzzle. “If I asked you to lead a strike force into hell to rescue my father’s soul, would you?”

“Yes,” she answered without hesitation. The question was a surprise but the sentiment wasn’t. She’d met the President, but even if she hadn’t his ‘soul’ would have been worth saving. Not that she thought it was hell-bound, but stories of fighting Satan to save the soul of a loved one were common among New St. Andrews natives. The Clans fought just enough that threats of eternal damnation were thrown around freely. “If you knew of a way to get me there, I surely would.”

“And soldiers would follow you there?”

That she took longer to consider. They’d follow orders, of course, but all orders weren’t equal. Some brought with them fear and trepidation rather than resolve; while others (such as being assigned to one of the deep-space listening posts monitoring Clan transmissions) were seen as career dead-ends. “Aye, most would.”

Amaris contemplated this, he was going somewhere, but Serena hadn’t puzzled it out yet. “If I asked you to lead a relief force to Andurien, even knowing you’d have to fight through the Clan blockade, would you?”

That was harder. Hell or a Clan blockade—the first was a hypothetical, the latter was certain to get a lot of people killed in the attempt. It would take an army the likes of which the Republic had never built to crack the Clan blockade around Andurien. News that the President had been killed was likely to see an upsurge in volunteers, but even that likely wouldn’t be enough. They’d need to be trained, and by the time she had a coherent force assembled the battle on Andurien would be long over. One way or another.

“If such a force existed,” she hesitated. It couldn’t possibly, although they had enough `Mechs in mothballs buried deep in the Cavern of the Skull to duplicate the Andurien defense. They weren’t the newest models, but if the pilots could be assembled the Republic had the hardware. She nodded, “if such a force existed then yes. Hell, Andurien, Terra—I’d join it or lead it anywhere you asked.”

Amaris paced. A hot wind blew through his chambers, he’d undoubtedly left the balcony door open again. Security hated that, but he liked the heat. He claimed it helped him think. “The Wolf Clan has been resurrected in the Clan Homeworlds, and two of the Clans we’re facing on Andurien: the Snow Ravens and the Sea Wolves have been illegally disbanded.” He clasped his hands behind his back as he stared at a large paper mock-up of the Inner Sphere. It didn’t take the three-dimensional nature of space into account, but it served its purpose.

“You have no idea,” he said with a laugh, “what concessions I had to make to ComStar for that information. Construction blueprints for the Dragoon II. Ludicrous, if I didn’t know one of their ROM agents had already stolen it. It’s such a long trip back to “civilization,” I’ve no doubt the Primus will be kicking himself later.”

Serena held her tongue. She’d been vetted for security clearance time and time again, but even so the younger Amaris could be surprisingly free with state secrets. It wasn’t that he enjoyed gloating about how much he knew—at least she didn’t think that was it—the Consuls simply had too much on his mind to worry about information security. It was why they needed a President in the first place, a direct address from the Consul could be disastrous for morale. Genius was a lot of things, but rarely was it circumspect.

He looked her in the eyes. “I kept the bulk of the Minnesotans in reserve on Xanthe III. I’d been planning on asking you to lead them to Andurien under flag of truce to offer them safe conduct from the battlezone. If I understand the situation correctly, if they were to return to their people now they would be slaughtered to a man. But that was before they killed my father.”

The youngest Amaris turned to stare intently into Serena’s eyes. He tipped his head forward, and for the first time in a long time she felt a chill while standing in Stefan Amaris’s presence. “The Minnesotans have control of several of our prototype long-jumpers. I’d like you to take as many of the Wolverines as will fit on those ships to launch an attack on the Pentagon worlds directly. You’ll have to seize ships there to make the return journey but that’s a challenge the Minnesotans will be well prepared-for.”

“I want the Clan military-industrial complexes devastated. I want their supply lines shattered. General Kharlan will have operational control, of course—but I want you along as my representative.”

“What about the Jump Torpedoes?” Brannigan asked quietly.

“They wouldn’t do anything significant to a planet,” Amaris replied. He turned away, staring in the direction of his balcony doors. “I don’t want to cause ecological devastation. I just want the Homeworld Clan society reduced to an agrarian one. I’m trusting you to keep the Wolverines’ desires in check.”

“Take a battalion of the Praetorian Guards with you. Just in case.”



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Jogall Lowlands
Andurien
Former Province of the Free Worlds League
11 July 3035

A quartet of splashes erupted from the choppy surface of the lake as paired slugs of charged particles struck home. The Dragoon II’s high-powered ER PPCs just barely match the killing power of their Clan counterparts, but the magnetic ‘bottle’ that held the particle beam together had a tendency to break down immediately after the weapons discharged, spreading their damage across a wider than ideal area. It didn’t matter, water was simply too good at absorbing energy—a cubic half-meter or so burst into steam but even a near miss wouldn’t so much as phase Lt. Ruiz’s quarry.

“Damned toads,” Ejiroghene Ruiz smashed a fist down on her command couch’s armrest. She didn’t have a lot of room to move in the Republic’s newly-standardized PA(l) cockpits, but that was hardly a concern. The usual mix of mild blood thinners and stimulants would keep deep vein thrombosis from setting in and keep her combat ready, but after a few straight days in the cockpit she always felt weak as a kitten. It was a good thing the RWA’s mandatory exercise regimen was first rate.

“Stop wasting Gauss Rifle slugs,” Captain Walker turned her way. For a moment she imagined the she saw the little communication laser light up in anger as Walker directed it at her cockpit. “They’re half a kilo out, just ignore them. The Clans win the wetlands. Let them have it, none of it’s strategic and there’s plenty of other scenery to fight them in.”

“Yeah, I know,” Ejiroghene scowled. “They just keep slinging missiles at me. It’s annoying. And I’m pissed.”

“We all are. Word’s come down from High Command that we’re switching straight to the endgame now, so save your ammo for kill shots. We’re refitting to the Dragoon D-Types, two per Lance with a Prime and one of the specialists as a forth.”

“It’s about time,” Lt. Kayode interjected. “Hear that, soljer boys and girls? We gave the Clans such a good little fight that they’ve up and done did somethin’ incredibly stupid. Now’at HQ’s finally mad as we all are, they’ve decided to let us take the gloves off and show the Clans what a war looks like!”



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Hachiman-Taro Enterprises
Hachiman
Draconis Suns
1 August 3035



“Isoroku Kurita.”

Hanse Davion looked up from the day’s dispatches, then set the pile on his desk. He stood, regarding his unannounced visitor with a slight frown. Theodore Kurita rarely deigned to visit him, but the only way he could have made it past the door guard unannounced is if Jannike had accompanied him. True to form, his wife had taken a seat on the far end of the war room. She was still pale after a long, drawn out labor. It’d taken an order from Hanse himself and a promise of amnesty to force the Hachiman doctors to perform the Caesarian section she’d needed. He frowned openly, she should’ve still been in bed.

“Theodore,” Hanse tipped his head. It was an approximation of a bow, he’d come to envy Jannike’s ability to offer the precise degree to be respectful. If Theodore Kurita was offended by Hanse’s barbarous flippancy, he’d just have to deal with it. The white-robed noble bowed deeply, a sign of respect Hanse worried the rest of the Combine might have considered shameful had it been performed in public.

“A Kurita must share the honor of retaking Luthien with you,” Theodore spoke bluntly. “Jannike won’t be hale enough for battle. Marcus Kurita is capable but is your political rival. Knute Kurita has been volatile ever since the Clans killed his father, and Akira Kurita is too young and—meaning no offense to your wife’s family—too inexperienced to lead. Isoroku Kurita is a sohei, he is both ill-fit to rule and does not desire worldly power. He is the ideal choice.”

Hanse stared quietly, a hand rising to his chin. He was almost surprised to find stubble—how late had it gotten? “Theodore, the very reason I asked you here was—”

“I know,” Theodore interrupted coldly. His blue eyes met Hanse’s across perhaps three meters of open floor. “Bringing me to help you retake Luthien would be a mistake. The Draconis Suns would crumble not-long after into popular uprising, and the Kokuryu-Kai would do everything in their power to put me back on the throne. That threat will never manifest, if you take Isoroku in my place.”

“I may die on Luthien,” Hanse countered. “If I perish, it’s best you remain in position to capitalize on my failure. I would rather Theodore Kurita as regent than Marcus Kurita.”

“If I go to Luthien, we may both die,” Theodore replied simply. “In which case, there will be no one left alive to defend your wife and child.”

“I will consider your suggestion,” Hanse would indeed. Theodore Kurita’s advice was often nearly as good as Chandrasekhar Kurita’s, but Hanse found the self-serving mogul’s pragmatism more reliable. A Samurai’s honor was a prickly thing—he fully expected Theodore Kurita would request to commit seppuku the moment Luthien was retaken. A goal he could not accomplish if he was held in acclaim for regaining the Combine’s lost honor.

“But,” Hanse finished, “the decision is ultimately mine.”

Theodore bowed once more. “Of course, Coordinator-Prince Davion.”



Hanse Davion should:
A) Take Theodore Kurita to Luthien
B) Take Isoroku Kurita to Luthien
C) Take Akira Kurita to Luthien
D) Take Marcus Kurita to Luthien
E) Take Knute Kurita to Luthien
F) Take Chandrasekhar Kurita to Luthien
G) All of the Above, let the Dragon cry it out