EMCOTS 35

=Emergence (Concertverse) - Chapter 35=
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==Visions, Radiant and Bright==
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===Just Passing Through===
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Kilkenny
Alkalurops
Falcon’s Reach (Former Republic Of The Sphere)
17th January, 3143
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The Jade Falcon military government of Alkalurops had chosen to make their home in the township of Kilkenny. They’d probably thought it was a good idea, Callandre Kell reflected, looking out through the - permanently opened by an SRM blast as the Fourth Avalon Armoured Infantry stormed the Falcon HQ - windows of what had been, before the Falcons converted it to a command center, a typing pool or something like, at the open, rocky ground around the town, the ore sheds holding the product of the mines in the Vandika continent’s mountain ranges, and the Guards arrayed in a not-quite-standoff with the locals. And, maybe they might have been right, up against a bunch of rock- or petrol bomb-throwing rioters, or converted WorkMechs.
Against the massed strength of the First Davion Guards - plus the disturbingly well-equipped resistance that’d sprung out of hiding as the Guards burned in - all it’d done was get them killed.
Callandre shook her head. She had a - well-earned, honestly - reputation for stunts that were usually called insane, and often verged on suicidal, but regardless of all the crazy “Mongol doctrine” shit the Falcons were pumping out, even the densest Bottle-Baby could do maths. Enough, at least, to know that throwing a pair of understrength battalions against the better part of five regiments just counting the ones on the ground already, wasn’t going to do shit. Even the most combat-happy Wolves she’d associated with would’ve known better; and one of them had tried to headbutt his way through her Destroyer's windshield on a bet for God's sake!
And the Falcons hadn’t done damn-all, or most of them hadn’t at least; Jules’ plan had that down perfectly. Their ‘Mechs and armor had just been shredded by long-range energy and Gauss fire, the infantry peeled out of their strongpoints like lobsters by tank and battlesuit teams trained to a fever pitch at urban warfare. Hell, all she’d had to use her Destroyer’s autocannon for was finally blasting the Watch snowdrops - “redcaps” according to the Guards - out of their HQ.
Then again, she thought, considering what the locals’ve been doing to any Clanners they get hold of - and what the Falcons did to them first - maybe they had the right idea fighting against us. The handful of surviving Falcon infantry - sibbies, mainly; and a couple of ancient and greying Point Commanders who'd kept the sibbies from being too stupid to live - plus the few Watch operatives who'd lived to make it close enough to surrender to the Guards were out by the DropShips; protected by Markesan Pride's guns, a company of the biggest, meanest infanteers Jules could find - in massive sets of Grenadier and Fenrir armor - and the ferocious anti-infantry arsenal of a Scarecrow from the pissed off locals out to hang them from the nearest tree. As for what the Falcons had done to the locals, well - everyone in the Guards had seen the shattered, broken remains of towns and villages the stupid bastards had sacked.
Speaking of the locals, she thought, as the improv-conference room’s door opened, admitting the local rep. She wasn’t what Callandre had expected; far from the dashing image of a resistance leader, Grace O’Malley looked like - well, what she probably was, day-to-day, a wiry miner worn down by years of hard work, her contemplative features tanned dark by Alkalurops’ bright, pale sunlight, grey streaking her dull-red hair. The limp, and the supporting brace around one thigh were probably the Falcons’ work. She didn’t need telling who was in charge, stepping toward Jules with a hand extended; not that Jules’ love of no more state than he had to put up with - in this case, her, Sandra (as ever established in a comfy chair with noteputers to hand) and the infantry squad on guard - made that difficult.
“Grace O’Malley, Mayor of Falkirk.” Her greeting and the handshake with it were perfunctory as well, but at least not outright rude, and Jules didn’t seem bothered. If anything, he seemed more relaxed than Callandre knew he’d been since Terra, now they were finally acting.
“Julian Davion, general officer commanding the First Davion Guard.” Jules returned the greeting with court-trained grace, and making introductions in turn. "My armor brigade exec, Major Callandre Kell; and Countess Sandra Fenlon, of Chesterton." That got Sandy a polite nod of acknowledgement, and Callandre a long, considering look. The kind of look she knew well, hated, that she bit back her normal caustic response to; maybe Jules is finally rubbing off on me. The look that conveyed, without a word, I know your name, and You're not what I expected.
"You're an awfully long way from home, General." O'Malley responded after taking a seat, indicating the sword-and-sunburst banner hung on one wall. "You lost?"
"No," Jules managed a soft chuckle in response to that. "we're heading to Lyran space, as a matter of fact."
"I see." O'Malley didn't look convinced, but then, the firepower the Guards had deployed would worry anyone. She frowned, seeming to turn over facts in her mind for a moment. Then; “Not that I want to sound inhospitable, but if you’re heading there, then why are you here?”
"Intel raid." Callandre cut in. No need to let her work Jules solo. “Needed to find out what was going on, and here seemed as good a place as any.” Tossed that off casually, as though Alkalurops hadn’t been picked for very specific reasons; the distance along their route to the rendezvous at Gallery, giving time to analyse everything learned, and the fact that its pirate points were probably the safest in known space.
“And you’re planning on staying here for how long? We haven’t exactly got a whole lot to spare for another dozen thousand guests."
“No more than a week.” Julian, calm and level. “Just long enough to recharge our jump drives.”
“Fair enough.” O’Malley commented after a moment’s consideration. “It’s not like I could stop you, so I might as well be a good host.”
“Good.” Julian smiled, accepting a noteputer from Sandra. Their fingers brushed lightly, drawing deeper smiles from both; and one from Callandre, as well, she knew happiness when she saw it. “I’ve got a rough SOFA worked out here …”
Callandre took the opportunity to step out; the rest of this was going to be administrative stuff, that she didn’t like and wasn’t any good at.
Her aimless footsteps took Callandre outside, in amongst the Guards’ armor park - everything from lightweight Kruger armored cars to the bulk of two of their superheavy Destriers. Things seemed to be calming down, the Guards and resistance fighters already making the first steps of friendship; talking in small groups within the no-man’s-land between both forces.
Nobody seemed to be paying much attention as she moved through the ranks of AFVs, and that was one reason Callandre had decided she liked being with the Guards. They didn’t care about her name, or who her father or uncle were, or what she’d done at the Nagelring - all that mattered to the Federated Suns tankers was that she could do the job she claimed, and do it right. Which, admittedly, was just as much pressure in its own way, but a whole lot easier to handle.
Making her way to her Tank Destroyer - unambiguously hers, since she'd made sure to tag it with, alongside the sword-and-sunburst and the First Guards' Corinthian helmet, the emblems of the Kell Hounds, the Nagelring Cadet Corps and the Lyran Commonwealth - Callandre hefted one of the toolboxes secured to the rear deck kit racks and clambered up atop the cockpit, intent on fixing the persistent hitch in MG mount's traversing gear.
She'd gotten the maintenance covers free and was starting to realign the traversal motor’s parts - one of them looked like it’d worked loose, or been knocked loose by that SRM hit in the street fighting earlier - when an unfamiliar voice broke her focus, a strange, almost musically accented voice announcing, “Calamity Kell, I presume?”
That had her rounding on the speaker to deliver a stinging rebuke - the Guards knew she hated that nickname coming from anyone who hadn't earned the right to use it - that died in her throat when she got a look at them.
The man dressed like one of the locals, in the same hard-wearing, practical denim and leathers, but he wasn’t; hadn't been born on Alkalurops at least. Callandre had spent enough time around Trueborn warriors to recognize one - even in civvies - when she saw them, even if she'd never encountered one who, from the bleached-white hair and skin, and pink eyes, was a genuine albino; and that made the accent click, because she'd heard it before. From one of the Coordinator's party, on Terra.
"You're an awfully long way from Irece, Nova Cat." Callandre responded, finally. "And how'd you get that name?"
"Correct on the first, wrong on the second; I believe Danny now owes me a pint," the Clanner smiled. "As to your name, I learned of it through the fires, as with much else. I," he made a stiff, Kuritan court-style bow, the precise degree of one to an equal,  "am Benjork Lone Cat, once of Clan Nova Cat, and now of Alkalurops."
Callandre frowned at that; not the idea - there were Nova Cat enclaves, or had been, in the Republic, and Stone’s policies had always encouraged movement and intermixing - but at the comment that said that she was dealing with a seer. Or just who thinks they are; she’d never been sure just how much of the Nova Cats’ mysticism was nonsense, how much was misdirection, and how much they actually believed. And how much might be real.
“You know my name. But I don’t know why you’re talking to me. Shouldn’t you be sharing your ‘mystical wisdom’ with Marshal Davion?”
Laughter wasn’t the response to her words that Callandre had expected, but it was the one the Lone Cat gave her; the familiar short, barking cadence of Clanner amusement.
“He does not need it.” Benjork said, a smile on his face; as though at some private joke. “Julian Davion knows who he is, and who he must become. The only question for him is the route to it, and that is a path that every soul must walk alone. You, though; you, Callandre Kell, do not know yourself, which I find curious, as,” he nodded to the Destroyer’s clustered insignia, “there are clearly many of you to know.”
“Just speak your piece. I don’t like riddles and I do have work to do,” Callandre snapped, unsettled by the ex-Nova Cat’s unblinking case, and by his ability to home in on things that she’d been trying to avoid thinking about since Ronel.
And, at that, the news of her uncle’s narrow escape had just focused doubts Callandre had been feeling for a long time about her own life choices. Very few of which, looking back on them, she was particularly proud of; most notably, the disastrous drunken bender she’d embarked on after finally graduating the Nagelring - somehow scraping a sword of honour despite shattering every record for misbehaviour and demerits - in large part due to missing Jules, and it finally sinking in what she might have have done to him by dragging him into her rebellion against the weight of expectations. She couldn’t even remember very clearly marrying Langenhass, just a vague impression of making it exceptionally clear to a registrar on Solaris that he’d do it or something violent was going to happen; the extremely public divorce two weeks later, when she’d sobered up enough to think clearly, Callandre did remember, and regretted. Not doing it, but a lot of the things she’d said, implied and threatened to Keith, who for an idiot was a decent enough guy and hadn’t deserved the full force of her temper.
“Simply thus; no human being is an island. We are all linked, and do not exist for ourselves alone. And though I have little experience with family as such,” a different smile now, something softer and more self-deprecatory, “well, surely it is best to make peace with them, rather than maintaining an antagonism that profits none but your enemies?"
******, how the hell is he getting inside my head like this? Callandre had been subject to cold-reading before, and she was positive that was what Benjork was doing to her; but something about his eerie, piercing gaze and knowing expression was making her think about the tales she'd loved as a child - with a child's ghoulish fascination with terror - about Subhash Indrahar, the ISF Director back during the original Clan invasion, and his supposed ability to read a person's thoughts, their innermost soul, just by looking them in the eye.
Part of her wanted to scream several highly creative obscenities at the Cat, or maybe hit him with the wrench in her hand; to deny even the possibility of any kind of reconciliation. Another part, that she’d found herself listening to more and more lately, responded to that with, Quit being a child. So you said some nasty things to your father; you’re not the only one here with family issues. Sandra’s parents were both murdered when she was a toddler, Julian never knew his mother and barely knew his dad; hell, he’s getting ready to fight a war with his cousin if he’s got to. At least you get the chance to make things right with your father.
“You’ve made your point,” she settled on, finally, not liking the edge of petulance in her voice. “I’ll settle up with my dad, when I get the chance. Now, do you have any other  insights to push on me, or are you going to leave and let me work?”
“Bargained well, and done,” Benjork replied, smiling that odd smile Callandre was really starting to take a dislike to as she turned back to the turret mechanism. “I wish you well; and it is to the good that Julian Davion has one such as you to guard his back. He will need it.”
“Now what in the hell do you mean by -” Callandre started, turning and rising the wrench - she was about ready to start beating some straightforwardness into this clown - only to find herself staring at nothing but the rear deck of the Ajax assault tank parked in front of her Destroyer.
“****** vanishing act. Bloody Nova Cats,” she muttered. It wasn’t like Jules lacked for people to watch his back; even back home. Caleb was a paranoid nut, but there were plenty of people willing to argue Jules’ case with him; most surprisingly Erik Sandoval-Groell, who was a first-class arse most of the time and, pretty unsurprisingly, Caleb’s most trusted military adviser.
And I hope, Callandre added silently - and more than a little vindictively - as she went back to work, Erik’s finding out how little fun the job he stole from Jules actually is..
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===Trouble at the Watchtower===
The Watchtower
Ten kilometers north of Avalon City, New Avalon
Crucis March, Federated Suns
21st January, 3143
The Prince's Champion of the Federated Suns had come to hate the Watchtower.
I shouldn't, Erik Sandoval-Groell thought as he made his way down the familiar corridors to the Operations Room at the Watchtower's heart, the spurs and heelplates of his boots tapping faintly against the floor. After all, this place represents everything I wanted - that I thought I wanted - power, prestige, authority. Respect. The ability to say that I'm my own man, not just cousin Aaron's creature. And yet, each time he was here, he found himself longing for a return to the frontlines and the cockpit of his Hatchetman. Maybe it was the pervasive air of unreality, as though the dire situation facing the Suns could be avoided just by massaging the right bits of data. Or maybe it was the swarms of staff officers in pristine, elaborate - or at least as elaborate as AFFS service dress got - uniforms, all too many of whom had never heard a shot fired since their basic training; something that Erik could have tolerated if most of them had gotten their posts for their abilities at administration, rather than the actual case of connections alone. Maybe that's why they go in for the gold braid; trying to convince themselves that they're real soldiers.
He was in plain Mechwarrior field service dress, as unadorned as regs allowed; just the national and Avalon Hussars insignia, epaulet with his rank tabs, and the laurel-wreathed sword-and-sunburst collar badge that only the Prince's Champion could wear. A short row of combat action ribbons rested above the right breast pocket of his jacket, and one of his staff had provided a light dusting of cosmetics that brought out the scar seaming his left cheek; it never hurt to remind the palace warriors that he was a fighting man, not just a soldier.
Remember, Erik, image is a weapon like any other. Present yourself solely as a warrior, and very few will ever think to look beyond that. One of his cousin's lessons, and one of the ones that Aaron Sandoval had tried his hardest to get across.
Yeah, yeah, you were right, old man, Erik shot back at that memory, while the final checkpoint guards double-checked his ID. You're still an arrogant prick.
“Thank bloody God you’re here, Sir.” one of the guards commented, handing his ID documents back in a bionic hand; another bit of Aaron’s teachings there, if one Erik had known already, that loyalty flowed down as well as up - he’d gotten Sergeant Angie Cole a posting to the Watchtower’s security regiment after she’d lost the original hand saving him from a Liao anti-’Mech squad on Tigress. Besides, you never knew when friends in low places might come in handy. “They’ve been at it for hours.”
“Shouting?” Erik asked quietly, a little surprised. He’d have expected the High Command to be more decorous than a pirate band, at least.
“No, worse,” Sergeant Cole looked really worried. “it’s all hard-edged politeness in there. Like one of those Kuritan weddings where the families hate each other.”
Erik winced at that. He knew exactly what she meant; like Vincent Kurita’s entourage on Terra, where the forced politeness had been so pregnant with throttled back rage it would have been a measurable relaxation of tensions if Toranaga and Kurita had simply drawn their katanas and gone at each other across the dance floor at the Exarch's ball.
“Thanks for the heads-up, Angie.” he replied. “How’s the family doing?”
"Good, thanks," Cole smiled. "Danny and the kids are settling in fine on Panpour; he's got a job lined up at the yards there, and Eve's applying to Firgrove academy next year. She's got her heart set on pilot school."
''
“Well, if she needs a letter of recommendation, you only have to ask.” Erik smiled as he stepped past the guardpost. “Now, I’d better get back to work.”
Contrary to its portrayal in innumerable works of popular fiction, and despite being deep enough underground that nothing short of a high-yield deep earth-penetrator fitted nuke could knock it out, the Operations Room was cool and brightly lit. Dominating the multi-tiered half-circle of workstations was the vast wall map, set to display the entirety of the Five Hundred Worlds of the Federated Suns and much of their immediate neighbors, and speckled with unit markers; gold for the AFFS - one, that of the First Avalon Hussars, shifting to a new deployment location, on Emporia - green for Capellan, red for Dracs and pale blue for the Raven Alliance. Liao and Kurita advances were shown as well, with a sickly green stain devouring too much of what had once been the Republic as it curled down towards Demeter, Chesterton and Tikonov, and beyond them Orbisonia and Kathil, worlds Daoshen Liao coveted with a rapacity that eclipsed even his father's; and the Draconis Reach, its gold almost entirely subsumed by a deep, arterial crimson. Even as Erik made his way down to the lowest tier- that of the High Command itself - three of the golden stars bordering the Reach, Glenmora, Hoff and Crossing, started blinking between crimson and gold as the dispatches he'd carried from Kestrel were encoded and fed into the system.
Erik's fingers clenched around the hilt of his - peacebound, and purely ceremonial - sword until he was sure the knuckles were white beneath his gloves. For a moment, the clack of fingers over keyboards tripped something in his head, and he was back on Hoff, the ozone and strong coffee smells of the Operations Room replaced by blood and hot metal, the keystrokes amplified to the howling roar of his Hatchetman’s eighty-millimeter autocannon at maximum cyclic rate as it flayed armor from a Kuritan Goliath crushing the life out of a crippled Bulldog of the Hoff planetary guard. Then the flicker of memory passed.
Someone, he knew, was inevitably going to argue that he shouldn’t have taken the First Avalon to Hoff in support of Duchess Stephenson’s evac mission - certainly that he shouldn’t have gone along in person - but to hell with them. If the AFFS couldn’t, or wouldn’t, defend the people of the Federated Suns, then what damn good were they? And what good was a champion who shrank from battle when it was needed.
The Field Marshal of the Crucis Lancers Brigade was talking when Erik reached the High Command tier, exchanging friendly nods with Admiral Min Seung-hyun; one of his few allies among the High Command, both because she agreed with him on most things, and he’d helped her get the job of Chief of Naval Ops. The current topic seemed to be -
“- simply don’t see why we need to pull the Second Crucis off Marlette to deal with a handful of raids.” Malcolm Davion-Ross was saying, aiming a contemptuous look at Corwin Sandoval’s representative, a Colonel in Robinson Strikers uniform. “After all, what do we fund the Robinson Brigade for?”
“If it was just raids, then I wouldn’t be here.” the Colonel - the nametag on his battledress, the mirror of Erik’s own in its understated martial austerity, read Robicheaux - snapped back, tanned features turning an interesting shade of puce. “We maintain two regiments and five Light Combat Teams of regular troops out of our own resources, along with the March and planetary militias, and the New Ivaarsen Chasseurs. That is enough to deal with opportunistic raiding or attempts to seize worlds by the Benjamin and New Samarkand Warlords out of their own resources; it isn’t enough to handle a full-scale offensive spearheaded by the Coordinator’s household troops - including Wolf’s Dragoons and three of the Swords of Light - you bloody popinjay!”
Davion-Ross flushed in turn, and Erik started to move, trying to place himself between the two before they came to blows.
“Enough!” The voice that froze all three men where they stood wasn’t particularly loud, but there was a quiet intensity to it that did the job just as well as volume. “You are all conspiring to drive me mad.” First Prince Caleb Hasek-Sandoval-Davion - a trim figure in a Field Marshal’s uniform, favoring his mother’s slender build and dark coloring more than his father’s bulky, pale muscularity - snapped as he turned to face the group, backlit by the holotank before them. “We have been hearing these same arguments for weeks! Now, at least, with Our Champion’s return we may finally hear from someone with something useful to say.” He gave Erik a curt nod and gestured for him to speak.
“Highness.” Erik bowed, taking a moment to study the High Command. Most of them seemed cut from the same pattern; impeccably bred, finely uniformed, and all too many of them appointed by Harrison Davion, not very capable even then, grown old in their posts and still without truly comprehending how much the Blackout had changed things. And impossible to replace, because those who might replace them effectively were needed where they were. Aides clung around them, or moved back and forth through the room, carrying messages; then there were the ceremonial guards, and a group of suited civilians …
No, Erik decided after studying them; the dispersion, the bulges - carefully concealed by some excellent tailoring - under arms and at their hips, their eyes flickering ceaselessly over the room, watching, appraising. Waiting. The real guards. And by the look of them, some of the only people here who're doing their jobs properly.
“Colonel Robicheaux may have been somewhat indelicate in his phrasing, Highness,” Erik began, “but he is essentially correct. This is not the lowkey war of raid and ambush that has been going on the Reach for generations; the Combine may not be invading in full strength yet - they’re still fighting the Nova Cats, and Operation PELAYO’s thrown off a lot of their planning - but they're clearly preparing to do so, soon; they’ve already invaded Glenmora, Crossing and Hoff. Including, yes,” he shot Davion-Ross a nasty look, “at least the Fifth Sword of Light, and probably others.”
“Preposterous.” Davion-Ross muttered, and Erik gave him a nasty look.
“Then it must have been someone doing a very good impression of them that tried to kill me less than two months ago on Hoff. Amazing, really,” Erik layered contempt into his voice, “that I was fighting them face-to-face, and yet you know better than me who they were from two hundred lightyears away.”
Davion-Ross finally showed some association with good sense and didn’t rise to the bait, and Erik carried on.
“Draconis March Command needs reinforcements,” he stated flatly. “Exactly which units and where to send them is a matter for debate, but we need to be having that debate, not arguing about whether to send troops at all, before it’s too late.” He paused momentarily, letting those words sink in, before carrying on. “And I’m worried about how quiet Daoshen’s been. Not even probing raids towards Tikonov or Chesterton for the last eight months? He’s up to something, and I don’t want to be worrying about a dao in the back while we’re fighting the Kuritans.”
That drew general agreement; Daoshen Liao was insane, vain beyond belief and as vicious as a starving Caph neosaur to boot, and nobody - not even Harrison Davion (probably) - would expect him to do anything other than lash out for a perceived slight. Like other people existing without giving him what he wants.
“It’s possible, with - at least as far as we can determine - their being unaware of SUNSHOWER,” DMI Director Church - nobody knew if the quiet, exceptionally nondescript man had any other names - commented softly, “that the CCAF are reorienting towards facing the Free Worlds League. Certainly, MI4 have developed some intelligence that suggests that Andurien is where the bulk of McCarron's Armored Cavalry are heading.”
“Why would he, though? Mask ops I could see, sure - the Mariks've never needed much of a push to start squabbling." Marshal Addison Donahue said, the Lancer - Federated Suns, not Crucis - GOC rubbing absent-mindedly at his cybernetic eye as he gathered his thoughts. "A large scale military action - that seems like exactly what Jessica Marik would want. A nice big external war to quiet all the doubting voices; hell, might even get the Regulans on-side. Lester Cameron-Jones hates her, but all our psych data says he hates the Liaos more.”
"Yes; although the evidence is promising, the motivation lacks." Church agreed. “An open move against the League would only add to the Capellans’ enemies while gaining them little; so, all that we know is a number of the Confederation’s most powerful, experienced and mobile units have left their normal deployment stations.”
“Is it possible they know about SUNSHOWER?” The words dropped into the conversation like lead ingots into a still pond, and Erik only realized that he’d been the one to say them when all eyes turned to him.
All except Caleb’s, that is; his were focusing on Church and on MIIO Deputy Director Harding.
“Well,” the First Prince asked, a brittle calm in his voice. “Is it possible the Liaos have figured out SUNSHOWER?”
“It’s … possible, yes.” Harding said after a brief exchange of glances. “Despite their sadism, the Maskirovka are neither stupid or incompetent; and moving as many ships and regiments as we are is impossible to actually hide. But there’s no sign that they know anything in detail.”
“I see.” Caleb’s darkly intense gaze fixed on Erik. “Exactly how serious do you believe this Kuritan invasion to be, Champion?”
“Very, Highness,” Erik replied. “And they want us to know that they mean it; the Swords of Light are a powerful statement. If hitting Hoff and Crossing was simply a reprisal strike for PELAYO, Toranaga would’ve sent the Benjamin Regulars in and claimed it was just overzealous local commanders, but the Fifth Sword,” Erik shook his head. “They’re not deniable at all.”
''
“Admiral Min,” Caleb’s head tracked across like a tank’s turret, fixing on the small, slight naval officer, “How quickly can Transport Command begin redeployments towards the Draconis March?”
“Most of our independent transport groups are tied up with preparations for SUNSHOWER,” Seung-hyun explained, moving to the holotank’s controls with the loose, rolling gait of one used to microgravity - Erik wasn’t sure if she’d spent a week straight on a planet any time in the last twenty years; certainly it was only a direct command from Caleb that’d gotten her off her Avalon-class flagship now - and highlighting JumpShip groups and routes. “However, the Fifth Ceti, Twenty-second and Twenty-seventh Avalon Hussars, as well as the Third Armored Cavalry and the Second and Seventh Crucis do have their transport groups on station and charged up; they can be moving within a week of getting the order to redeploy. Anything more than that will take at least three weeks.”
“Right then.” Caleb turned inwards then, his expression freezing in thought for a moment. Erik let him, glaring the rest of the High Command into keeping their peace; if Caleb wasn’t like some of his ancestors - who’d been able to hold a whole campaign in their mind’s eye without effort - he wasn’t stupid, and thinking did him better than pressure into an impulsive choice. Then: “Orders,” Caleb began speaking quickly, “Second Crucis and Third Armored Cavalry to Kentares, Seventh Crucis and Twenty-second Avalon to Kestrel in preparation to move up to Robinson. I want full evaluations of what forces we have to redeploy to the Draconis March beyond that. And I want it done, fast,” he added, fixing Davion-Ross in particular with a harsh look, “I don’t care how likely you think a major Kuritan offensive is.”
As ripples of activity spread outwards, Erik took the opportunity to catch the eyes of the Department of Merc Relations rep - Colonel Allison Benfleet, another ally - and Capellan March Command’s envoy - some Hasek cousin he didn’t recognize. They needed to plan out more intel raids; mercenaries and regular troops both, and I need to get in touch with South Wind. Always Erik’s best, most reliable asset for divining Capellan intent, and one that he’d managed to keep hidden from everyone - well, almost everyone. He still didn’t know how cousin Aaron had found out about them.
He looked at the situation map, taking a moment to try and divine something beyond the obvious from what it showed. Unfinished Book, he’d take the insights of some wandering bottle-born mystic at this point to get a look inside Daoshen’s planning.
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===House Liao Plots===
Celestial Palace Situation Room
Zi-Jin (Forbidden) City, Sian
Capellan Confederation
21st January, 3143
Contradictions were, it seemed, a constant in sang-jiang-jun Isabelle Fisk’s life.
Take now, for instance. Here, in the Situation Room at the very heart of the Celestial Palace complex, she should feel safe while she and others developed the best way to bring about the Celestial Wisdom’s will. Above them, surface to orbit weaponry, squadrons of aerospace fighters and pocket WarShips, and the mighty cruiser Aleisha Kris - one of the largest remaining WarShips in the Inner Sphere - hung in readiness to die to defend Sian. Regiments of the finest troops in the CCAF guarded the palace complex itself; and within the innermost circle that contained the Liao family’s own quarters as well as the Situation Room, a full company of the elite Death Commandos was posted as sentinels. The Situation Room itself could - at least in theory - withstand a repeat of the bombardment that had leveled most of the original palace complex during the Jihad.
And yet, she’d felt safer engaging Republican BattleMechs in her younger years than she did in this ostensibly secure location.
Part of it was those silent watchers. If their commanding officer were to tell them that the woman in the sang-jiang-jun’s uniform was a threat to the Chancellor, Isabelle knew that the Death Commandos would cut her down without a second thought; would do the same to an unarmed Buddhist monk. Or their own mothers, probably.
On the overhead displays, two screens showed readiness reports; on the other two, the Confederation was outlined in jade - or, rather, the Confederation as envisioned by a particularly optimistic court historian. She carefully did not let even a fraction of her true feelings at the breathtaking arrogance of already shading Chesterton and Calloway VI, neither of which had ever been part of the Confederation and neither worlds that the Davions or Mariks would give up without a fight, in Liao green - if shot through with gold and purple respectively - show; that would not be wise,with both Daoshen and Ki-linn in attendance.
Isabelle shook herself out of her thoughts. Right now, she needed to focus on the practicalities, not lead herself into philosophical woolgathering.
“ … So, with the induction of the latest graduates,” Xavier McCarron - as ever, one of the dedicated spokesmen of the Strategios was saying, “our casualties from GREAT FLOOD have been made good. We still need time to get everything shaken down to full effectiveness, but as of now.” the balding, mustachioed veteran smiled, “The CCAF are at as close to full readiness as it’s possible to be, given time and communications lag.”
And for once, he’s not gilding the lily, Isabelle thought as she marshaled her own facts for the next stage of this briefing. Every unit was at better than ninety-five percent book strength; some, like the Second McCarron’s, were even over book strength, and that hadn’t happened since before the Jihad.
“For how those forces should be employed,” McCarron continued with a showman’s flourish, “I would turn to, Strategy Director Fisk.”
Isabelle gave him a curt nod in reply - she didn’t like McCarron’s tendency to flamboyance whenever he thought he could get away with it, but it was useful - and gestured for the young sao-wei manning the display controls to bring up the prepared planning outlines.
“The Strategios have developed three operational concepts for our future campaigns, now that we have put the Republic’s theft of our worlds to rights.” Rhetoric like that annoyed her - mostly for its imprecision - but you spoke to your audience. “The first, Operation SCEPTRE, is a limited strike to take Pinard and New Vandenberg from the Taurians. The second, KALEIDSCOPE, is of a similarly limited scope, intended to secure Calloway VI while the Mariks are distracted. And the third, CELESTIAL REWARD, is the largest; aiming for the decisive defeat of the Capellan March and restoring Victoria, Chesterton and Tikonov to the Confederation.” Swatches of green spread across the map, each marked for the operation it represented.
She waited, allowing those present to absorb the planned operations and consider the implications, before carrying on.
“At this time, Celestial Wisdom, I would argue against SPECTRE or KALEIDSCOPE. Both would not be worth the effort we would have to expend in order to launch them. And,” she steeled herself for thunderbolts from Ki-linn, “if we are to launch CELESTIAL REWARD, then it must be soon, or it will fail.”
“You think time will somehow sap our soldiers’ will?” Ki-linn’s sharp tones, and her clearly aggressive stance would have shaken others, but Isabelle didn’t fear her - which, she suspected, put her in a distinct minority among those who knew Ki-linn. Still, it isn’t wise to underestimate her, either.
“I deal in facts, Celestial Wisdom, not rhetoric.” Isabelle directed her reply towards Daoshen, who was the only person she’d known able to restrain Ki-linn’s temper. “And the facts are that while currently - thanks to Harrison Davion’s neglect - the AFFS are at the weakest they have been for a century, Caleb Davion is a far more energetic and aware ruler than his father; and Aaron Sandoval -”
“A thief of worlds.” Ki-linn snarled, before a gesture from Daoshen silenced her.
“I am discussing his abilities, not his morals.” Isabelle continued calmly. “He’s a capable soldier and strategist, and a far more than merely capable administrator. Others have been appointed, and we’ve been seeing the results. Sang-shao McCarron can verify that.”
“Sang-jiang-jun Fisk has the right of it.” Xavier agreed. “The Feddies haven’t ever lacked for guts, but since Caleb took over, shook up their command structure and took the gloves off. They’ve been fighting better - not just harder, but smarter, their morale’s picked up a hell of a lot. And they’ve been building up, too.”
“I would estimate that we have a viable window for CELESTIAL REWARD of at most twenty-four months, and more likely eighteen. After that, our odds of success decrease exponentially.” Isabelle concluded.
“Why?” Daoshen’s quiet, dangerous rasp seemed to fill the whole space, his eerie, almost pure black gaze seeming to draw her into a universe where he and she were the only inhabitants.
“Because we were already at maximum wartime production, Celestial Wisdom.” Isabelle replied. “The Federated Suns are only now fully mobilizing their production potential; Harrison Davion was a blessing for us in that respect. But they have almost four times our worlds, and much greater industries to draw on now that they are mobilizing. We may deplore the historical accidents that have made this so, but,” she shrugged, “the facts are as they are.”
“I see.” Daoshen leaned back in his throne, fingers steepled as he turned inwards, contemplating. Then: “How long, sang-jiang-jun, would you require to prepare and launch CELESTIAL REWARD?”
“Three months.” Isabelle called up the estimates her staff had done without conscious thought. “I would prefer four to six, or longer if at all possible, to ensure that all of our forces are in place and suitable supplies built up, but three months is the minimum.” Daoshen appreciated hearing the truth, not just what you thought would make him happy. “I cannot guarantee victory. Celestial Wisdom. However, I do believe that within the window outlined is our best opportunity for victory.”
“Four months, then.” Daoshen pronounced. “Sang-jiang-jun, coordinate with Sang-shao McCarron, Gang-shiao-zhang Hui,” the Grand Master of the Warrior Houses looked up from a whispered conversation with his aide and gave her a considering nod, “and the Commonality jiang-juns. By late May, I want all to be in readiness.” Something dangerous glinted briefly in Daoshen’s eyes.
“Then, we settle matters with the Davions.”
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EMCOTS 35