Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

"Report."

"TacStrike is completely operational, sir. The incident with the bandits merely served to confirm that. We stand ready to take on all comers. All that is left is to accept security and defense contracts in the Periphery while building up our numbers of native troops. We don't even have to hunt for the pirates. They're coming to us."

"Excellent. IntellSec?"

"We have people inside every major House of the Inner Sphere. As yet, we have no one inside ComStar. Their pseudo-religious fantasy tends to attract fanatics, and that can pose a problem, sir. Their irrationality makes them dangerously unpredictable."

"Acceptable for now. Work on that when you can. Contacts inside mercenary units?"

"Rising with every successful hire of a Dispossessed mechwarrior."

"Good. TransComm?"

"Building our ships DOWN to Inner Sphere standards was something of a difficulty, sir. We're arranging for several memory cores to be 'found' by people allied to TacStrike or IntellSec, to be handed over to the intelligence services of the various Houses. That should allay suspicions for a time, as well as putting ComStar at odds with them. But it won't hold forever, sir.

"Perhaps not. But we don't need forever, we only need fifty years. Less than that, if certain people can be swayed to our side."

"Yes, sir. On the communications side, the relays are in place. We're ready for any attempt by ComStar to interdict us. Additionally, Project Freeplay is two years from completion - we'll be able to take simultaneous action throughout every planet in the Inner Sphere, as well as the Periphery. Once it's ready, we'll be able to take ComStar down like the rotten tree that it is."

Broker steepled his fingers on the table before him. "Well done, people. We might actually come through this thing without having to commit acts of genocide."

~*~

The battle for Rochelle had been murderous. The planet had become one giant muddy battlefield, a savage meat-grinder that swallowed entire units and spat them back out with casualty rates bordering on seventy percent. Which was probably why Captain-General Janos Marik was throwing mercenary units at it like cheap munitions. After all, if they didn't survive, he didn't have to pay them.

That had been the possibility facing Snord. With the huge debt to House Marik, he might have been forced to simply fight on Rochelle for nothing more than the canceling of his unit's debt. Thanks to Jared Broker, that had changed. And old Janos didn't like that one bit. But he was short on combat units, and Cranston had made a sharp deal - he and his unit would take half pay, for one year, in return for all the salvage they could garner from the battlefield. (And Snord had made damned certain that the wording of the contract defined "salvage" as "anything even vaguely historical, collectable, or just plain rare". Janos would regret that later, he would...)

The fighting had been insane, and entire mercenary companies had been wiped out. Many more had shattered, their leadership dead or missing. And the Mariks hadn't helped any with their bland statements of "the ammunition supplies would arrive any day now."

The Banshee's had saved the Irregular's collective asses.

Cranston's luck had brought them through the battle with very little damage, and the PPC's of the Banshees, along with the Dragon, the Vindicator, and Walmar's Warhammer, had often been the deciding point. Several times, the Irregulars had faked running out of ammo and falling back, only to pull Steiner units into chasing them - straight into an ambush of six particle projection cannons.

When the Steiners finally wised up to that and began refusing to take the bait, Snord simply turned the ambushes around, setting the two Chameleons to race around the battlefield and hit them from behind just moments after he'd staged his 'retreat.'

He was just very glad for the popularity of autocannons among the Steiner 'mechwarriors on Rochelle. Autocannons were low heat and dead simple to build, but their dependence on ammunition could be a crippling weakness on the battlefield when your supply lines were cut.

They'd held out for the entire year. They'd helped drive the Steiners from Rochelle.

Then that backstabbing bastard Janos announced that he was going to rebuild his 'mech forces by confiscating every surviving 'mech on the face of the planet, even those privately owned. The Irregulars, who had by now grown considerably larger with the addition of 'mechwarriors from other, shattered units, immediately accused Janos of breach of contract. Only to have the Captain-General laugh in their faces. Janos claimed that there had been no such contract and if the Mercenary Board of Review claimed one did exist, that merely proved that the board members had accepted a bribe from Snord. Then he ordered all non-Marik units to hand over their 'mechs and accept a transfer into a Free Worlds League infantry unit, where they would serve until their debts to the FWL were repaid. All League units on Rochelle were ordered to enforce that order on the 'mercs.

But Marik had made one small error. He'd been told that Snord had insured the contract with ComStar through the Mercenary Review Board, a process that was prohibitively expensive, but one that guaranteed that a hearing over breach of contract accusations would take place near-instantly and with the full authority of ComStar behind it. Janos refused to believe that any small-time merc would go to that much trouble and cost. His mistake.

An enraged Captain-General had gone red in the face when informed by an aid that a ComStar representative had arrived at court to notify him that the Free Worlds League - and Janos in person - were being served for breach of contract. And that he could choose to pay the required fine, or be subjected to further penalties.

It hadn't been that long since the Interdict of 2837 CE. Less than two hundred years, in fact. While it had passed from living memory, it still glared balefully from the pages of history books and corporate accounting records. Janos sullenly, grudgingly, reluctantly acquiesced.

It didn't prevent him from trying to cut corners, though. The contract was now void, therefore Snord's Irregulars were in League-controlled space without the Captain-General's express permission. He ordered them out of the Free Worlds League, and gave them a time limit that he hoped would force them to leave the vast majority of the salvage behind. Then he instructed all League forces to open fire on the Irregulars the moment the deadline expired, while sending Snord a back-channel message saying that if he'd just comply and hand over the men, the mechs and the salvage, Janos would generously see to it that Snord would become the commander of a small Marik unit somewhere on a minor Periphery border world. A perfectly acceptable compromise, from Janos' point of view. Any minor 'merc leader would leap at the opportunity such a gracious offer represented. Who wouldn't?

Given Snord's fascination with history, it wasn't that much of a surprise that his reply was a one-word message that had been used once before, by a general on old Terra. Then he proceeded to gather up all the 'mechwarriors and functional mechs he could. He didn't want a war with Janos, but maybe he didn't have to have one. He sent a second message through ComStar, then sat tight.

~*~

Janos Marik's hopes of a cheap and easy salvage operation were dashed seventy-two hours later, when three jumpships ostensibly registered to Executive Outcomes leapt into the Rochelle system. The Monolith was carrying nine empty Mammoth-class dropships, while the two Merchants who'd jumped in with her had empty collars. The Mammoths immediately headed for Rochelle where they, much to Marik's irritation, began to board all of the mercenary troops who wanted to leave before Janos could confiscate their battlemechs. The Industrial 'mechs carried by the Mammoths freely aided those 'mechwarriors whose mechs were too damaged to make it to the dropships under their own power. Meanwhile, a surprised Cranston and his people were quickly taking their pick of the salvage, loading it on to their own two dropships, and preparing to link up with one of the Merchants. He'd expected some help, obviously. But not quite this much. Not that he was going to object to it, though.

Marik had almost choked on his own astonishment and anger when he was told that his expected salvage was quickly vanishing into the cavernous holds of Mammoths that weren't the property of the League.

Then came the news that forces from the Federated Suns were pressing forward on several disputed border worlds, and that the Davion troops were making significant advances into League territory. Janos had no other choice than to divert the units he'd dispatched to 'discipline' the mercenaries to other, more urgent battlefields, allowing the survivors to depart unmolested, at their leisure.

In a final gesture of insolence, Snord used the extra time to cherry-pick the battlefields, selecting only the very best salvage and leaving behind only hulks that would cost more to rebuild than they were worth in battle.

In the burnt-out cockpit of a ruined League Battlemaster, he'd left an envelope addressed to the Captain-General. Found by increasingly desperate salvage crews, it was forwarded to Janos unopened. Rumor had it that when Marik read the contents, he'd thrown the letter into the nearest fireplace and personally stirred the ashes. He'd then given orders that the Irregulars be taken into custody, their mechs confiscated for funds due, and Snord himself shot on sight.

It didn't help. Snord's Irregulars had vanished.

~*~

Two months later, the Irregulars reappeared, rebuilt and refreshed, as did a number of the other 'merc units that had been so violently savaged on Rochelle. Mercs who hadn't signed up with the Irregulars or tried to reform their own units had, apparently, signed up with Executive Outcomes, much to the irritation of Janos Marik. (Who, by now, was beginning to audibly snarl whenever Cranston's name was mentioned in his presence.)

This only made it that much more amusing to all other parties involved when Katrina Steiner stepped forward and offered the Irregulars a contract, requesting that Snord meet with her representative on the planet Clinton.

Fascinated by the unit that had resisted her forces so well on Rochelle, the Archon took a personal interest in Snord and his collection of loners, misfits, outcasts and rebels, offering him a contract unique in mercenary history.

The pay was, again, low. But the Irregulars could pick and choose the locations of their assignments, and would receive a permanent base on Clinton from which they could stage, and to which they could retreat. House Steiner would also provide repair parts, or failing that, pay for parts acquired elsewhere.

Cranston later learned that Archon Katrina had agreed to that last part due to her curiosity about the nearly unknown and apparently well (too well!) equipped private security company, Executive Outcomes. Rumors had begun to spread about EO's access to lostech, and every House in the Inner Sphere had tried without success to penetrate the firm in hopes of somehow finding their source of lost technology that they might claim it for their own. So far, Snord and his unit were the only people who'd gotten close to the company, and Katrina felt that if befriending Snord got them any closer to the mysterious company, it would be well worth it at twice the price.

Snord had kept a close eye on EO, full well expecting them to do the same. Friendship only went so far, after all. But despite the secrets he was keeping for them, even he was surprised by several of the actions they undertook.

Brandon O'Leary, grandson of the last owner of Mountain Wolf Battlemechs, had been searching for someone, anyone, to fund an attempt to rebuild his grandfather's company on Alpheratz in the Outworlds Alliance. Much to the surprise of everyone watching, Executive Outcomes had stepped forward with an offer of financial assistance in return, not for cash, but a portion of the output, enabling O'Leary to increase the planned size of the factory by several production lines. When the first MLN-1A Merlins began to walk off the assembly lines in 3010, fully twenty percent were earmarked for EO, with the rest selling quite briskly to the Outworlds Alliance, and to mercenary outfits across the Inner Sphere. And with the financial backing of EO, Mr. O'Leary then contacted the Magistracy of Canopus, offering to build a second 'mech production facility there.

The Magistracy was ecstatic, as the heaviest mech they were able to natively produce was a Shadow Hawk, and only a very few of those. The rest of what little they were able to build within their own borders were Wasps, Stingers, and Locust, all light recon 'mechs. Anything else had to be imported. The thought of having access to a line of heavy 'mechs, even a design as basic as that of the Merlin, was enough to bring Tamara Centrella and the Magistracy to the bargaining table in a hurry. They'd broken ground for the factory on Luxen a mere three months after the initial meeting. It hadn't hurt that EO was purchasing Pike support tanks from the Magistracy in bulk. House Centrella welcomed the inflow of cash with open arms. As well as with other body parts, Cranston snorted quietly to himself.

Of course, this also meant that the intelligence agencies of every House were frantic for insider information on this upstart security company, Executive Outcomes. Information they simply weren't getting. Attempts to slip people directly into the firm weren't successful. Personnel hired from the Inner Sphere knew only operationally immediate information. All of the management staff who might have in-depth knowledge appeared to be from the same Deep Periphery state that Broker hailed from, and were unapologetically stiff-lipped about where, exactly, that state was located. Bribery had failed, as there seemed to be little to bribe them with. Their pay was excellent, and when offered rank and position in the Inner Sphere, they all turned them down, professing a deep desire to return "home" (wherever that was) once they left their positions with EO.

Massive amounts of gold, platinum, iridium, osmium, and palladium were flooding the markets of the Inner Sphere, along with impressive quantities of germanium, vanadium and tungsten. When EO wanted to buy something, they simply paid for it in rare and precious metals. If you refused to accept them, they'd quietly and politely take their business elsewhere, leaving you to deal with your business rivals, rivals who were suddenly growing flush with mineral wealth. Mining corporations across the Inner Sphere were screaming at the top of their collective lungs, demanding to know who these people were, and where the hell so much refined metal was coming from... and why weren't they the ones in charge of this new wealth?!

This resulted in the amusing situation of Cranston having more mechwarriors applying to join the Irregulars than he knew what to do with. Word had gotten out that the head of EO had an amiable relationship with Snord's Irregulars. Agents from LIC, the Davion MIIO, the Kuritan ISF, the Maskirovka, SAFE, and ComStar's ROM were clustered around his unit like flies gathering near rotting fruit. And since it had become well known that the Irregulars adopted loners, misfits, outcasts and rebels, the five Houses had dug deeply into their small collections of highly skilled, yet expendable and slightly less than sane mechwarriors in a determined attempt to infiltrate Cranston's people as one step further along the way towards their eventual goal of infiltrating Executive Outcomes.

Cranston himself had been made several offers, including a minor dukedom. The fact that Broker seemed aware of his problems in this area made it all the more amusing.

If he laughed any harder, he'd probably have hurt himself.

~*~

The battles on New Kyoto had been both brutal and amusing. Brutal because of the pounding the world was taking at the hands of the Free Worlds League. Amusing in that everyone attributed Cranston's victories to dumb luck. Between what information he received from Wolfnet and what Jake could dig up for him from the library he carried around with him, making things seem like dumb luck was painfully easy at times. Was it so terribly difficult to understand that someone with an obsession with history might actually study the targets he had to strike? Snord was still receiving indirect intelligence from Wolfnet and was quite aware of the supply dump that the Marik troops had tried to hide inside the city of Kirwanal. Here he was, practically hip-deep in spies from every agency in the Inner Sphere, and they couldn't see that he had spies of his own?

Maybe these idiots did deserve to be crushed by the Crusader Clans.

Katrina Steiner had estimated that the defense of New Kyoto would take at least eight months. With the additional 'mechs from Broker and the mechwarriors he'd picked up after the retreat from Rochelle, Cranston was able to defeat the Marik forces in eight weeks. And doing it while busy looting a vault holding artworks from the New Kyoto museums that had been hidden since the fall of the Star League.

Okay, at least House Marik deserved to be smashed by the Clans. A pity that the idiots were on the wrong side of the Inner Sphere from the shortest possible invasion route. Ah, well. Perhaps something could be arranged later on.

He checked his notes. Deb H'chu's Thunderbolt had taken quite a bit of damage to its right torso, and normally, it wouldn't have been possible to repair it without removing the SRM launcher there. She'd gone after yet another Battlemaster. He sighed. He'd have called her obsessed, but in this unit that would be the pot calling the kettle black. Fortunately, he'd just gotten a shipment of 'mechs from EO in return for sending some more Dispossessed their way, and if need be, they could swap out the entire right torso of Deb's mech. (He'd offered to simply replace the mech outright, but the woman steadfastly refused to surrender her beloved ride, and his daughter backed her best friend up on that.)

The Irregulars were growing fast. From what had begun as a simple three lance company (command, attack, and recon), he'd rapidly expanded to a full two companies, with Shorty in command of the second, as well as a full platoon of techs to maintain the mechs and dropships. It didn't hurt that EO apparently had no qualms about their financing - while the funds Colonel Wolf provided had to be carefully laundered, Broker simply handed over money and supplies in return for potential recruits, and told overly persistent questioners that yes, he was helping fund the Irregulars, and did they have a problem with that?

The best part - the most entertaining part - was that even though it was the absolute truth, the paranoia-driven spies from the various intelligence agencies simply couldn't believe it. They chose to ignore the facts because they were "too obvious", and went on wild hunts for something more, some deeper secrets they could unearth and carry to their superiors in triumph. Cranston had an ongoing game with Jared - they were exchanging letters in plain text, filled with obscure phrases that rang with ominous meaning... and meant absolutely nothing. It was hilarious to send one off and wait for it to be intercepted. The sudden stir and unrest amongst the spies after each letter was sent was far more entertaining than any professional comedian could ever hope to be.

The 'mechs provided tended to be bland, older designs, for the most part, but mechs were mechs, and the gift of mental freedom that came with them was invaluable. Most mechwarriors these days lived with the horrid gnawing fear of becoming Dispossessed. That was something the Irregulars - at least for the moment - didn't have to worry about. A Chameleon or a Merlin might not look impressive on the parade ground or when passing in review, but you could fight them on the battlefield, and that's what mattered.

They'd also picked up several more fighters and the pilots to go with them. It had cost to put them back into fighting condition, but it was worth it. Few but the largest mercenary units had organic air support, and employers paid well for units that had it.

His Steiner liaison officer had informed him of the contract to raid the planet Wing. He looked forward to it. Jake had informed him of the famous book collection on that small world, and the fact that many of Marik's front-line units were dug in there merely made the opportunity that much more enticing. He could give Janos two black eyes for the price of one. Now there was a bargain.

And he just couldn't pass up a deal like that.

~*~

"Report, Carter."

The head of IntellSec nodded. "While direct infiltration of ComStar ranges from difficult to the outright impossible, their cultish attitude has had an interesting side effect, sir. They do hire mercenaries, on occasion, and their self-righteous posturing often alienates those same mercenaries. We've been able to get second and third-hand information from them that's been confirmed by independent observation. It's imperfect, but it works. And unlike the Houses of the Inner Sphere, we can afford the prices they're asking."

Broker chuckled. "If they only knew what gold actually means to us."

Carter smirked back at his employer. "Sir, if they knew that, half of their leadership would be dead of coronaries or strokes, while the other half would be headed our way on the first available jumpships with every military unit at their disposal and jack the expense."

Jared's smile flicked off as fast as it had appeared, replaced with a look of flat determination. "I know, Edison. And I know that they'd end up butchering the golden goose - no pun intended - that they'd seek to capture. That's what we're here to prevent. Whatever the cost. Tell me what you need, and if it's at all possible, I'll get it for you."

"Understood, sir." Now it was Carter's turn to frown. "You won't particularly like this one, but it's the best plan my people have to break serious intel out of ComStar."

"Go ahead."

"We need a leak. Something not merely tempting, but outright irresistible. Something that will hit ComStar right where they live, in their self-perceived technological superiority."

"I see. And what is it that you want permission to leak?"

"My namesake, sir." Carter tapped the shoulder holster he wore.

Jared raised an eyebrow. "You want to leave a Winchester-Edison just lying around? You think ComStar is that stupid?"

"No sir, I think they're that greedy. And that their greed is clouding what would otherwise be adequate tactical minds." Edison carefully drew the heavy weapon from his holster with his off hand, observing the traditional niceties among fellow Kyfhon. He set it down on the desktop with a heavy clunk to illustrate his point. "When they try to tear this apart to learn our 'secrets', it will blow their tiny little minds."

"A bit on the crude side, old friend. Machiavelli would be appalled, don't you think?"

"Sir, after the years we've spent here in this barbaric backwater of the galaxy, I've come to the conclusion that to these people, 'crude' is defined as 'I'll hit you with a ten kilo hammer, instead of a five kilo mallet.'"

"Come now, Ed," laughed Broker. "Don't hold back, tell me how you really feel."

Edison sighed. "These people are slowly driving me insane, Jared. I'm having moments when I think we should just use a few thousand Bethe-cycle devices on them and go home."

Jared eyed his friend closely. "That's ugly. You are tired, Ed. Do you want to take a sabbatical? Your understudy can handle things for a year."

"No, sir. Or at least not until my people can pull this one off. If we can convince ComStar they've been successful in 'stealing' some of our tech, the metallurgical analysis alone will misdirect them for years."

"All right, Ed. Do it. But once they fall for it, if they fall for it-"

"They will, sir."

"All right. When they fall for it, I want your assistant to handle the fallout, and you're going to take your contractual eight weeks. Is that clear?"

"Eight weeks. Yes, sir."

Something in Edison's bright tone made Jared suspicious. He passed a hand over the terminal on his desk, then blinked at the heads-up display. "Cute, Eddie, real cute. I almost missed that one."

An even brighter tone. Butter wouldn't have melted in Carter's mouth. "Sir?"

"It's eight weeks a year, Ed. Every year. It would appear someone's been skipping vacations again."

"Oh, damn," swore Edison. "Didn't think you'd catch that."

"Well, at least it proved that I've been getting exactly what I've been paying for - the slipperiest bastard in the business. After all, what good is a spy master if he's not the sneakiest snake in the valley, eh?"

"Thank you, sir."

"But that doesn't mean you can slack on your down time, Eddie. Eight weeks a year, and you've skipped three years. I can count, and so can you."

"May I at least maintain oversight, sir?" grumbled the intelligence expert.

"You may. But if you do, I'll insist on a regular psych evaluation of your stress levels. And no sneaking around behind my back on this condition. Contractual obligations, Eddie. I don't want to lose you to a burn-out."

"Fair enough, sir. Damn it all. Why don't you have to take vacations?"

"Because I'm the boss, Eddie. I get to make the rules."

"Unfair, I say, unfair!"

"Take it up at the next contract negotiations, Eddie," chuckled Jared. "Who knows, maybe this time you'll win."

"Maybe. But I'd still rather convince you to cancel 'Long Knife'. I can't provide enough intelligence to carry it off with one hundred percent success, sir."

"We've had this discussion before. We need him. We need them. And the only way we can earn enough trust with him before the deadline is 'Long Knife', Eddie."

"We'll have to put a 'vat on the ground, sir. If we lose one of those..."

"I know, Ed." Jared sighed tiredly. "Which is why I'm giving you this." He passed a thin crystal wafer over to his intelligence chief. "Authorization and tactical release codes for Thunderball. If it looks like the 'vat might be taken..."

"I assume you want an all-volunteer crew in the dropship, sir?"

"You assume correctly, Ed. And no, you're not going to be one of them."

"Sir, I-"

"Damn it, Ed. I know what you're going to say. That you won't request that one of your men do something you won't do. That's the worst part of this business. That we HAVE to ask this of them, and smile when they step bravely forward, no matter how much it tears our guts out to see it happen. We will train them, we will teach them, and we will send them into the fire instead of ourselves. And then we'll go home and try to drink our brains out from the guilt. And the worst part, Ed, is this - that they'll agree with us that they should be the ones to go, not us."

"This sucks."

"I know, Eddie. And all I can offer you is this." Jared opened a desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. "Real Terran-brewed Jack Daniel's. You don't want to know what it cost. My assistant has her orders. And that antique Crookes & Thomson powergun of hers. Anything that tries to get past her to my office door had better be ten feet tall, with fangs. And armor. Tonight, we're going to practice for all the drinks we're going to have to take later." He set the bottle on his desk, followed by a pair of glasses. "That's an order."

~*~

Everyone knew that ComStar kept secrets.

They kept the secrets of the various Successor States, rather more or less, for a price. Everyone knew that.

They kept their own secrets, about technology and about their own political agenda, and did so far more effectively. Fewer people knew that, but there were still some who did.

What only a handful of people knew, was that ComStar was keeping a secret from itself. An institutional lie that lived at the very heart of ComStar.

They claimed to be preserving the knowledge of the Star League.

They were lying. And ironically, most of them didn't even know it.

The Terran Hegemony had done its utmost to preserve its technological superiority over the rest of the Inner Sphere, even after the Star League was formed. The latest and greatest technology was reserved for the Royal units. Regular units received standard technology. Member states received technology inferior even to that.

When the Hegemony burned under the hand of Stephen Amaris, most of their cutting edge technology burned with it. Of what little remained, the majority left with General Kerensky. The vaunted "Star League" technology that ComStar inherited consisted, for the most part, of the second-line equipment reserved for use by the Hegemony's Regular units. Jerome Blake knew that, but could do nothing about it. Libraries had burned, universities had been bombed, scientists and researchers had been murdered. Blake had to be grateful for what few scraps were left, and had to jealously guard those scraps from the grasping hands of the desperate Successor States. Doing so had been his greatest success, and his greatest failure.

He had obtained an edge for the organization he had created, a razor-thin technological edge, an edge that ComStar could lose at any moment.

That was the lie that lived in the heart of ComStar. And the greatest fear of those who knew the lie for what it was.

The men and women who would run ComStar after his death chose to preserve that slim technological edge through bribery, sabotage, and murder.

Historically, men judge others by their own acts. If a man is willing to steal from others, he lives in fear that others will steal from him. Murderers fear being murdered themselves. ComStar's greatest fear was that the technological advances that Kerensky had taken with him would one day return in the hands of others, making ComStar itself obsolete.

So when rumors of new weapons of types never before seen had surfaced, weapons that even the Star League hadn't possessed, ComStar felt an understandable tremor of fear work its way down the backs of the persons responsible for maintaining that edge.

The return of cutting edge Star League technology would be bad. Improved Star League weapons would be worse. Weapons that even the League hadn't considered possible - that was a nightmare.

And it was a nightmare that was keeping the lights on late at night in ROM headquarters on Terra.

The modular weapons systems that Blackwell Corporation had fielded were bad enough. Vehicles such as the Badger tracked transport and the Bandit hovercraft used design concepts that were worryingly advanced, something even the Star League hadn't managed to field before the Coup, but the materials, methods and weapons used to build them were all standard, and had been in common use for hundreds of years. It was merely the way they'd been combined that concerned ComStar.

Executive Outcomes, on the other hand...

Rumors of advanced sensor systems, weapons that produced one-shot 'mech kills and super jump drives were reaching ROM. But that's all they were. Rumors. No matter how large the bribes, or how vicious the threats, solid facts weren't forthcoming. The few people willing to talk usually spoke to ComStar once. Then they had an unfortunate tendency to vanish soon afterwards. In particularly original ways. One such talkative person had been found on Tharkad. And Luthien. And New Avalon. And Atreus. DNA analysis had been required to identify all of the pieces.

It therefore seemed obvious to ROM that less... delicate... methods of obtaining clear intelligence on these matters had to be undertaken. Examples of the technologies involved had to be taken intact, for analysis by ComStar researchers who would then deliver their assessments of the dangers (or lack thereof) posed by those technologies to ComStar's dominance of the Inner Sphere.

And if a threat did exist, well, then... that's what the Com Guards were for, after all.

There would be no need to use other, far more dangerous, resources.

Not yet.

~*~

Piracy had dropped dramatically since the arrival of EO in the 'southwest' sector of the Periphery. The Illyrain Palatinate and the Lothian League were avoided at all costs. Pirates who went in never came back out. Their mechs (or pieces of them), however, turned up quite often in the hands of Snord's Irregulars. If Snord's people weren't using the 'mechs themselves, they'd often sell the machines freely to any Dispossessed mechwarrior.

Never to one of the House forces though.

The pirates had scattered, some heading coreward towards the worlds of the former Rim World Republic. Many of them merged with the bands already there and became a further curse upon the merchant houses of the Lyran Commonwealth. Others fled rimward, towards the Magistracy, thinking it an easy target. They apparently hadn't gotten the word about the Canopians upgrading their forces with the money and 'mechs that EO had indirectly made available. Most of them died at the hands of enraged defenders who finally had the weapons they needed to fight back. The few survivors of those bands eventually fled to the Tortuga Dominions.

The smart ones had fled to the Tortuga Dominions from the start. Pledging their loyalty to "Lord" Kalvin Bar-Dyness, the current monarch of the Dominions, they and their ships and mechs were warmly welcomed by a regime that could only survive through loot and plunder.

The 'unofficial' pirates, the Black Warriors of the Circinus Federation had suffered a continuous stream of setbacks. Once an EO unit set up on a world, it simply wasn't possible to enter it to commit an act of piracy. Or rather, it was possible to enter. No one had yet succeeded in leaving. President 'Bob' McIntyre had lost six lances of battlemechs learning that lesson.

The Marion Hegemony hadn't needed to learn that lesson. They'd carefully observed the fleeing and the dead, had requested talks with EO over what behavior was acceptable and what was not, and had settled into a somewhat uncomfortable business relationship. With the restoration and repair of the few jumpships belonging to the Lothians and Illyrians, it was more profitable to make deals than it was to make war. The fact that EO paid their employees in precious metals helped make that trade more palatable to the Marions. EO was paying from four grams of gold a week to the average infantryman to a healthy fifteen grams a week to a skilled combat engineer. Mechwarriors who were skilled in their craft could expect as much as twenty grams a week, with combat pay on top of that.

The flood of precious metal had people paying attention. And feeling cooperative for the first time in centuries. If violence couldn't gain them a share of that wealth - and the dead pirates had conveniently proven that it couldn't, a number of times - then perhaps cooperation might.

The Lyrans were right. Gold could cover a multitude of sins.

But a few hard-scrabble pirates still lurked in the depths of Anti-spinward space. They wanted to retaliate against EO for having taken their favorite 'toys' from them.

Just the tools ROM needed.

~*~

Cranston was in his office going over the potential contract for the raid against Wing. He didn't want to seem too eager to his Steiner liaison officer, but he was looking forward to it. Jake had informed him that he had a solid lead on the famous Collection of Devron. Given how much Jake loved books, and how much enthusiasm Walmar was showing for this tip (something Jake rarely showed openly), Cranston was pretty certain that the tip was good. And the thought of yanking yet another valuable collection of rarities out from under the nose of Janos Marik had a deep appeal to Snord.

His daughter tapped at his door. "Dad, there's another message from Mr. Broker. It's addressed to you personally. And it's encrypted."

Cranston raised an eyebrow thoughtfully. If it was encrypted, it wasn't one of their usual casual letters meant to tweak the noses of the spooks surrounding the unit. That meant business. He nodded to Rhonda. "Let me have it."

She put the chip on his desk. "I have a strange feeling about this one, Dad. I don't know why."

Mechwarriors learned early on to trust their instincts. "Lock the door, dear. And let's pull the pin on this grenade."

Everyone knew that ComStar read the mail that was entrusted to them. That was accepted as just the price of doing business, and people with something to hide routinely used code words and encryption systems.

No system was unbreakable, of course, but the general belief was that if it took longer and cost more to read the message than the message was worth, ComStar wouldn't bother. And they were mostly right. But not always.

Which is why Cranston wasn't surprised when his private encryption key didn't unlock the message. He smiled and reached for one of the books that Jake had gifted him. The one form of encryption that even ComStar couldn't break was the ancient technique of the one-time pad. It irritated them, but the laws of mathematics pretty much decreed there was nothing ComStar could do about that.

It had occurred to Cranston during the trip back to Crossing that someday he and Broker might need a secure means of communications, and Jake Walmar's library gave them the perfect tool to do so. They'd collaborated in making a mental list of which books to use and in what order. Only he and Broker knew that list, and it had never been written down. If this message was one of them, it meant several things.

One. ComStar could grind away on this message as long as they liked. The universe itself would grow cold and burn out before the ComStar snoops would be able to break it.

Two. If this WAS such a message, it was the first Broker had sent. All other communications had either been in the clear, or using Cranston's public key. If he wanted to keep it a secret to this degree, that very likely meant that something brown and smelly was probably about to impact the rotary air impeller. Definitely not good news.

The file decrypted with the first page of the first book. Crap, thought Snord. I hate being right at times like this.

It was short, and to the point. A list of planets and dates, ending with a brief comment.

"I strongly suggest you find a way to avoid these locations at these times - and find a damn solid alibi. You'll need one. Let Colonel Wolf know the same.

-- Your friend,

Jared Broker."

He waved his daughter over. "Look at this. What do you think?"

She read it and whistled softly. "I think war has just been declared, and we're getting advance notice to get the hell out of the crossfire."

"Agreed." He touched a match to the paper and watched it flare into ash. He didn't need it anymore. He and his daughter had both committed the times and locations to memory, and that's where they'd stay. The chip with the original message was going into an incinerator just as soon as he could reach one. "Who do you think, dear?"

Rhonda shrugged. "Who knows? Everyone's been getting pretty loud about how they want what EO has, Dad. Some idiot even offered me Graceland, if I'd turn on you."

"And you didn't take it?" grinned the old merc. "Daughter, I'm ashamed of you!"

"I couldn't figure out a way to load the mansion aboard a dropship," she admitted with a smirk.

Cranston roared with laughter, then sobered. "Let all the insiders know. And make certain we all use the same cover story for the locals in the unit. We're not going anywhere near these targets, not until it's safe. I'll be busy getting a message off to Colonel Wolf."

"Yes, Dad. Do you think we can stay clear of this one?"

"I don't know for certain. But I'm reasonably sure that whomever it is that has decided to steal from Mr. Broker, they've bitten off a lot more than they can possibly chew. And they'll end up regretting it."

~*~

The planet Wing hadn't been on the list Broker had sent them, and Katrina had unknowingly sweetened her contract with the offer of his pick of any Marik dropships that might be captured (one only, of course). Given the speed with which the unit was growing, that was a pretty attractive bid. Sooner or later, they'd have to limit the size of the unit, but for the moment, the more dropships the Irregulars could salvage, the better. Who knew... if the battles went well, they might even capture something heavier than a Union. Not to mention the fact that Jake was positively salivating over the chance to seize the Collection of Devron. If they could take the collection intact, they might consider building a library wing onto their museum.

So Wing it was. Cranston signed the contract and paid the extra to have it expressed to Katrina rather than accept the slower, less expensive ComStar service. They'd be on their way to the battlefront in days.

~*~

The drop had gone well, even if it wasn't part of the original plan. Two of his pilots reported intercepting a message about a library being unearthed by Marik forces on the planet. According to the intercept, the find was going to be transported overland to the nearest dropship landing zone. Cranston was certain it was the famous collection, and immediately re-wrote his battle plans. Sending his units through a gap in the Marik forces, the 'mechs rushed deep behind enemy lines to ambush the convoy carrying the collection.

They found it just outside of the city of Merth, and with the extra forces he'd recruited after the Rochelle debacle, he was able to take the convoy entirely intact. It had helped that one shattered unit from that bloody battle had lost all of their battlemechs, but had saved almost two full lances of tracked LRM carriers. Cranston ordered them to remain behind in the Irregulars' original position. Guarded by a screen of light mechs, the LRM carriers fired and kept firing, almost until the launchers glowed from the heat. Seeing the scout mechs but not the launchers (which had hidden in a hull-down position), the opposing Marik forces simply assumed that all of the Irregulars were still in their original positions and were choosing a missile barrage over the vicious mech-to-mech combat of their last encounter. By the time the Marik commander realized he'd been had, it was too late. Contact with Snord's forces had been lost, while the LRM carriers and their screen, ammo exhausted, pulled back to previously prepared defensive points.

This had bought precious time for Cranston, and he made the most of it. Napoleon Bonaparte was famous for once telling one of his generals "Ask me for anything but time." The Marik forces had lost the initiative and were forced into waiting for him to make his move before they could react to that. A crippling disadvantage. But not enough to win a war. So he engineered another disaster for them.

Another great general had said "Don't use the same trick twice." He'd bluffed the Mariks with a lance and a half of LRM carriers, and they would be expected him to try it again. So why not give them exactly what they expected from him?

The Irregulars had salvaged a Powerman loadermech along with the LRM carriers, so when Snord requested a resupply prior to arriving at Wing, he slipped in two small line items into the requisition that none of the Steiner supply officers had paid much attention to.

A hundred gallons of sensor-resistant camouflage paint in various colors - and 144 crates of obsolescent "pancake"-style anti-armor land mines.

Cranston had requested and received digital imagery of the ground cover on Wing. Then every hand had turned out during the trip there, repainting every single mine to match the local foliage. Then they were carefully loaded into the cargo bays of the Powerman.

An elite company of mercenary combat engineers had been abandoned by a Marik general in a battle several years previous to Rochelle, written off by the officer as not worth the effort of retrieving because they weren't mechwarriors. The fifteen survivors of the 240 man unit had sought out the Irregulars and pleaded for a chance to gain vengeance upon House Marik. Cranston had accepted them. Vengeance was something he could understand.

Those fifteen recruited all the willing hands they could find, and they, the Powerman, and several small hovercraft followed behind the raiding party, breaking off in a small river valley just short of Merth. The loadermech emptied its cargo bays of the mines and continued on with Cranston and his mechwarriors, to hopefully carry the as-yet-to-be captured book collection. The engineers, along with their volunteers, set to work eagerly.

~*~

Snord and his people had captured the book collection, taking the Marik caravan easily and with no damage whatsoever to the books. Loading most of it up in the Powerman, and splitting the remains between the other mechs, they then proceeded to retreat back in the direction they'd come, with an entire Marik regiment in hot pursuit.

But diverting that regiment weakened the Marik lines, and an unexpected probe by scouts from a regular Steiner unit showed not only that regiment, but a good half of all Marik forces having pulled away from the front. Naturally, once the Steiners were certain it wasn't a trap, they attacked with all available reserves and broke through the Marik lines, shattering the League defenses.

Once they had broken through, the obvious question was asked: What was of such importance that the FWL commanders would divert so many troops, risking not only the battle, but the war? And where was it?

The equally obvious answer - go look for it. So a reinforced regiment was sent out to "recon in force."

Recon in force, the commanding colonel was told, was defined as "if it moves and it's not ours, shoot it til it stops moving."

~*~

By now, the forces following Cranston and his people had grown to a scratch-built battalion group, absorbing the remains of the shattered convoy forces and anything within reasonable range of the target. It drove the League commander to fits of quiet fury that whenever he began to lose contact with Snord's people, the mercenaries would politely slow their advance.

One of the 'mechs had even left a giant arrow scrawled in the dirt with the words "this way" neatly scratched beside it.

Like his Captain-General, Major Richard Lorcet now swore an oath - Snord's Irregulars had to die to the last mechwarrior. No matter the cost.

~*~

Lorcet wanted to cheer out loud. Wing had been extensively mapped, and he had the local terrain displayed on a side screen. The small river valley that the mercenaries were headed for was narrow. They'd have to bunch up, with no room to evade incoming fire. The valley would make an excellent gauntlet with which to execute Snord and his thieves.

It never occurred to the major that the same would apply to his own forces.

~*~

Cranston wanted to laugh, but he didn't have the time. The CB's had completed their work, and were transmitting IFF codes and a safe route to his mechwarriors. It was going to be a very tight fit, but if they kept to the banks of the tiny river meandering through the valley, they'd make it.

"Jake! Close up ranks! AND QUIT READING ON THE JOB!"

Snickers came over the open com lines as Walmar grumbled. "But Cranston, some of these are relics—"

"We'll be relics if we don't pull this off, Jake. So, nose out of the books till we make it to safety."

Walmar sighed in a theatrical fashion, and closed the book that he'd been covertly trying to read out of the corner of one eye, placing it carefully to one side. He was still teased about the time when one of the books he kept in his cockpit had slipped under a foot pedal, jamming it. Unable to move, he was nearly crushed by a attacking mech.

Rhonda laughed. "Look at it this way, Jake - we make it out of this in one piece, and you'll go down in librarian history. You just have to be patient."

"I just have to hope that whomever is following us has the intelligence to understand the value of what we're carrying, Rhonda. The destruction of these books—"

"Would be like someone burning down Graceland, I know, Jake, I know. Believe me, I understand what they mean to you. And I hope you're right."

"The CB's are ahead," interrupted Windall. "I've got them on visual."

"Good to go, Shal." Cranston responded. He switched channels. "Bug out, I repeat, bug out. Acknowledge."

"Dixon here. Acknowledge bug-out. We are clear and on the move. Warning, you are now in the hot seat, repeat, you are in the hot seat."

"Roger, Dixon. Did everyone else get that? Sound off by the numbers."

One by one, his mechwarriors replied in the affirmative.

"Let's do this, and do it right. Then we can watch the fireworks from a distance. A good distance."

They closed in on the river, picking up speed and staying as close to the riverbanks as they could without drawing ranged fire from the forces following them.

~*~

Lorcet knew he was in trouble when the smoke canisters went off, filling the small valley with thick, sight-blinding clouds.

"All units, shift to thermal image—CRAP!" The damned scavenger had used IR-opaque smoke! Thermal imaging was giving him maybe two meters of range, max. He couldn't even see the feet of his own mech. "All units report by the numbers! Can anyone see through the smoke?" He listened as the reports came back quickly, all negative. "Are any units still clear of the valley?"

"Sir, yes sir!" came a young and nervous voice.

"Name and rank, son. Where are you?"

"Ah, ah, Mechwarrior Dougherty, recon element, sir! I'm just outside the valley, I was on overwatch."

This stank of a trap. Snord had a few aircraft to his name... "Dougherty, do you see any enemy air support?"

"Sir, no sir!"

Lorcet thought hard and fast. "All right, people - I know we can't see anything, but I want you to slowly retrace your steps. This valley's a trap, and I don't intend to give the vulture the satisfaction."

"Sir? What about the collection?" asked his XO.

"Officially, we'll do our best to retrieve the collection, Jimmy. If some of it is destroyed killing that damned vulture, well, too bad. But we can't do a thing if we can't see. Once we're clear, I want you to take two companies and leg it doubletime around the valley to the other end, while I hold here with the other three. We'll trap him in his own smoke cloud, call in some arty to keep him from trying to climb the sides, and THEN take the collection intact. Now let's move it."

He hadn't even gotten two mech-lengths before the cry rang out.

"MINES! MINES!"

"Freeze! All units! Jimmy, report!"

Before his exec had the chance to say anything, a voice broke in on an open frequency. "You're standing in the middle of a mine field, Major. Teller mines to be precise. Made to kill tanks, not 'mechs, but with five kilos of RDX inside them, they'll still do a fair job of crippling a 'mech. Step on one, you'll lose a foot, step on two or more, you'll likely lose a leg."

"DIGGER! DAMN YOU!"

"Now that was rude, Major... here I take the trouble of warning you, saving the lives of your men - I'm even saving their mechs! And you insult me. I'm deeply hurt."

"You'll pay for this, you scavenging bastard!"

"I think not, Major. Oh, and just for the record, most of the mines around you are standard composite construction pancake mines. If you don't step on them, they won't go off. But my seabee friends were feeling generous, and they threw in a few off-route mines as an extra. I'm told the ORMs have a range of about 50 meters - simply passing in front of them and presenting a visible target will trigger them. They're a lot like getting hit with an SRM and do the same amount of damage. Fortunately, both sorts are easy to detect visually. If you were able to see, that is."

"I'll kill you Snord. If it's the last thing I do, I'll kill you!"

"Quite understandable, Major, I'd feel the same way if I were in your position. The thing is, I'm not in your position. You are. Now, I'd strongly recommend that you order your men to carefully wait right where they are, until the smoke clears. Given the weather conditions, that should be in about fifteen to twenty minutes. Otherwise, you'll lose quite a few 'mechs trying to make it through the mine field. Which will, by the way, all self-detonate in twenty-four hours, so you won't have to clear it yourself. Isn't that charitable of me?"

Lorcet's reply was unprintable.

"Now, now, Major. Open airwaves, remember?"

"SNORD! I'll kill you until you die of it!"

"Perhaps, Major. But you'll have to catch me first. Simply must run now, you understand, places to go, historical artifacts to recover, all that rot. Tah!"

~*~

Snord had told the truth. If anything, he'd given an overly-cautious estimate. The smoke had cleared in just over ten minutes, allowing the demi-battallion to carefully withdraw from the valley. As the mercenary commander had said, the teller mines were easy enough to spot once you knew they were there, even through their camouflage paint scheme, provided you took the time to carefully scan the ground in front of you. And that was much easier to do from the elevated cockpit of a mech than from a tank or APC.

But in order to do that, they had to allow Snord to make an unimpeded getaway.

Lorcet still ended up taking about a lance's worth of damaged mechs thanks to the ORMs - the damned things were accurate enough to spot a mech from dozens of meters away, just as Snord had stated. Fortunately, they'd been designed to deal with armored vehicles, and didn't aim higher than three meters. All the damage his people took was to the legs of their mechs. Nothing life-endangering, though the repairs would be time-consuming. But Snord had slipped away, and done it on Lorcet's watch, damn him. That made it personal.

Worse, the Steiners had shown up less than thirty minutes after the smoke had cleared the valley, and Lorcet had been forced to make an undignified retreat as the lead elements of the Steiner recon forces had called in both air and artillery support. They'd been shocked and surprised by Snord's survival, thinking him dead or captured at the hands of the Marik forces, and Cranston's success had them all awe-struck at his audacity. It was even rumored that Snord's Irregulars would be personally decorated for their courage by Katrina Steiner herself.

Lorcet, on the other hand, would be facing an enraged Janos Marik, with nothing to show for his actions save public humiliation. At best? He'd be lucky if he could hold on to a command in some Periphery hellhole. At worst... he didn't want to think about the worst.

Someday, somehow, Snord would pay for this. Oh, he would pay dearly.

~*~

"Matten, I tire of the lack of information concerning this upstart organization. Has Kristofur anything worthwhile to add to what is known about them?" Julian Tiepolo stared at his adviser, his bald head and the round, reflective lenses of his antique eyeglasses giving him a rather disconcerting and somewhat reptilian appearance.

The elegantly robed gentleman shook his head. "Vesar, I fear, has ideas considerably above his station, Primus. I suspect him of withholding information from the intelligence oversight committee, myself, and you, as potential bargaining counters against his future with ComStar."

Tiepolo leaned forward intently. "Is there a need to recycle young Kristofur?"

Matten interlaced his fingers, pondering for a moment. "Not immediately, sir. However, it would be advisable to consider the possibility. I would suggest that Vesar be more directly assigned to the upcoming project involving the subversion of Anton Marik. Being the Duke's most direct, if secret, liaison to ComStar is a most... hazardous... position. Accidents in the field do occur, Primus. And should just such an unfortunate event take place, I'm quite certain the blame can be laid at the feet of House Marik."

Julian nodded. "And he cannot rationally turn down the mission, due to the importance of subverting Anton. Start his preparations for that assignment, and begin to groom his successor. Logically, he cannot control ROM while he is in the field, therefore he cannot object to a temporary substitute for his office. Be certain to choose someone with... less ambitious goals to replace Kristofur. Competency in the position is still highly desired, however. We cannot afford a bungler in charge of ROM. As for the here and now, inform Vesar that I wish him to proceed with his plans to obtain samples of the technologies that Executive Outcomes holds."

"Is our agent in place expendable?"

"He is."

"Thank you, sir."

Matten couldn't entirely suppress a minuscule smile as he bowed and left the Primus' office. He was loyal to ComStar, first, last and always. That didn't mean he enjoyed the fact that some of ComStar's field assets were unsavory.

And the death of a convicted pedophile would grieve him not at all.

~*~

Edison Carter smiled as he reached for the intercom. "Sir? We have a hit on the ComStar mole."

"Indeed? I thought they would never get around to using him. The urge to sanction that bit of genewaste keeps growing with each passing day."

"I sympathize, sir. I've often felt the urge to part his hair with a smartround, myself. But now I'm glad I didn't. May I see you in your office? This will require a face to face, and an immediate authorization from you, sir."

"Understood. One kilosec and I'll have my desk clear."

"Thank you, sir."

Carter brought the files up on Jared's desk. "They're pumping him for any information regarding shipments of equipment not obtained from inside the Inner Sphere, and they're giving him trade records concerning us, so that he will be able to spot any such shipments and be aware of the difference."

"Cute. Dangerous, but cute. And they can be reasonably certain that he won't shop that information around on the side for a bit of spare cash, because he's got the death sentence on his head in three different Successor States."

"Actually, it's all four now, sir. The ISF put out a recent medium-priority memo that Kniess was to be killed on sight, and under no circumstances was an ISF agent to speak, communicate with, or otherwise make any sort of contact with him before killing him."

Broker raised an eyebrow. "Who did the perv touch over there? A Kurita?" When Carter remained silent, the second brow joined the first. "Seriously? The idiot had the audacity to try to molest a member of the Kurita family? I was aware Kniess was stupid from your briefings, but I was under the impression that the genetrash still had some basic survival instincts."

"Apparently not. One wonders how he has managed to survive this long, sir. He appears to have Hamilton's own luck at times." Carter touched the sheet of epaper, tapping an icon. "Getting information out of the Combine is harder than performing dentistry on a chicken, but we did get this – a cousin to one Chandrasekhar Kurita, who is himself a cousin to Theodore Kurita, current heir to the Combine. Kniess got the child drunk, then made his move. However, he was interrupted by the unexpected arrival of a servant. Nothing came of it right away, due to the confusion and factionalism surrounding the murder of Chandrasekhar's parents, who were the child's legal guardians at the time, but the ISF was cleaning up their backlog of cases, and this one eventually made its way to the top of the list. Someone opened the file, and when they saw the words 'Kurita' and 'molested' in the same document, and it wasn't the Kurita doing the molesting..."

"It suddenly became time to make all the loose ends go away. Permanently. Including the knothead who started things unraveling to begin with."

"Indeed, sir."

Broker examined the information closely. "I can't see anything wrong with your plan, Ed. You have your authorization. Co-ordinate with Daniel in TacStrike, then go ahead. And Ed?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Once we no longer require Kniess' services, see to his immediate retirement."

"That will be my pleasure, sir." The savage smile on Carter's face left no doubt as to that.

~*~

Porthos wasn't much of a colony. The original Inheritors colony had largely failed, with little left that could be done for the survivors save for providing medical care for the few survivors. It hadn't been violence or catastrophe as much as lack of support. The colony simply hadn't been large enough to reach the take-off point for self-sufficiency.

The small and rather cool forest world did have the advantage of being located almost equidistantly between the Lothian League, the Illyrian Palatinate and the Circinus Federation. This made it ideal for basing forces who'd signed on with Executive Outcomes. It also made an excellent disbursement point for supplies, and EO had placed a number of large warehouses on the world, guarded by a mix of well-paid local mercenary troops and extremely closed-mouthed people from whatever Periphery nation EO had come from.

It was, perhaps, obvious that someone would launch a strike on those warehouses sooner or later.

It was less obvious that this was part of the reason those warehouses were located there. After all - if a trap looked like a trap, few people would choose to step into it.

~*~

Dean Lang scanned the warehouses carefully. He could not bilge this assignment. Though he simply couldn't understand why he'd been given it. Being part of the team that pulled this off? Yes. Leading the team? No. What in Tucker's name was Carter thinking, handing him this responsibility?

I'm too damned young for this, he swore quietly. I'm leading people twice, no, THREE times my age! It's insane. I'm only twenty-nine! Then again, if he could pull it off, he'd be able to write his own ticket for decades to come.

A *ping* hit his mind. Incoming info-dump. Pirate raids on every world with an EO contract, and for all intents and purposes, they were being launched simultaneously. If that word even had any meaning left in a universe where supraluminal transportation and communication were possible.

And ComStar considers this subtle? If this is their idea of sophisticated, then they probably need a GPS system, an inertial guidance unit and a twelve terabyte field manual just to take a dump in the woods. Without toilet paper.

At least the disgusting little molester had carried out his own part of the plot, albeit totally unawares. IntellSec had spotted his transmission to ComStar with laughable ease. In fact, the interception team was so disappointed at Kniess's general ineptitude in spy craft, once they had forwarded the message up the chain, they'd translated the contents into ancient Sumerian and back again, just to have something to do. And they'd corrected his grammar in the process.

The interception team was also serving as the Company bookies - hundreds of thousands of grams were being wagered on who'd exterminate the vermin first, ComStar or EO. Though a few betters were taking long odds on one of Kniess's co-workers finally growing tired of his general smarminess and shooting him on the spot.

Dean had two hundred grams riding on that eventuality himself. Best part was, no matter who won, everybody won. Except for Kniess, of course.

He *pinged* his team's sub-net. (- Recon One, report.)

(- Advil. Situation normal.)

(- Bayer. All clear.)

(- Cepal. Nothing here.)

(- Panadol. All quiet.)

(- ?)

(- ?)

(- I'm not using that code name. I refuse.)

Dean sighed. Just his luck...

(- The names were assigned at random and don't have any other meaning. It wasn't meant as an insult or a joke.)

(- I swear I'll make you pay for this...)

(- So challenge me to a duel after this is over. I know what time it is. Report, already!)

(- grumble. Midol. Nothing here. And it's NOT my 'time of the month.')

(- Tell that to the arbitrator. snicker.)

(- Advil!)

(- Sorry, sorry. I'll be good.)

(- Intercept Three here. We've got a runner. Chester the Molester's in his hover, and headed straight towards the port at max speed. Looks like the rat is leaving the sinking ship.)

(- Thank you, I3.) Dean frowned slightly. Well, there went that two hundred grams straight into the furnace. Meh. Such was life. (- Team One, go to Condition Alpha. If Kniess is bailing, then he's expecting to be picked up.)

(- Roger that,) came the replies.

Another all-hands *ping* hit their subnet. Gravitic signature at the L1 jump point. No EO or allied ships were scheduled. Massive fusion plumes spotted.

(- Looks like show time. A pirate point, and hey, three gee acceleration? They must want in and out in a hurry. Gotta be our guests-of-honor.)

(- Damned stupid guests-of-honor if you ask me... using an L1 point with the pathetic jokes these people call jump drives? That's like putting a noose around your neck and daring people to kick the box out from under your feet.)

(- Did get them close in to Porthos, though... they're only 3 light seconds out. They'll be here shortly.)

(- Point taken.)

(- Remember the plan. Let at least one load and one dropship get away. Burn the rest. Take prisoners if you can, but no risking things. Make this look good.)

(- Twenty grams says they make an orbital drop with their 'mechs, then try to land in the confusion of the crossfire.)

(- Sucker bet.)

(- Well, duh.)

(- Central update: Three Union class dropships inbound. ETA, 3.78 kiloseconds, mark. Jumpship is Invader-class, current speed and heading show an course for the L5 pirate point. Looks like she's getting out while the getting's still good. Alert! New gravitic signature at zenith jump point!)

(- Cute. One ship drops them off, one ship picks them up. Minimizes the risk to either jump ship -- but increases the suspicion,) noted Lang. (- How many pirates would have two or more jumpships at their beck and call? Conclusion: They aren't planning on leaving any incriminating records at our command and control center... or any incriminating survivors.)

(- C3 concurs. You have full release. Command is now yours, Headache One.)

(- Yes, and now I have one,) grumbled Dean.

(- You knew the job was a pain in the ass when you took it,) noted C3 flippantly. (- Orders?)

(- All hands. Hold tight, confirm fictions and alibis with local hires. Proceed with panic parties. C3, are the surprise packages under the port ready for our guests?)

(- That's a roger, Headache One. Packages are a go. We are refining trajectories still, but at the moment it still looks like they're going to use the port landing pads. Foolish of them.)

(- They are working with the info we fed their informant, C3.)

(- C3 reiterates: Foolish of them. And annoying. Gonna be a cast-iron bitch re-pouring all that ferrocrete. sigh)

(- Granted, C3. Re: the ferrocrete - you have my deepest sympathies. All hands, ready your positions, and remember your priorities. Let's give ComStar a nice warm welcome.)

~*~

The shriek of atmospheric re-entry was loud enough to force its way through the insulating material of his drop pod and into his mech, but Adept Kidd resolutely ignored it. keeping his mind on the mission, and on the eleven acolytes under his command. The others were mere pirate scum, expendable in the long run. Kidd's orders were to allow them to run riot over Porthos, so long as it didn't interfere with the capture of samples of EO-based technologies - and hopefully, at least one of EO's executives. Attempts at kidnapping non-local employees who were heading EO offices in the IS had failed miserably. Now, here, they hoped to succeed. Personally, Kidd doubted that, but hope sprang eternal in the chest of ROM's upper echelons. And as a mere ComGuard Adept seconded to ROM, it wasn't his position to question his superiors.

No matter how thick-headed they were being.

His mech shuddered as explosive bolts blew apart the charred remnants of his re-entry pod and deployed his parasail. He checked his side monitors. It was dangerous to use active radar, it made you a target. But he had to run the risk.

Good, he was coming in over the designated LZ, about three kilometers away from the warehouse complex that their informant had briefed them on, and the rest of his people were grouped tight. It was looking like a good drop, at least for the CG 'mechs. As for the pirates, they looked to be scattered all over the map.

Small loss there. They were intended to create chaos, and to cover his withdrawal. He had orders to abandon them on Porthos if that would assist in the success of this mission. He suspected that the pirates had already knew this, but that they didn't care. The potential loot in the warehouses was numbing their survival instincts, and what little remained were blunted by the knowledge that EO's forces were being engaged across a dozen different systems. Surely they couldn't have anyone left to defend this world.

Wishful thinking on their part, thought Kidd, but then if they weren't wishful thinkers, they probably wouldn't be pirates.

He toggled the unit channel. "All units form on me after touchdown. Let's make this tight, people. We only have the word of our snitch to go on, and I don't want to be surprised."

"And the pirates, sir?" That was Acolyte Timmons. Young and uncertain of herself at times, but one of the most instinctive pilots he'd ever seen. The girl could do things with a 'mech that probably hadn't been seen since the end of the Star League's 'Gunslinger' program.

A pip on his display caught his eye, and he looked to the north, where a pirate 'mech had just suffered 'chute failure and made a rather impressive crater. "Their survival is their problem, Timmons. My problem is our survival. Your problem is following my orders."

"Yes, sir!"

He tapped out a code on his comm console, and a map display came up in the cockpits of his people's mechs, with a single image blinking brightly. "According to our snitch, warehouse A-5 is both the personal weapons transshipment point AND under heavy security due to a recent supply transfer directly from wherever it is in the Periphery that these people came from. We do this by the numbers. We go in. We take down the defenses. Timmons, you're best at using the hands of your mech, so I want YOU to be the one grabbing crates and stowing them in our cargo nets. We'll take turns providing you with cover while you're doing that. And we are not to be taken prisoner, people. Under no circumstances. Clear?"

"Yes, sir!" came the chorus.

"Good. Now let's take that warehouse."

~*~

The three Union dropships that had just set down under fire were superficially identical. Their exteriors were shabby and they appeared to be ill-maintained. That was true of two of them. But with the third, it was a carefully crafted illusion, an illusion that ComStar had devoted much time and effort to. The Inner Truth was a work of art by ROM's best deception artists, a true masterpiece in its own way. The best technology available to ComStar had gone into the dropship, putting it on a par - if not slightly ahead - of the very best that the Star League once had to offer. Weapons, armor, sensors, navigational and targeting computers... they were all far beyond what the Successor States could field.

(- What a joke. Get this... they're trying to hack us.)

(- You're kidding, right?)

(- Nope. Take a look on channels 3, 6 and 7.)

(- Oh, now this is just pathetic. THIS is supposed to be the pinnacle of ComStar's vaunted technological advantage? I've seen children trying to hack their way around the parental lockouts inside their implants who were doing a better job of it. You should brainburn this guy just out of respect for the IT profession and on general principles.)

(- Yeah. But the higher-ups in the company want at least one ship to get away with some toys. I'd say we've just found our volunteer. We can lose the other two ships.)

(- You'll need to stall them. They'll get impatient if they can't get something from our 'net.)

(- Thank you for volunteering, Captain Useful.)

(- Hey! I didn't say anythi—)

(- No, you didn't. I did. IIRC, you're still wearing that centuries-old antique from First Landing.)

(- So? And my TeraComm 67 is a classic, not an antique! There's a world of difference!)

(- So put it on the port LAN and let them dink around inside of it.)

(- My TeraComm is not a starport mainframe and wasn't meant to be. It's a delicate piece of our technological history, an item of immense personal val—)

(- Jubal, compared to what they're using, your TeraComm's a freaking AI! Now just do it!)

The computer security expert aboard the Inner Truth wanted to smirk at the universality of humanity. He'd forced his way into the port's systems, brought down their firewalls, and the first thing he'd found while beginning a mass download of all their files was a hidden stash of porn. He chuckled to himself - if it hadn't been for this raid, someone here at the port would have been answering to their superior for mis-use of company resources. If their aficionado of adult entertainment didn't die during the raid, at least he'd have the consolation of knowing that there wouldn't be enough of the port network left for his boss to tell what it was, let alone what was stored on it.

It was nice hardware, though. The ComStar cracker was somewhat envious. If the system benchmarks he was running in the background were correct, this TeraComm machine far exceeded anything ComStar allowed to be sold in the civilian sector, and was more than a match for many of the machines ComStar itself used. He hoped that, once EO had been broken to the ComStar yoke, he'd get to be on the team that examined their computer industry. It looked like these people had quite a bit of useful technology. He'd love to have the opportunity to play with it.

Unfortunately, he wasn't going to be able to please his superiors by giving them the answers they wanted to hear. With each incoming file, it was becoming more and more apparent that these people weren't scavengers looting old Star League supply dumps left over from the war, they were using newly-manufactured equipment, independently manufactured equipment. And that meant they were from a Periphery nation with an industrial base that ComStar didn't know anything about.

That was NOT what his superiors wanted to hear.

They definitely wouldn't be happy with his report.

~*~

Kidd definitely didn't like what he was seeing. Normally, a drop like this would be filled with screaming civilians trying to escape from the big, bad mechwarriors. For that matter, the buildings would be filled with people, period. But there was no one here aside from some heavily armed teams that were pulling the painfully familiar "fire and fade" tactic on him.

Fortunately, they didn't appear to be armed with anything heavier than SRM's, and they didn't seem intent on standing their ground.

And that made him feel even more suspicious. Where the hell was everyone? No one could evac a place this fast. It simply wasn't possible.

He triggered the remote beacons that ComStar had secretly installed on the pirate's mechs when they'd "helped" to do the repairs the pirates needed, and overlaid them on the map of the warehouse complex and the nearby worker's housing. Damn. The bastards were in the housing area, and at least two of them appeared to have been taken down. Well, no matter, they were always intended to be expendable - just not quite so quickly.

Now they were outside the A-5 warehouse, and he kicked through the side of the wall with an elán that would have done Kerensky proud. "Everybody IN, IN, IN! Everything we can carry in ten minutes, and then back to the ship!"

Timmons, he was proud to see, had already snagged a pair of crates and was stuffing them into the cargo net on the back of one of her comrades mech while the other nine had formed a defensive circle around the other two. Good. If she kept it up at this rate, everyone would have a full net and be out of here well under the time limit. Kidd wanted OFF this rock. Superstitious as it might sound, the hair was standing up on the back of his neck. Something was seriously wrong about this place, and the collection of combat instincts in the back of his head were screaming like air-raid sirens. The sooner they were aboard the Inner Truth and off this planet, the better.

That's when the threat display on his main screen began to flash red.

~*~

"Wall-Eyed" Wally Kring cursed as his mech took another hit.

"Dammit, where's this shit coming from?" screamed the pirate. His battle-worn Firestarter wasn't the fanciest ride around, but unlike other pirate machines, he'd kept it in (mostly) good repair, doing almost all of the work himself. He slapped at the patched-together targeting and tracking system, trying to get a make on where the incoming fire was coming from. The threat display flashed, blanked for the longest second of "Wall-Eyed" Wally's life, then came back up with a burp and a trajectory for him.

"Pikes? We're taking fire from Pikes? That's crazy talk!"

~*~

Most mechwarriors tended to laugh whenever the Pike support vehicle was brought up in conversation. A medium-weight tracked vehicle, its armament of three ZeusBolt Class 2 autocannons weren't taken very seriously by anyone but infantrymen. A single projectile from a ZeusBolt didn't do any more damage than a single short-range missile. Even with three of the cannons in a single turret, a single Pike couldn't do much more harm on the battlefield than could a light recon mech - and then, only if the crew were very fortunate.

Of course, the above conclusion was based on the faulty assumption that the Pike would be fighting one-on-one.

A wise man once said that "...if you find yourself in a fair fight, you must be doing something wrong."

What "Wall-Eyed" Wally - and by extension, the rest of the pirates - weren't aware of was the fact that Wally was being targeted by half a dozen Pikes. Given each Pike had three autocannon, that meant that a total of eighteen shells were raining down on him at any single moment. While those shells didn't do much damage individually, in the aggregate, they were quickly tearing his mech apart. The same was true of each of his comrades. There were six Pikes devoted to each and every pirate mech, all of them receiving targeting info from inside the complex, literally under the feet of the 'mechs. And they all outranged every weapon his mech carried.

"Wall-Eyed" Wally Kring died railing against his fate... and cursing the cowards who refused to fight him fairly, in a mech, in single combat, the way a true mechwarrior should.

~*~

Kidd was certain now. This stank of a set-up. His unit had been led down a garden path and allowed to loot this warehouse. The question in his mind was simple - what sort of trap was this? There were two sorts of traps, generally speaking. The ambush and the sting. If this was an ambush, he and all his people were about to die on this mudball, trying to carry out their duty to ComStar. If it were a sting, they'd be allowed to leave safely.

Oh, there'd be all sorts of fireworks, dramatic near-misses and hairs-breadth escapes to make it all look good, but his unit would survive. Because the people who owned this warehouse wanted it to survive. Probably as part of some disinformation campaign directed at ComStar.

He'd already tried to test the first theory by carefully kicking open a few of the crates lying in huge piles around them. Weapons - or at least items that looked like weapons. Just as expected. No "bomb-in-a-shipping-crate" traps. Not yet, anyway. His mech's sensors couldn't pick up any suspicious objects. Or rather, they were picking up expected suspicious objects: nitrate propellants, low-grade radioactives (probably depleted uranium in the projectiles) and other such things, but nothing unexpected, or specifically targeted at them. Just weapons. Unfamiliar weapons, perhaps, but that was all he could see with the admittedly limited scanners his mech carried.

Screw it. If these EO types were letting him and his people go in order to play some sort of psy-ops game with the big brains in ROM headquarters, then he was okay with that. If he felt a little guilt, he'd just file a report and mention his suspicions. That would be enough to put him in the clear. Let ROM take the heat for this one. None of his people were going to die if they didn't have to, and damn it, if this was an info-sting, then they didn't have to.

And to hell with any bitching, moaning or complaints about his performance from double-dealing, desk-piloting ROM bureaucrats who hadn't been in the field in years. HE was the man in the hot seat. It was HIS people at risk. HE'D make the choices. And if they didn't like it, screw them. They could come out here and get shot at, just like he was.

"That's enough! Take what you've got and GO!"

"Sir, it's only seven min—"

"Go!"

His people were good. Aside from the single weak protest from Timmons, they all turned for the hole in the warehouse wall without complaint, sprinting at top speed for the spaceport just as soon as they were clear of the buildings.

~*~

There was a heavy sounding snap that resounded across every open audio channel, mech or dropship. Even the public address speakers on the sides of the buildings (the few that hadn't actually been shot off by the raiders) echoed it. The few remaining pirates cringed - they'd heard stories about this from other bands of marauders. No one had believed them, no one wanted to believe them. No one did something like that any more. Except maybe that crazy Snord girl, and everyone knew she was just as cracked as her digger of a father.

Then the music began. And the pirates shuddered.

"And in my dying, I'm more alive than I have ever been. I will make this sacrifice, for I am Winter born..."

The surviving brigands now fought with the strength of desperation - and the desperation of the damned, for that was all they had left now. They knew they weren't leaving this planet alive.

Kilometers away at the port, the music rang out through the three drop ships, while the cracker aboard the Inner Truth suddenly discovered that his connection had vanished. The entire LAN vanished as if someone had blown a fuse. Sending a nasty thought through his head, one very similar to that was wandering around that of Adept Kidd. This had just been one big trap, and they were the bait for it. He swept the stolen files from his main board, and proceeded to scream at the rest of the crew to get the engines on line right f*cking now! He wasn't going to give those f*cking madman a chance to do... whatever it was those lunatics did when they captured you.

On the road, Kidd and his people struggled to squeeze even a single extra KPH out of their mechs, desperately red-lining their reactors. They'd been briefed before they left on this mission. While the intel from the pirates had been confused and unreliable even at its best, the raiders had been painfully clear and precise on this point.

The locally hired forces might stand aside, but the "freaks" from outside the Sphere had just raised the black flag.

No quarter, asked or given.

And no prisoners taken.

If Kidd and the men and women in his unit couldn't reach the Inner Truth, they'd never live to see Earth again.

~*~

(- Looks like the two pirate Unions are getting antsy.)

(- The last of their mechs are going down, and I don't really see trying to take these two as spoils for Cranston. It'd be a bit much for him to explain, and ComStar would probably nuke them on sight just to be rid of the embarrassment.)

(- . . .)

(- What?)

(- I'm thinking, all right?)

(- Think faster, they're running through their pre-launch checklist.)

(- Oh, damn. Man, I hate this - ruining a perfectly good ferrocrete job.)

(- *shrug* If it helps any, think of the fireworks, dude...)

(- Damn... nothing for it, I guess. Inputting code: Destruct sequence 1, code 1-1 A)

(- My turn. Inputting code: Destruct sequence 2, code 1-1 A-2B)

(- I get to go last. Oh, goody. :P System, Inputting Code: Destruct sequence 3, code 1 B-2B-3)

(- Who thought of these dumb codes? I mea—)

(- WHOADAAAAMN! Did you see that?)

(- Vertical shaped thermal-plasma columns - when you absotively, posolutely have to turn 3,500 tons of dropship into an expanding cloud of vapor, and do it from below! Scratch two pirate ships.)

(- Bet the ComStar ship felt that, though.)

(- If you redefine "felt" to mean "we just got the shit kicked out of us by a massive semi-nuclear shockwave...", then yeah, they probably did. But they're not too hurt. They can still make orbit. That's all that counts, really.)

(- Good point. Here's another. Are they gonna run now, or are they gonna stick it out to retrieve their little mecha-boys and girls?)

(- Looks like they're gonna hold till the last minute. They're ComGuard, they take care of their own. Just like we do. So we give them the chance to do so. Slacken the fire from the defensive positions and let them see we're offering a bridge of gold to an honored enemy. That appeal ought to be enough...)

(-You know, that idea is so INCREDIBLY stupid, it just might work! I Like this idea! I'm proud to be part of this idea! Lets do it!)

(- Thank you, "Doctor Venkman", and shouldn't you be getting back to your firehouse now? ANYone else got anything to say? At all? No? Then lets go ahead with it. One golden bridge coming up.)

~*~

The twin pillars of fire roaring up from the port managed to somehow clutch at Kidd's chest with a freezing hand. What had happened at the port? What had happened to the Inner Truth? Did they even have a way left off this rock any longer?

~*~

The infantry units that had spread out from the Inner Truth and surrounded the port control tower were now covering their own retreat, pulling back to the dropship as fast as physically possible. The massive explosions that had engulfed the two pirate dropships had taken them totally by surprise and had injured more than a few with the unexpected flash and blast. Adept Westwood had several men flashblinded because they'd been looking the wrong way when those ships blew up, and he had a sinking feeling he'd be losing quite a few more. He'd been monitoring the progress of the battle on a back channel. Westwood believed in everything ComStar stood for and his faith was strong. But he wasn't a fool. Their forces were losing, and losing badly. He looked over his shoulder where he could see the flashes of distant guns, and wondered if those same guns would be turning on his troops next.

Then he noticed the hideous gunfire slacking. Whoever these EO people were, their sidearms were making single-shot kills, punching through high-grade body armor as if it weren't there. Worse yet, some of the bastards had been using explosive rounds - in handguns! Were they insane? He had at least a lance of men dead with holes in their chest that you could stick a damned fist through. Some of the rounds had even hit men who'd been in full cover... as if the damned things had gone around obstacles. But that was impossible. Right?

Now the sound of gunfire from their side was slacking, slowing down. Were they finally running out of ammo? Primus, he hoped so.

As the incoming fire grew quieter, he noticed another sound in the background, one that was quickly growing louder. The heavy, hammering sound of battlemechs sprinting for all they were worth.

"Pull back! Pull back! Cover your buddies and the 'mechs, and pull back to the dropship! By the numbers! Squad one, GO!"

~*~

Kidd could spy the dropship now, and a more welcoming sight he'd never seen before. The ramps were down, and the infantry had clustered around the legs of the ship, trying to give his mechs some cover, even at the cost of their own lives. No way in hell was he going to waste that.

"Up the ramps, full speed! F*ck the regs, I want you inside NOW!"

The affirmative chorus he received told him he wasn't going to get any backtalk about this. He didn't care if they did a million C-bills of damage to the dropship on their way in, he wanted his people OFF this damned rock. And if they all lived, he was going to spend a day or three on the trip home writing assorted nasty-grams addressed to the idiots who had cheerfully insisted that this mission would be a walk-over.

Walk-over. Right. WE'RE the ones who got walked over, and those morons at HQ are going to accept the truth of that if I have to personally shove it down their throats with my mech!!

He was the last one aboard, and he'd waited outside, providing cover for Westwood's troops. They'd done it for him, he owed them that. Then he made a final rush up the ramp, covered by the Union's heavy guns.

He didn't power down his mech until he felt the blessed surge of acceleration that told him they were off the dirt and on their way to the awaiting jumpship at the zenith point.

And even then, he didn't relax until days later, well after the first jump had taken place.

~*~

Chapter Text

There hadn't been too much damage in the warehouse area. The ComStar mechwarriors had been too interested in making an intelligence raid, and the true pirates had been taken down well before they could cause widespread destruction. There were still more than a few areas that needed repair, and Dean made a note to alert the SeaBees to get several building printers up and running.

Maybe that would keep Port Authority from bitching about the two new holes in their tarmac. Two small coherent plasma charges, barely a quarter-kiloton each, and you'd think that a mundito had lost pressure from the way they whined.

Really.

Melodramatic of them, but those were engineers for you. You break anything and it was bitch-bitch-bitch. Maybe he should tell them to bill the costs to ComStar. If nothing else, the look on their faces as he pranked them with that would be worth millions in social credits once he posted the video to the 'net.

He'd finished the overview of the warehouse district and had come to see what was left of the two pirate Unions when he heard the agonized shouts behind him.

"Augh!"

~*~

Chester was screeching in pain. It didn't help that the two burly troopers in the blue-gray EO duty uniforms were twisting his arms behind him with far more enthusiasm than normal.

"I didn't do anything! You're not cops! You gotta let me go! I want off-planet! I got rights!" he shrieked.

"Rights? The same rights the children had when you molested them, Mr. Kniess?"

"I - I'm Bill Jones, from Weddington. I'm—"

"Your name is Chester Leicester Kniess, you're wanted for multiple counts of child abuse, child molestation, flight to avoid prosecution, murder in the first and second degrees, resisting arrest, and a laundry load of other charges," recited the younger gentleman who'd stepped forward to confront him. "We have your DNA, Mr. Kniess. And we have you. But if you'd like to leave..." The man waved to the guards. "You're free to go. Of course, we're required to inform any and all law enforcement agencies of our findings, and we'll do so well in advance of your leaving this planet. I suspect you'll find a rather interested welcoming committee waiting for you at the spaceport no matter where you head for, save perhaps for the Periphery. And as the only ships headed towards the Periphery for the next two months belong to EO, that puts you in something of a bind, Mr. Kniess."

"no, no, you can't - I don't hurt them - I love them, they love me, we're happy - you can't, you gotta underst—"

"Shut him up for a moment."

The two men holding Kniess grinned, and the keening whine rose to a shriek of pain, then faded back to an agonized groan.

"My name is Dean Lang. I am currently leading the EO forces engaged in combat here on Porthos. This means that for the moment, until I'm relieved, I have the authority and power to have you shot on the spot for any crimes you've committed in this jurisdiction, or to hand you over to allied law enforcement officials for crimes you have committed in theirs. While my people have rather... liberal... attitudes towards sex and how people choose to enjoy it, the molestation of a child under the age of consent or of a person otherwise unable to give informed consent makes us rather angry. But our customs and traditions are old, and we hate violating them. So I am giving you a choice, Chester Kniess. Five choices, actually."

"Whu—Whu..."

"First choice. I hand you over to the tender mercies of the nearest Davion law enforcement official, as that's where your first known crime was committed. Second choice, a Lyrian LEO. Third, a Marik LEO. Fourth, a Kuritan - though I wouldn't recommend that, as they don't appear to have any tender mercies."

"Th-the fifth ch-choice?"

Lang held out one hand, and a short woman in a forest-green bodysuit with a pastel-green cross on her right shoulder stepped forward and slapped something into it.

"Mauser and Grey M-27 needler. They tell me it's standard issue across the Inner Sphere. You can handle one without shooting your eye out?"

"Yu- Yes."

"Good. Your fifth choice is this. We duel. By Kyfhon tradition, if you walk away from this duel as the winner, you walk away. No one will stop you, prevent you from buying passage on a jumpship, or attack you unless you insult them first. You understand?"

"I - What?" The rat-faced little man shook his head, confused. "Wait, what? Y'mean like th' Dracs? Noble duels an' all that crap?"

"Close enough, Mr. Kniess. But before you can choose, you must know the rules. Adjudicator Cooper?"

A beefy man with gray hair and shoulders like a professional linebacker stepped forward. "The rules are simple and apply to both of you. Each of you will take his position, preparing his weapon at my command as referee. You will observe the handkerchief I hold out. When I drop it, you are free to draw your weapon and fire. Try to draw before I drop it, and you'll be shot. After the drop, you may move in any way you choose - duck, dodge, even charge your opponent if you so wish. But you are barred from firing at a fallen man. Do so, and as the referee, it will be my responsibility to shoot you dead. Fire at a spectator, and I'll shoot you dead. Fire at me, and I'll shoot to cripple first, THEN shoot you dead. These are the rules. Do you understand them, Mr. Kniess?"

The ratty individual froze for a long moment then nodded carefully. "Yeah, I undahstand. Can't shoot at 'im after 'e falls, if 'e falls, you'll shoot me if I do. No touchin' th' ref or th' others 'round. I win, I go free."

"Do you accept these rules as stated, Mr. Kniess?"

"If I accept 'em, and win, I get t' go free, no grudges, like?"

"Yes, you do."

"Then yeah, I accept."

The woman in the green bodysuit took the weapon back from Lang, slipped it into a gunbelt and set it on the ground a few meters away from Chester. The spectators moved back, forming two lines on either side of Kniess, giving him several body-lengths of space. The two guards behind him released his arms and gave him a shove forward.

"Pick it up, belt it on, and take several steps back, Mr. Kniess." The expression on the adjudicator's face was that of someone faced with an unwanted pet who'd just relieved itself on the floor. Chester did so, shaking, and fumbling as he fastened the gunbelt around his waist.

"Prepare your weapons, gentlemen."

Cooper waited several moments. "Are you ready, Lang?"

"Yes."

"Are you ready, Kniess?"

"Yuh— Yes."

Cooper held out the large and eye-hurtingly colored paisley handkerchief.

That's when something inside of Chester broke. His hand dived for the needler as he dropped to the ground. If I'm already down, they can't shoot me. They said so themself. He tried to roll, holding the needler in the general direction of Lang and holding down the trigger, hoping the spray of ballistic plastic shards would hit the other man.

The pain in his chest came as a surprise. Why does my chest feel so hot—

~*~

Lang regarded the body with disgust. The two-centimeter beam of the powergun had opened up Kniess's chest like a chainsaw, the heat of the beam causing the flesh to explode as the water in it flash-vaporized. He looked over to the men who'd taken Kniess prisoner, tipping his head to one side as a message *pinged* him through the 'net.

"Mr. Carter and Mr. Broker want to send ComStar a message. Get the body into stasis, contact the closest Davion LEA, and arrange to send this to them." He paused for a moment, searching records. (- Intercept, I want everything we have on how Kniess got here, and on his ComStar controller summed up, sanitized, and packaged for delivery with his body. The bosses want ComStar embarrassed, and there's nothing more embarrassing than having to explain why someone in your organization was covering for and actively assisting a child molester. See to it copies of all relevant material are shared with the Kuritans, Steiners, and Mariks, after they've been properly sanitized. Give them all the info we can without exposing ourselves, and as much evidence as possible. If we can force ComStar to sacrifice an Adept or two in order to cover their own asses, so much the better. EOF.)

(- We're on it. Data sanitation in progress.)

Dean noticed a distant throb in his arm and looked down to see a few small runnels of blood tricking their way down his smartsuit. "Oh, now that's annoying." Just as he feared, the healer was headed his way with that look in her eye.

"What do you think you're doing, young man? You have a dozen shards of polymer in your arm. You're coming along with me right now."

"My suit will—"

"Your suit's just as damaged as you are, and if I've heard that once, I've heard it a thousand times. 'My suit will fix things.' 'My suit will heal me', 'It's just a flesh wound.' Why do all you idiots think you're invulnerable?! I'm sick and tired..."

Lang noticed everyone else slowly edging away from him. "Cowards! Traitors!"

One of the troopers who'd been holding Kniess shook his head and snickered. "Nope, just smart, dude. Surrender now, while you still can."

Dean sighed, and gave in. He was never going to hear the end of this.

(- Someone get my relief online and tell him I've been taken hostage by a rabid healer.)

(- I heard that!)

Oh, crap.

~*~

It never failed to amuse and annoy Broker that Carter could sneak up on him, even after all these decades. Somehow it had become a contest. Jared would set his suit avatars to be as sensitive as possible without having them scream at him over every random dust-mote that fell in the wrong direction. Edison would be caught once or twice, then somehow manage to avoid them. Then the cycle would repeat. The man was a damned ghost.

"I agree, sir. I am rather wraith-like."

"Augh! Damn it, Carter!" The tall bony man had appeared behind his shoulder yet again. In his own Hamilton-be-damned office. "Someday..."

Carter nodded. "Someday, sir. But not today. I have the report from young Lang."

Jared sat down in the leather armchair he'd bought from Cranston's loot... err... thiev... ah... people. He hated to admit to it, but he had as great a weakness for history and antiques as the former Clansman did. "How did the boy do?"

"The ComGuard unit has exactly what we want them to have, nothing more. Two of the pirates survived, they apparently had their ejection systems switched on. It's unknown if that was intentional, or merely a side effect of sloppy maintenance." Edison tisk'ed disdainfully. He firmly disapproved of such carelessness in combat. "Do you wish them disposed of, or simply handed over to the nearest governmental law enforcement?"

"Did they see anything dangerous?"

"No, sir."

"Then hand them over to the Lothian League. A public trial and a slow hanging will do wonders for the League, and help to reassure the agents watching us that we have no intention of setting ourselves up as a government."

Carter smiled. "Done, sir. And Lang's coming along nicely. Still quite young, but he has that vicious streak I'm looking for in my agents. I'm thinking of promoting him."

"Excellent. And the trash the pirates were piloting?"

"Most of it smoking rubble, sir. But we've found something interesting in the remains. There were a few anomalous transmissions noted during the battle. After-action analysis tracked them to the pirate mechs. ComStar had planted beacons on their machines." He forwarded a file to his employer. "They're playing a dangerous game - these particular transmitters use advanced post-Star League technology. In fact, there are certain elements of design that are reminiscent of our cousins' work, albeit rather crudely imitated. If they'd fallen into the wrong hands, people would start asking embarrassing questions that ComStar would be hard-pressed to answer."

"Hands such as ours, Ed?"

An amused smile flitted across Carter's face. "We already know they're lying to everyone, sir. It would be the Successor States who would be making uncomfortable inquiries."

"Indeed. Do you think they should be?"

"Mmm. I would not advise it at this juncture, sir. It would merely serve to raise ComStar's alert level and tip our hand prematurely. If you're still set on carrying out 'Long Knife', that would not be prudent at the moment."

"Point taken. Allow ComStar to think we haven't noticed, and send Cranston a commiserating message that we weren't able to take any of the pirate mechs intact for his salvage. Keep it low-key, and put it in the usual weekly message queue, standard priority." Broker's eyes hardened. "Let Tiepolo think his people have fooled us."

"Yes, sir. In addition, I've been thinking about Operation 'Long Knife'. As you intend to carry through with it - and I understand why you do, I'd suggest an additional distraction to divert ComStar's attention away from the Free Worlds League."

"Oh?"

"If you would take a look at this file, sir? I think you'll appreciate the irony, as well as the humor." He slid a sheet of epaper across Jared's desk. "I'll need to ask for volunteers from De la Cruiz's people."

Broker touched the icon on the paper, and began to grin, then to laugh. "You're serious about this?"

"Yes, sir."

"Damn, Edison, this is demented. You're twisted, sick and evil. This is possibly the greatest prank pulled in years, perhaps decades. I love it. I'm proud to call you a friend." The grin grew wider. "One condition. I want to meet the man who plays the central role before he goes out."

"Sir?"

"Ed, my father used to read me that book back before I got my first 'suit. When I was older, I watched the movie so often, I came near to wearing out three wallscreens. I want to meet the man who's going to be the person I dreamed of being. No ifs, ands or buts about it."

"I understand, sir. I'll have the candidates report to your office, in costume."

"Oh, this is going to be glorious, Ed. I had no idea you read the book too."

"It was most entertaining, sir. And it will drive ROM insane trying to figure out what's going on."

"Agreed. Tell Dan you have my authorization to call for volunteers. Now go and do that voodoo that you do so well."

Carter stood and left the office, humming a tune under his breath. Jared smiled as his memory supplied the lyrics.

Shiver my timbers, shiver my sides

Yo oh heave ho

There are hungers as strong as the wind and tides

Yo oh heave ho

And those buccaneers drowned their sins in rum

The devil himself would have to call them scum

Every man aboard would have killed his mate

For a bag of guineas or a piece of eight

Oh, yes. This was going to be amusing.

~*~

Matten kept his face professionally blank as he headed for the Primus' office. He was not happy that he'd been selected to do this briefing. And the Primus wasn't going to be happy with its contents.

Tiepolo was waiting for him, several file folders spread across his desk. Matten couldn't quite see the contents, but was certain that if they'd attracted the personal attention of the Primus, it would mean trouble later. The question was, trouble for whom?

"Your report, Matten?"

"Unpleasant, to say the least, sir. I'll start with the laser pistols." He held up one photo - it simply wasn't possible to bring the real thing into the presence of the Primus. His personal guard wouldn't allow it.

"First, this pistol uses an entirely unfamiliar means of power storage. The researchers aren't even certain it's power storage as we understand the term. Perhaps power generation would be more accurate." Matten held up a second photo. "This cell appears to have been filled with a stable isotope of Element 115, also known as ununpentium. Specifically, ununpentium-299, which was predicted to be in the center of the 'island of stability' as early as the second half of the Twentieth century."

He held up a third photo. "This appears to be a small particle emitter, which bombards the ununpentium-299 with protons, causing it to rise from Element 115 to element 116, which then decays rapidly, providing the energy to power the pistol. Where the ununpentium-299 comes from, or how a proton emitter with the required power can be constructed on such a small scale is still unknown."

A fourth photo. "The same power cell, or one so similar we're unable to tell the difference, is used in this pistol. It appears to be a hybrid between a gauss pistol and a standard chemical weapon - but with some unpleasant twists. The researchers are calling it a G/G pistol, after some bit of obscure 20th century humor that one of the technicians quoted while the weapon was being disassembled."

Matten paused for a sip of water, then forged onward with the most unpleasant part of the briefing.

"The technology involved in both weapons is disturbingly advanced, sir. It's unlikely we will ever be able to duplicate them, however hard we try."

Julian's eyes stared at him remorselessly. "Explain."

"Sir, while some of the technology used is within our reach, and some of it we already possess, what makes these weapons viable is the manufacture's access to materials we simply do not have." Matten held up the photo of the gauss pistol. "This pistol can fire standard metallic rounds as any gauss weapon might. It also appears capable of firing combustion-based rounds, of which we have captured a selection. But the chassis of the weapon is nearly 90% rhenium, sir!"

"Rhenium?" Tiepolo's eyebrows went up. He had been a communications major - not exactly a rarity in an organization devoted to making certain people's messages were delivered - but he held doctorates in other disciplines, and even now studied for amusement's sake. "That is difficult to believe, Matten. If I recall my chemistry classes, rhenium was, and still is, rarer than gold. Your people would seem to be telling you that someone's building infantry weapons that are worth more than entire companies of infantry."

"I'm afraid so, sir." Matten went back to the fourth photo. "This pistol alone contains nearly a kilogram of rhenium and rhenium-based alloys. At the prices of the opening of today's metals market, that makes this single weapon worth 15,000 C-bills for the metal alone. Yet Executive Outcomes appears to equip their trusted employees with them as a matter of course." He shook his head. "Then there is the matter that much of the advanced technology employed by both types of weapons appears to be directly tied to the exotic materials used in their construction. That is why our researchers are so hesitant about duplicating them - while they are able to understand the concepts behind the technology, and are even making recommendations on how ComStar could try to reproduce it, such reproduction depends on using the same materials. Materials which we do not have in sufficient quantity, sir. Or at all, in some cases."

Tiepolo frowned. "We shall return to this point later. For the moment, detail the technological advances - in brief."

Matten nodded. "First, the laser, sir. It's considerably more powerful than any laser pistol of its size and mass produced in the Inner Sphere. The reason for this is that it uses two heterodyning lasers in exact wavelength desynchronization. This produces a beam that's more destructive than the sum of the two lasers. This is a technology we can appropriate, sir."

"If it is something we can do, why haven't we done it previously?"

"Heterodyne lasers had been abandoned as overly complex and expensive, sir." Matten pulled another sheet of paper from the folder. "It's of the utmost importance with such weapons that the two beams stay in exact desynchronization, and as the weapon heats up, there is frequency drift in each emitter. Given that no two laser emitters can be absolutely identical, the two beams tend to drift apart. And once the desynchronization lock has been lost, the weapon actually becomes less effective than a single beam laser of the same power output. As a result of difficulties in maintaining such desynchronization, research in the field was quietly abandoned ages ago. But the samples taken from EO use an entirely different approach to maintaining desynchronization in the face of heat build-up, one we'd never before considered."

Julian considered the statement. "Have tests been conducted using available assets?"

"Yes, sir. A team at the Titan range has already built a prototype using parts taken from a pair of standard large lasers from a 'mech. They were able to achieve a 25% increase in beam power with only a 10% increase in heat, and that was merely the prototype." Matten pursed his lips slightly. "I took the liberty of ordering them to focus on decreasing the weight, Primus. If it can be reduced to the standard five tons - which the technicians believe it can - what they have already achieved is a great leap forward in laser weaponry. I hope you will forgive the presumption."

Tiepolo waved the confession away. "Forgiven, Matten. But why begin with 'mech weaponry?"

His advisor shook his head. "Even with understanding how EO managed to compensate for frequency drift in the beams, we are at present unable to miniaturize the components to the point of creating a hand weapon, sir. At the moment, working with what we have on hand, we are able to duplicate their results only with weapons on battlemech scale."

"I see. And the gauss pistol?"

"Even more disturbing, sir. It would appear to be a combination weapon - we've found chemical rounds for it as well as metal flechettes. The combustion rounds are what are bothersome. They don't use standard gunpowder. Instead, they are caseless rounds using what appears to be a combustible aerogel, electrically ignited. The slugs are actually micro-grenades. Far more worrisome, they are smart. Each round has an almost imperceptibly small molecular micro-computer that serves as a combination detonator and guidance system. This actually explains the reason for the aerogel propellant, as the magnetic fields of the pistol would burn out the circuitry in the micro-grenade, sir." Matten took a deep breath before continuing. "The weapon itself is smart, sir. The entire grip is a single, monobloc molecular computer, far more heavily shielded than the pinhead computer in the individual rounds. And it seems to be designed to interface with its user."

The look of shock would have been comical, if it had been on the face of anyone other than the Primus of ComStar.

~*~

The briefing had paused while the Primus had obtained a bottle of expensive, single-malt Scottish whiskey and a pair of glasses from a hidden drawer in his desk. (Not that he had any illusions about the bottle being unknown - Julian's own personal secretary had been known to spirit the shot glasses away for a good cleaning. Julian had no intention of reprimanding her for that... good, trustworthy secretaries were hard to find.)

Matten took the second glass and downed it in a single gulp. Julian gave him the look, the look that whiskey aficionados across the Inner Sphere understood to mean you don't treat a good drink like that, but given the situation, Tiepolo couldn't find it in himself to properly glare at his advisor.

Julian went first. "So it's not merely smart rounds, it's smart weapons. That would explain many of the reports that have crossed my desk lately."

"Yes, sir," Matten nodded. "And the further implications are... disturbing, to say the least."

"That the people using those weapons would have to be cybernetically enhanced to make the best use of them? Yes, I'd say that was a disturbing thought, Matten."

"I am sorry, sir. I didn't mean to imply—"

"I understand, Matten. If I had brought a similar report to my predecessor, I would be equally uneasy. Please, continue."

"Yes, sir. If the researchers examining the weapons are correct, both the laser and the gauss pistol were designed with the intention of interfacing with their user. This would, of course, require some sort of cybernetic implant. But it also explains the design of the combustion ammunition - while they're not entirely certain, a number of the technicians believe the rounds to be source-programmable, with the intention of instant reprogramming in combat. One could shoot through walls by programming the micro-shells to ignore the first impact of a wall, exploding only after they've reached the other side. Or to ignore body armor, only going off when surrounded by flesh. Or to provide inflight guidance before impacting the target."

"So the slugs are maneuverable?"

"To a limited degree, sir. They probably wouldn't be able to shoot around corners, but small course changes would appear to be possible, and that would make them extremely difficult to dodge. This is also why they're chemically fueled. While the computer in the pistol itself is magnetically shielded, the pinhead computer in the round can't be. Not and still remain small enough to be practical." Matten sighed. "I already have several hundred of our best hardware and software designers throwing temper tantrums because they want to see the results of the analysis of the computers, and they want to see it yesterday. They don't care what I think, they don't care what you think, sir. They've seen the face of the Machine God, as it were, and they want to worship. Now. Without delay."

Julian snorted, and ran his hand over his bald pate in a reminiscent manner. "I'm not so old that I can't recall the type, my friend. College was full of them. Crack down on them as required. Just don't kill them. We'll get them the toys they want. Eventually."

"Yes, sir. And that brings me to the last topic concerning the captured weapons."

"Continue."

"They have sensor suites that rival some 'mechs, sir. If the techs are correct about the cybernetic link, then anyone suitably equipped to interface with it can use the sensors built into the weapon to hit targets at what we'd consider to be impossible distances. As well as providing terminal guidance to the slug, sir. With the gauss portion of the weapon to provide brute-force impact with the ferrous flechettes and the explosive smart slugs to provide.. well, explosives, that explains much of the after action reports from Adepts Westwood and Kidd."

Tiepolo refilled their glasses, and nodded at Matten's, who took the hint and sipped at the whiskey slowly, giving it the appreciation it deserved and allowing it to relax his frayed nerves as much as it could.

"Gods, where could they have come from? These weapons make our best look like relics from the era of black powder!"

Julian pondered that for a moment. "The metallurgy. As rare as rhenium is, where are they getting it from?"

"There are two schools of thought among the researchers on that matter, sir. The first is worrisome, the second... outright frightful."

Tiepolo raised an eyebrow.

"Either they've found a world naturally rich in trans-uranics, so rich they can afford to use them the way we might use aluminum or..."

"Or?"

"Or they've successfully mastered practical, affordable matter transmutation, sir. And that possibility, sir, quite frankly scares the hell out of me."

Neither possibility sat well with the Primus. He gently tapped a finger on his desk, deep in thought.

"There is little we can do about the second possibility, Matten, save take action to appropriate, then bury, the technology should we have the chance. As for the first, however..." A thoughtful look crossed Tiepolo's face. "As I recall from college astrophysics, metal-rich worlds form from metal-rich nebula. Systems rich in heavy elements form from nebula equally rich in heavy elements. And such nebula are formed primarily from supernova." He looked to Matten. "Instruct the Explorer Corp to direct their efforts towards supernova-spawned nebula rich in such elements. This should reduce the number of systems they will have to explore in detail, and speed the process by a considerable amount. Examine such systems for radio emissions and other signs of civilization. A technological civilization capable of producing weapons of this sophistication cannot hide for long."

"Yes, sir."

"Undertake this personally, Matten. I hereby detach you from any other duties. Pass them on to such assistants that you trust. Finding where these people came from, and extending ComStar's dominion over them, is now second only to maintaining our control over the Inner Sphere. All other considerations are tertiary."

"Then with your permission, Primus?"

"Begin now, my friend. And pray to Blake we succeed in this matter. Or in time, we may find ourselves under their dominion."

Matten rose and left the Primus' office, those words echoing unpleasantly in his mind.

~*~

"This is accurate, Major?"

"As accurate as Wolfnet can make it, sir. The EO people aren't trying to hide what happened."

Jaime Wolf frowned. "The two pirate dropships - what the HELL was used on them? I'd swear they were nuclear weapons, but what sort of madmen use nuclear weapons on their own territory?"

Major Tulliver grimaced. "We're not even certain it was nuclear, sir. Several merchants who witnessed the attack noted that repairs to the landing pads had already begun less than thirty minutes after the battle ended, less than an hour after the weapons went off. Repairs being made by unshielded personnel. If those were any sort of nuclear weapon we're familiar with, the people making the repairs would be glowing in the dark from radiation poisoning."

"Just another item for us to chalk up in the 'what the hell is going on here?' column, eh, Major?" Jaime grimaced. "Broker's a friendly man, and he's dealing fairly with Cranston, but whoever or WHAT ever is backing Broker is a hell of a lot more than I thought we'd encounter in the Inner Sphere."

"There is one other option available, sir."

Jaime looked at her, curious. "That being?"

"You still hold his surety, sir. We could just... ask. He said it himself. He may withhold confidential information, but he won't lie, not so long as he's contractually obligated. That seems to be how he views it." She rubbed her thumb against her forefinger, a nervous habit she was trying to break. "It's how we view it, sir. A contract is sacred."

Wolf pulled the heavy gold coin from his pocket and looked at it for a long moment, deep in thought. "If nothing else, it has the virtue of rarely being tried."

"Honesty's like that, sir." The wry expression on the major's face said it all.

Wolf put the coin back in his pocket. "Contact Cranston. Tell him we want to speak with EO again. Offer to pay for the information. That way, we might not get what we want, but what we get will be the truth." The leader of the Dragoons frowned. "I have no idea why, but I'm getting the ugly suspicion that we're looking at the beginnings of something as bad as the Succession Wars. And I've learned to listen to those hunches, Major. Make this happen. Make it happen now. And Major?"

"Yes, sir?"

"I want those briefings on Duke Marik updated. Do the same with the files on Chancellor Liao. I don't like some of the things I'm hearing. Dismissed."

Tulliver saluted, and promptly left the room.

~*~

Broker's staff was waiting for him in the main briefing room at their Porthos headquarters.

"Carter?"

"Infiltration is near complete, sir. We have a dozen Amps inside the Duke's headquarters. And two hundred people on the ground in the surrounding area with full thermoptic camouflage, along with another twenty-four Amps. When we make the drop, nothing inside the city will be working, sir."

"De la Cruiz?"

"The ships are ready, and everyone who is 'mech qualified are ready to make the drop, sir. We've pre-selected the targets for the pulse cannon, and Carter's provided the malware to shut down the recharge station. When we hit the system, there won't be a single hyper-pulse transmitter operational."

"And the pigeons?"

Daniel frowned. "Ready. But I would still like to register my dislike of that option, sir. If we start burning other people's K-F drives simply to interdict a system before openly declaring war..." De la Cruiz shrugged.

"Noted and logged, Danny. We'll withhold them as a final resort weapon. But I'd rather have them and not need them than need them and not have them."

"Understood, sir."

"TransComm is standing by with both HPGs and ships to counter any objections by corporations who object to the financial losses of being caught in the crossfire of an objective raid, sir. They'll receive one month's free HPG service, or three times the value of the cargo interrupted in transit. ComStar will be bleeding money in buckets." Leah Kurtz, the current head of TransComm, grinned fiendishly. ComStar had made several attempts on her people, and she didn't take that lightly.

"Good. Final question. We need their help, and to get them on our side, we'll need him, and the rest of them, alive and well. So, how close do we dare cut this?"

Kurtz and De la Cruiz both looked to Carter, whose normally solemn face now looked like that of a professional funeral attendant.

"Sir, I'd recommend at least three appearances by our distraction. While the Successor States may take issue with our actions, they'll be cautious enough to rattle sabers well before they make any attempt against our forces in the Inner Sphere. There is also the fact that Archon Steiner appears both interested and amused by our presence. It's ComStar that's the true danger at this juncture. They have the ability to pressure otherwise reluctant Successor States into taking action against us. Given what we know about ComStar, the Dragoons, the Clans and their interaction, our distraction should divert ComStar just long enough to present the Inner Sphere with a fait de accompli." Carter paused for a moment. "Of course, if we mung this, we're screwed and it's war between our people and everyone else. A war to the knife that no one involved can win."

That got a round of sour nods from around the table. "And on that cheerful note, let's do this. Three appearances from our little troup of actors, then we launch the attack. So be it. Have everyone in place at least two weeks before the event. And send the go message to our band of merry players. Now. Let's see what ComStar will make of our madness."

"'I am but mad north-north-west: when the wind is southerly / I know a hawk from a handsaw,'" quoted Carter.

"Here's to hoping that ComStar doesn't," noted Kurtz dryly.

~*~

All of Julian's closest advisers had gathered without the need to be summoned. Once they were seated, the Primus waved at the wall-sized screen that dominated the room.

"I have seen this. You have seen this. We will watch this one more time. And then I will want answers."

The last word had come out in a furious hiss that made it clear that if answers weren't forthcoming, advisers would be replaced.

"Three of our HPG stations on the Periphery, serving the Tauran Concordat, have been attacked. While the hyper-pulse generators themselves were left untouched, all other materiel belonging to ComStar was deliberately destroyed. This is the interview with the Adept in charge of the third station."

The Primus touched a button, and the screen brightened. Filling it was the image of a young adept, clearly being interviewed by someone off-screen.

"I-I don't know, sir. The first report was that dropships with what appeared to be SLDF markings were headed for the station. I ordered the standard challenge. There was no reply."

A quiet murmur.

"Yes, sir. Once they had crossed the line, I ordered defensive fire. They evaded, touched down, and repeated their previous demands. When I again stated that we had no prisoners, they attacked."

"And you were defeated."

"Yes, sir. We held out as long as we could, but the pirates appeared to have superior forces. Their 'mechs were in good repair, and all of them bore insignia of a SDLF unit, lightly painted over."

"Were you able to identify the unit?"

"Not personally, sir. I've since been informed by one of my men that it was the insignia used by the Lionhearts, last seen during Kerensky's Exodus."

"What happened then?"

"Once our last position fell, the pirates took the station. They did not damage the hyperpulse generator, nor did they loot any of our personal property. We were shackled, then led before their leader, who identified himself, then repeated his earlier demands."

"What did he look like? Did he have any memorable features?"

"I was unable to tell, sir. He dressed entirely in black. He even wore a black bandana on his head, concealing his face."

"A bandana? That sounds... melodramatic."

"Yes, sir. It covered the entire top half of his head, including his nose."

"And then?"

"Then he ordered us released. We were shackled to a post in the compound, the keys to our cuffs just out of reach. One of my men was drugged and left unchained, with the key to our cuffs tied around his neck. When he awoke, he released us. By then, the pirates had already fled the system."

"Then you made contact with higher command, informing them of this raid."

"Yes, sir."

"You do realize, Adept, that this report makes you look like either a fool or a liar. It's utterly implausible that a well-armed pirate band would attack, defeat and destroy an HPG station merely to demand the return of a hostage - a hostage, I might add, that ComStar does not have."

"Yes, sir. I'm aware of that. I have nothing to say in my defense. Any fault is mine, and my men should not be held accountable."

"You're brave, young man. Foolish, but brave. Now, please repeat, for the record, the pirates' demand."

"The only demand they made, other than our surrender, was that we return Princess Buttercup."

The Primus shut off the screen with an angry gesture. He glared at his advisors.

"Would someone, anyone, care to explain to me why our HPG stations are being attacked by a fictional character?! Why we have lost three stations to a lunatic who thinks he's the Dread Pirate Roberts?!"

There was no reply.

"I thought as much. Matten!"

"Yes, sir."

"Have one of your assistants take charge of this. I want at least one extra combat unit detailed to each HPG station in that general area. And set up one heavy reaction force, with the jumpships required, within two jumps of the area. Comb the area. FIND these fools. If ComGuard units are insufficient to the task, you may draw upon the ... special ... units. If so, do it with discretion. But have it done, and done immediately. I will NOT abide this mockery." Tiepolo's angry glare swept the room. "And should this... embarrassment become public, I may find myself in need of new advisors. Is that understood, gentlemen?"

~*~

"They fell for it, sir."

Broker smiled. "And you knew they would, eh, Ed?"

"The current Primus is a intellectually proud man, sir. If there is anything that can inspire such a person to rash, ill-conceived action, it's being mocked for a fool. And being successfully mocked for a fool is far worse."

"He'll come to his senses eventually."

"Yes, sir. But by then, we'll have what we want, and there will be little he can do about it. Long Knife is ready."

"Then let's plant it in the middle of ComStar's back."

~*~

New Delos system, Oort space, Coreward, aboard the EO jumpship, Ayn Rand .

July, 3014 CE.

"Kristofur's in place, and whispering his poison in Duke Anton's ear. Just as we were informed."

Rick Sharf, the local head of TacStrike, nodded at the report. "Infiltration?"

"Total. And we have a bonus." His assistant smiled. "Apparently Vesar's using one of the Duke's gunsmiths for regular maintenance. Seems that while the dandy doesn't mind getting blood on his hands, he's horrified at the thought of grease and gun oil ruining his manicure."

Sharf laughed. "That's rich. We did take advantage of that, didn't we?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. The boss would have us by our contracts if we failed use a gift like that - and he'd be right to do so." Rick scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Is there any other way we can manipulate the situation to our benefit?"

"No sir. Now it's just waiting."

"Then get everyone training while we count the days and assemble the fleet."

~*~

March 6, 3015 CE.

"Duke Anton's taken action, sir. Major Wolf, his staff, and their dependants have been taken hostage by the Duke's forces."

"Has the idiot sent a message yet?"

"Yes, sir. I quote - TO: Colonel Jaime Wolf, Commander, Wolf’s Dragoons. FROM: Duke Anton Marik, Captain-General of the Free Worlds League. This is to inform you that Major Joshua Wolf and 27 members of your household staff have been arrested. They will be held until such time as you comply with my orders and place your units at the disposal of my line officers. Failure to obey these orders will result in the execution of all prisoners within 14 standard days of this transmission."

"Arrogant little would-be ruler of the galaxy, isn't he?"

"With respect, sir, IntelSec's people believe about ninety percent of that is Vesar talking through him. ComStar wants to know where the Dragoons have come from almost as desperately as they want to know where we hail from."

"Point." Sharf grimaced. "The message has gone out. Turn around time for the Dragoons will be about fifteen days." He rose from behind his desk. "The codeword is Long Knife, Biggles, and that word is given."

"Yes, SIR!" The XO left the office with a wide smile on his face. He and almost all of the EO forces had been looking forward to this with a passion. ComStar would learn to deeply regret that they'd ever annoyed Executive Outcomes.

~*~

New Delos Zenith Jump Point,

Recharge Station Ariel

March 8, 3015 CE.

"Jump signatures, jump signatures everywhere!"

The commander of the recharge station frowned. "Calm down and be specific, man! Where is 'everywhere'?"

"EVERYWHERE, sir! Every pirate point in the system is showing activity! Dozens of ships! An entire fleet! It's impossible!"

Commander Frederick Burns swallowed hard as he looked at the display board. If it wasn't lying, then this was a full out attempt to take the system unlike any seen since the end of the last Succession War.

His career was doomed.

"Get word to New Delos, man! Do it—"

With a flick of color, a bank of telltales went from green to red, signifying the loss of communication external to the station.

"What just happened?"

The command crew worked desperately. Finally, one looked up at him. "Sir, we've been hit by a virus. We have short-range omni-directional radio communication, but all the long-range directional antennas are malfunctioning and refusing to respond to commands."

"What about the hyperpulse generator?"

"The ComStar personnel report that the HPG system has locked them out and is rejecting all their passwords."

"What?!"

The crew member tried to keep from flinching. "Yes, sir. The HPG appears fully functional, but all the codes appear to have been changed. It looks like another virus, sir."

"Then detach a drop ship and hand carry a message to the Duke, you fool!"

The unfortunate crew member delivered the next piece of bad news. "Sir, the docking clamps across the station have been over-ridden. No ship can leave unless we use cutting torches to get them loose."

Commander Burns sank into his seat, horrified. "My career's ruined. Ruined. When the Duke hears of this, he'll have my head."

~*~

Vesar Kristofur slapped at the connection in a fit of fury, cutting off the Adept in charge of the ComStar ground station on New Delos. The man had babbled at him in a panic, trying to escape blame for the fact that the HPG was rejecting all attempts to send a message. Kristofur didn't want to hear that. He'd wagered everything on this attempt to simultaneously send the Free Worlds League into bloody civil war and break the Wolf's Dragoons. If this failed, Tiepolo would send him into exile for the rest of his life. And that was if he was fortunate. Should Julian discover that the entire scheme was merely a stepping stone on his path to the throne of ComStar, Vesar's life span would last only until the Primus decided it was no longer amusing to listen to his screams.

He moved through the corridors of the ducal palace as swiftly as he could without looking anxious. He had to reach Anton's office, and Anton, immediately. News of the incoming dropships had spread quickly. It was clear to Kristofur that it had to be Colonel Wolf - though how he'd managed to trick everyone into thinking that the Wolves had left the system was unknown. It didn't seem possible. But who else could it be? They had to get Joshua Wolf and the other hostages on screen, with guns to the backs of their heads, or the Dragoons would level New Delos. Not that Vesar gave a damn about New Delos, but he happened to be ON it at the moment.

Still...

He fingered the code key in his pocket. There was a small, one man shuttle craft of the sort usually owned by wealthy fools who fancied themselves pilots, hidden well out of the way of any possible fighting. If it all went wrong, he could be off-planet in mere hours, awaiting pickup by a ComStar Bugeye spy ship. As Precentor ROM, he had the authority to command that. Vesar was well aware of the ancient Chinese proverb about a wise man being prepared to abandon all his luggage at least three times in one's life. It would take him years to rebuild his power base. But with patience, all things were possible. And he could afford to be patient. He had the time. Eventually, with patience enough, he could rule the Inner Sphere.

Among many other things.

~*~

(- Looks like things are playing out according to our sources. All dropships to assigned stations. Let's do this with a minimum of collateral damage, people.)

(- Maybe more than you think, C3. Look at channel 2.)

(- What are we— oh. *snort* Either Kristofur or Anton are idiots. Or both. They're following the book to the letter. They've napalmed the forest behind and to both sides of the ducal estate. All scans say he's concentrating his firepower in front. And you know what they say about the easy way in.)

(- Rule 5!)

(- Yep.)

(- Murphy was an optimist.)

(- It's a nice fire, in a pyromaniacal fashion, but it is in our way.)

(- Right, then. Candles were made to be blown out. Warning to all ground units, Candle In The Wind. I repeat, Candle In The Wind. Incoming thermobarics. Remember, if you're close enough to feel the heat, you're probably too close.)

(- Thank you for that helpful info, Captain Exposition.)

(- No problem.)

~*~

Duke Anton Marik, soi disant Captain-General of the Free Worlds League was beginning to feel the first gnawings of panic in his gut. His command post had lost communications with the rest of New Delos, but long before that, reports of extensive sabotage covering nearly every sector of the planet had overwhelmed his people. The power grid was down across most of the cities, and the capital was totally dark. A tramp dropship had managed to relay a distress call from the nadir jump point, a panicked report that they had lost control of almost everything on the recharge station short of life support.

All of his aerospace assets were gone. Whatever the hell the Dragoons were using, it had blown his fighters from the sky with an almost contemptuous ease. The following dropships had landed almost totally unopposed. His 'mech units were still mostly intact, but that was less planning and more random fortune. Anton had withdrawn all but a few units to his estate in anticipation of forcing a confrontation with the Dragoons on his own estate, a battlefield of his own choosing. But the Dragoons weren't behaving in a rational manner! Why had they landed so far off target, when the hostages were here?

"Get Vesar in here now!" he shouted at his personal guards. "I want him in my office. And drag that bastard Wolf in here too - in chains!"

~*~

(- Now?)

(- No. Only if/when it looks like they're going to kill the hostages. We don't want knowledge of how deeply we've penetrated their defenses to be commonly known if we can possibly avoid it. That would be handing ComStar a free pass. That having been said, if even one of the guards looks at the hostages cross-eyed, screw the plan, and detonate ALL units. We'll worry about erasing the evidence after we get Major Wolf and his people to safety.)

(- Good to go. All units have received activation code and have responded affirmative. No defectives. Looks like we'll get everyone but the Duke and the ComStar ghoti.)

(- Excellent. Those two we want alive.)

(- Do they have to be in one piece?)

(- Not if we retrieve Joshua and the others intact and uninjured. If we don't need the vat for the hostages, we can use it for the vermin. Think of it as... motivation, people.)

(- Ahhh... gotcha, boss. You heard the man, people. If it's military and it fights back, flatten it. Otherwise, leave the civvies alone. Main target is to flatten the Duke's palace.)

(- The Duke will die before these eyes and he'll know, he'll know, that it is I, Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, who encompasses his doom!)

(- Damnit, Barbara! One more Dune quote, and I'm sending you home for the rest of the war! There's a time and a place for gloating over your enemy. And that's after you've kicked his ass and he's in shock-restraints, confined in a holding cell surrounded by your forces, with all of his militaries cowering in defeat.)

(- Sorry, sorry, boss. Uh, may I just say that was a rather poetic turn of phrase?)

(- *sigh* Just... go kill a few tanks or something.)

(- Right.)

~*~

Paul Cranston was one large mass of bruises. One eye was swollen shut, his left ankle was unusable, and his ribs felt like a large and ugly professional wrestler had hugged him until they'd cracked. And yet he considered himself one of the fortunate few.

Whoever it was attacking the New Delos spaceport had hit it hard. He'd just taken a short break to get his crew some take-out food. Deliveries weren't allowed any more, the Duke had banned them to all on duty essential personnel, some nonsense about security. So that meant either eating that cafeteria crap, or having someone volunteer to take a quick "smoke break" and pick up a called-in order at the gate. (The gate guards having been appropriately bribed with snackage of their own.)

This meant that he hadn't been in the radome doing the maintenance he should have been doing when it was hit by a terrifyingly large number of missiles. The control center was intact - more or less - but the dome and the array underneath it were rubble. As were the secondary array and all the commo antenna. The port was going to be blind, deaf and dumb until the military could supply temporary mobile replacements. And given what he'd just seen marching past him, the odds of that happening any time soon were slim to none.

Paul wasn't a 'mechboy wannabe, but he tried to keep as informed of the galaxy around him as a concerned citizen should, and he recognized the 'mechs that had strode past him as Thunderbolts. But Thunderbolts didn't have jump jets, did they? And what were those... things ... by their sides? They looked like steel coffins built for short fat people, sitting atop stumpy mechanical legs. Yet, despite their awkward appearance, they were moving quickly, as fast, if not not faster, than a man could run. And whatever that thing was on the end of their left arms, it had the look of a weapon.

Paul's mother hadn't raised a stupid boy. He couldn't run, he couldn't walk, he could barely breath. So he went for option four. No one wastes a bullet on a corpse. Maybe leaving his tongue hanging out of the corner of his mouth was a bit much, but hey, no one was shooting at him.

If it's stupid, but it works, it isn't stupid.

He'd have killed for a drink of water, though.

He didn't dare move anything but his eyes. Those got a workout, however. He knew for a fact that if Duke Anton's forces survived this battle, they'd want to know anything and everything about the people who'd hit New Delos, and they'd pay handsomely for the information. Everything he saw would be worth money, and damn it, his health insurance had a "no coverage for acts of war" clause, the cheap bastards! He'd need that cash.

~*~

(- We have what looks like a training battalion out here - guess they had really bad timing, holding an exercise right when we attacked.)

(- How do you know it's a training battalion?)

(- Check the compressed feed. *0101101....*)

(- Okay, I have to admit that taking the time to dismount from your vehicle and strip what's obviously MILES gear from it before you start to shoot back at the people attacking you is a rather obvious clue. Nice of them to tag themselves with MILES gear, though. We'll have to remember to tell them "thank you" after the battle's over. You're the senior on-site. How do you want to handle this?)

(- We've got them lit up with TAG. And I feel like some tea.)

(- *groan* Oh, Wilson. Not that old line again. Okay, I'll play straight man, smart-ass. "How many lumps do you want?")

(- "Oh, a whole lotta lumps...")

(- All right. A whole lotta lumps are on the way, Pete Puma. And you're gonna pay for that groaner.)

(- As the duck said to the pharmacist, put it on my bill. *grin*)

~*~

Paul didn't move, but when he heard the familiar sound of a dropship ramp hitting the ground, he did his best to try and look in that direction. He couldn't quite make out the dropship from his position, but the thundering sound of 'mech feet hitting a metal ramp was unmistakable. Then the 'mechs did him the kindness of actually marching into his field of view. They weren't Thunderbolts, they weren't any other familiar design, and he searched his memory for anything that resembled them.

It wasn't like he had anything else to do.

But when their name came to him, it wasn't from newsvids, or even recent history. It was from a historical romantic drama set during the founding of the Star League. He wasn't sure, but those 'mechs looked like the CGI images of the old HEP-2H Heliopolis artillery 'mech from the set of "In the Forges of War."

(Paul didn't watch it, not to hear him tell it. He just happened to over-hear the occasional episode now and then when his girlfriend was watching them. Honest.)

There were at least six of them, and he saw them all turning in the same direction. They extended the Sniper-class artillery piece that formed their entire right arm and much of the right torso, and before he could react, they began to fire.

As close as he was, the blast pressure was deafening and painful. It was all he could do to refrain from trying to crawl away. As it was, a few (hopefully unheard) moans of agony escaped his lips.

He did retain the presense of mind to count, though. Six mechs - that he could see from his position, that is. Five shots fired by each mech, going by the muzzle flashes. That was thirty rounds, presumably all headed for the same target. Paul had no idea what that target was, but he felt a deep and sudden sympathy for the unfortunate sods on the other end of that trajectory.

Steel rain was headed their way - with a 100% chance of pain.

~*~

Thirty laser-guided Copperhead rounds arced over the city of New Delos, searching for the speckled reflection of a beam from a laser target designator. The original 155mm Copperhead round from the 20th century was considered smart. These rounds were brilliant. While not a true sentience, they weren't far from it. Networked, the rounds shared information with each other, increasing their lethality and accuracy. It didn't take them long to find the reflections they sought, and they plunged towards their targets at trans-sonic speeds, readying the self-forging warheads they contained.

The volunteer reserve mechanized battalion they were targeting didn't even have the time to blink.

~*~

(- Scratch that unit. I pity them. They didn't even know what they were getting into.)

(- If you feel sorry for them, then hold ComStar accountable. They're the ones who spoon-fed these people the lies they're following. Are you clear now?)

(- Roger that. All units are clear, there's nothing on sensors between us and Duke Anton's front door but the mines.)

(- FASCAM's going to take care of that for you while the Duke is distracted with the FAE's going off behind him. Remember, hostages first. THEN the idiot and his puppetmaster.)

~*~

Although Paul couldn't see it, others could.

Several short and rather unimpressive tracked vehicles rolled out of the invading dropships. They oriented themselves, and a box-like structure on their backs rose upwards, tilting to a 45 degree angle. Blast vents slammed shut over all the exposed ports. All of the survivors realized these were rocket launchers. A very few even recognized the type. Or at least what they thought were the type. Arrow IV missile launchers.

They weren't actually Arrow IV's. Though Arrow IV's figured prominently in their ancestry, they were to Arrow IV's as modern man was to Homo habilis.

They burst open as they soared over the prominent forward approach to Duke Anton's family estate, scattering hundreds of small objects in a broad swath.

Like the missiles that had carried them, these mines bore a distant family resemblance to the Field Scatterable Mines that the Inner Sphere was familiar with, but comparing the two would be like comparing a man to a chimp.

Each small mine stretched forth with sensors, linking with its brothers into a large networked 'mind' that actively sought out their cousins buried beneath the earth by Marik's troops. Tiny guidance vanes altered trajectories to incercepting courses. Then they all detonated.

In a single moment of fire, a two hundred meter wide swath was cut through the mindfield that Anton Marik thought would protect him until he could force the Dragoons to obey him, a two hundred meter pathway that lead straight to his front gates.

~*~

Several kilometers behind the Marik estate, two dozen missiles approached the burning forests that cut off the other three approaches to the ducal palace. Each missile carried a very large warhead, composed mostly of flammable liquid, with a few enhancements.

At a pre-programmed height, that liquid was vaporized and widely dispersed over the forest, then ignited.

The results were, to say the least, rather loud.

~*~

Impossibly loud thunder filled Duke Anton's office, while the floor shook and objects fell from shelves. The walls themselves vibrated like the head of a drum

"What the hell was that?" Marik spun on one heel, shouting on Vesar. "You said they wouldn't retaliate! You said they couldn't retaliate! What the hell are they using, nukes?!" He frantically stabbed at his communications panel. "Someone report! What the hell just happened?"

A voice full of pain answered. "Captain Johnson, at the perimeter, sir. There's several small mushroom clouds behind the estate. No radiation readings. I think we've been hit by vacuum bombs. The forest fires behind HQ are out. Blown out like candles, sir. The forward approach has also been hit. FASCAMS, I think. They've blown a hole in our minefield too big to cover, sir."

"Then find another way to stop them, Captain, or I'll have your head!"

Kristofur was beginning to wonder if this even was the Dragoons. It didn't feel right. It didn't feel like them. But that didn't matter. They had Joshua. He'd be in this very room in mere moments. And if the attackers didn't surrender, Vesar would spread Wolf's brains across the wall of Anton's office, broadcasting it live. That would stop them. That had to stop them. But if it didn't - well, there was always the shuttle. Anton always had been disposible, and with the deaths of Major Wolf and the other hostages, Colonel Wolf would have to return to whatever world or worlds he was obtaining his supplies from. And ComStar would have him.

"Johnson. JOHNSON! Report, damn you!"

The officer's voice had gained somewhat in strength. "They're throwing 'mechs at us. The warbooks are reporting them as Thunderbolts, but we've seen them use jumpjets. How the hell can they move so fast and still be so heavily armed? They're shrugging off our fire like it's nothing more than spitballs! I've never seen anything like it. We can't even hit their scout 'mechs. I just saw a Stinger sprinting at 130 kph!"

Marik turned to scream at one of his bodyguards. "I want Wolf here NOW! See what's keeping those fools!"

At that moment, the door to his office was opened by an vaguely familiar face. "Sir! Corporal Rolfson reporting with prisoner!"

"Well, bring him in, you fool!"

"Sir, yes sir!"

Two burly guardsmen from Anton's personal company of "problem solvers" dragged Major Wolf into the room. The Dragoons officer was shackled hand and foot, with a hobble-chain between his ankles, and a drop-chain holding his arms down to his waist and behind his back, ensuring he couldn't possibly fight back.

Kristofur stepped forward, a smug expression on his face. "Behold the end of your problems, my Duke." He seized Joshua by the hair, yanking the man's head up to face the already positioned camera. "An ear, perhaps, or an eye? That should catch Colonel Wolf's attention, my lord."

"And if that fails?" fumed the furious nobleman.

"Why, then it's simple... we kill his brother."

"That's right, Duke... Kill me... then kill the others. Jaime will burn this planet to a cinder." Joshua spat blood from his battered lips. "We were expendable from the first minute he lifted those dropships. He knew something like this would happen. I was left behind to find out where your loyalties lie." The bruised and bloody Dragoon grinned savagely. "Now he knows... everything! Now!"

With that, Joshua surged to his feet, trying to shake off the two guards holding him down.

"Get down, milord!" Vesar drew his pulse laser and fired at Wolf, only to see one of the guards throw himself in front of the Dragoon, intercepting the beam. Not that Kristofur cared about that, he was too busy screaming in pain as his pistol was now a searing mass of white-hot metal and molten plastic.

The first guard threw himself over Wolf as a human shield while the second proceeded to break the neck of the third guard with an ease that was frightening before he blurred for a fraction of a second, reappearing over Kristofur and stomping on the man's other hand while leveling his own pistol at the Duke.

"That, milord, was a serious error in judgement on your part."

~*~

"...object headed west on 104th Street. Is believed to be either an armored trooper or a light mobile armored combat machine. All police units in the vicinity respond immediately!"

Are they f*cking insane? thought officer Kurt Weber. We're being raided, there's battlemechs - or something - everywhere on the streets and they want us to 'respond'? What the hell do they think we are, supermen?

"...request full assistance..."

"...massive explosion in district fourteen, police pursuit vehicles believed to be involved..."

Well, DUH! The womanizing officer did his best to ignore the incoming transmissions and become one with the sidewalk beneath him.

"...target located, district thirty-four. Engage..."

"... choppers and trackers in pursuit..."

"...got it...."

Weber could hear a heavy stomping sound close by. He had been ... err.. patrolling, yes, patrolling, some of the corners where the local ladies of negotiable virtue were wont to loiter over on 103rd Street when the dropships had begun to fall from the sky. That was apparently too damn close to 104th - whatever the hell it was the other New Delos PD officers had spotted was coming his way, damn it. And then he saw it.

It wasn't a battlemech, or anything else he was familiar with. It was far too small, less than four meters tall. It was squat, pentagonal, and looked implacable. Then it turned in his direction.

Ohghodohghodohghodohghod....

"Y'know, that looks pretty uncomfortable, lying on the concrete like that with your tac-radio stabbing you in the gut. If you don't happen to feel any sudden urges to be heroic, you're welcome to just get up and take cover. We don't shoot normally shoot at people who aren't actively shooting at us, you know."

Bwah? goggled Kurt.

The voice sounded tinny and slightly flat, the side effect of any military-issue speaker system, but not really hostile. The stubby metallic thing - which vaguely resembled the results of an industrial exoskeleton having had intimate relations with an air-droppable light tank by way of a steel coffin - waved a clawed mechanical arm at him.

"Hey, you want to just lay there and get stepped on, we got no problem with that. But I'd really recommend getting under some cover, neighbor. Ain't exactly safe out here in the open."

"I— you don't want to shoot me?"

A metallic (and somehow tired-sounding) sigh answered him. "Didn't I just say that, neighbor? Now go on, git!"

Weber scrambled to his feet and ran for the nearest subway exit. The subways had been designed from the very start as emergency air-raid shelters, and most of the quicker-reacting civilians had already gathered there. He sprinted towards the stairs, expecting a round through the back at any second.

As he belly-flopped down the stairs, he caught sight of the thing from the corner of his eye, already turning away. And as welcoming hands from the subway tunnels helped him back to his feet, he heard the fading words...

"And that's supposed to be a 'police officer'? What a maroon..."

~*~

"When you wake up from a nightmare,

And it's worse when you're awake..."

-- Warren Zevon, "Real or Not".

"That, milord, was a serious error in judgement on your part."

Anton Marik thought of himself as a brave man. He'd been planning his rebellion for some fourteen years now, under the very nose of his elder brother. He was courageous. He was dauntless. He knew no fear.

He'd just wet himself.

What he'd thought had been one of his hand-picked hatchet men had killed all but one of the other guards, then somehow managed to cross the room faster than the eye could follow, to break the wrist of his loyal Kristofur. Then he watched, horrified, as the man's face appeared to melt, the flesh retreating down towards his neck like milk draining down the side of a drinking glass, gathering in a collar-like bulge just above his shoulders. This revealed a second face behind the first, one that Anton had never seen before.

"What— What in God's name ARE you?!"

There was an agonized groan from the floor. "I'd— ow, dammit, that hurts. I'd like to know that as well. What the f*ck are you, and why did you just save me?"

The second guard rolled to his feet, a now silvery body-stocking glowing with faint heat showing through the laser-charred remnants of his Marik household uniform. "We're insurance adjusters, Major Wolf."

Both Anton and Joshua looked at the speaker as if he'd gone mad. Joshua was the first to reply.

"Insurance adjusters?"

The first guard chuckled. "Someone took out a BIG policy on your life, Major, and given the size of the claim, we decided that it's cheaper to rescue you than it is to pay up."

Joshua blinked in disbelief, then hissed in pain. Even blinking hurt. "That sounds so stupid, it's probably true. Okay, funny man, who bought the policy?"

"Your good friend with the plastic knife in his hat."

"I—" Wolf's mouth snapped shut. He felt like an Atlas had just sat on him, and he had bruises on top of his bruises, not to mention several bones that were cracked, if not outright broken, but operational security had been drummed into him since before he could walk, let alone read. No names, not when names could be used against you. These were Broker's people? What the hell was happening here?

At that moment, Anton chose to try and make a break for the door, taking a deep breath to scream for his guards just as soon as he hit the hallway.

"Stop him!' snapped Joshua.

"No need - there's company in the hallway already."

Sure enough, a third man, wearing a skin-tight suit identical to the first two, walked into the room dragging an almost catatonic Anton Marik with him. By the throat.

"Do we really have to take this one back with us?" he asked the other two men.

"Afraid so," said the first disgustedly.

"I - ow. Damn it, if this is a rescue, are my people safe? Talk to me!"

"Right! Yes, Major, all your people are safe. No one was seriously injured. We have two units making pickup on them right this moment."

"No casualties? How the hell did you manage that? They had nearly one hundred and twenty guards just around us, with a second company in the main compound. And can I get some names? I can't just snarl 'Hey, you' all the time," Joshua grunted.

The first grinned. "Jack Moore, at your service. The goof with the square jaw is Mike Morrison, and the tall drink of water who was just bitching about the former Duke is Norm Walker. We'll be your rescue team for the evening. Tips are always welcome. Now let's get you and the guy with the bladder control problem out of here and back to a nice safe dropship, eh?"

"Sounds good to me," Wolf muttered. He winced as he nodded in Marik's direction. "But won't his thugs have something to say about that?"

"Doubtful," replied Moore. "They seem to have all come down with a sudden and severe case of dead, just like the ones guarding your people."

"How did you—" Wolf's eyes widened slightly as Moore leaned over and snapped the case-hardened chains of his shackles with his bare hands. Chains that would have likely held an angry Elemental. "Oooo-kay. Let's hold that thought, and concentrate on getting the hell out of here."

Jack nodded. "Think you can manage a fireman's carry, Major?"

"I think I can flap my arms and FLY if it'll get me the hell out of here, Jack!"

"Now that's the spirit!" Moore dropped to one knee, and assisted Joshua in getting a grip, then stood. "Mike? You take the ComStar ghoti. Norm, you okay with the posterboy for inbred nobility?"

The two meter tall man nodded silently, twisting Marik's arm in a painful fashion to emphasize his certainty. Mike simply threw Kristofur over his shoulder like a particularly lumpy sack of grain, paying no attention to the injuries Vesar had sustained. "Time t' git the hell outta Dodge, pilgrim."

~*~

Wolf's eyes narrowed as he was carried through the hallways of the Ducal palace. As a mercenary, he didn't like the unknown - what a mercenary didn't know tended to get a mercenary killed. Just because he'd been beaten within an inch of his life by Anton's thugs didn't mean that he'd stop observing the situation like a good scout.

And what he was seeing now didn't jibe with the 'facts' as he knew them.

First was what he was seeing in these hallways. Moore hadn't lied. The hallway floor was slick with puddles of blood. There were bodies lying everywhere, all of them clad either in the uniform of the Free Worlds League, or in the rather comic-opera getup that Anton had insisted on for his personal guard.

Every single one of them were missing their feet.

Joshua had once seen a man who'd stepped on a toe-popper mine, a small weapon designed to maim a soldier instead of killing him outright. It had, as the name implied, torn off his toes and the forward portion of his foot, leaving just a stump immediately below the ankle. If his buddies hadn't acted promptly, the man would have bleed to death long before the Dragoons could have captured him.

These injuries were much the same. He couldn't see them all, but all those he could see appeared to have lost their feet from just above the ankle to some explosion, then died of either shock or blood loss.

Okay, he could understand that. But how the hell did people inside a highly defended complex all step on mines?

And it had been explosives. There were small craters - two of them per person - in the floor marking the spots where they presumably had been standing when they died. The hallways looked like a scene from a badly made blood-and-gore shoot-em-up videogame.

"What the hell happened here?" he hissed from over Moore's shoulder.

"Running now, explaining later," Moore replied. "Have to get you and the other hostages to a dropship."

"I'll hold - OOF! - you to that." Okay, next anomaly. There had been - past tense - a fairly solid door in their way. The tallest of his rescuers had simply rammed it with one shoulder, tearing it off its hinges as if it were nothing more than styrofoam. While still draging Anton behind him in a punishing, arm-twisting grip. An Elemental could have pulled that off. But the only Elementals in the Inner Sphere were with the Dragoons. That needed an explanation, if Broker's people would give one. He'd ask politely. It didn't pay to be short-tempered with the people who were risking their lives to save yours. And speaking of asking politely...

Personal note, thought Joshua absently. When we do get to their dropship, ask nicely for the opportunity to introduce Anton and Vesar to a whole new world of pain. Offer large cash incentives, and request audience participation, if possible.

One more door, and sunlight hit Joshua in the face like a fist. It was an open air atrium - or what was left of one. The far wall was now rubble, with a trio of Thunderbolts standing in the gap that they'd presumably made, one watching the skies, the second scanning the ground, and the third now tracking them. A loudhailer addressed them like the voice of the Almighty.

"DROPSHIP IS FIVE MINUTES OUT, JACK. WE'VE ALREADY MADE PICKUP ON THE OTHER HOSTAGES. HOW'RE YOURS?"

"Five by five, Buck. Are we having fun yet?"

"MAYBE A LITTLE MORE FUN THAN WE ORIGINALLY PLANNED ON, BUT NOTHING WE CAN'T HANDLE."

"Good. Sooner we lift off, the better." He tilted his head towards Joshua. "I hear he's got family coming, and they're probably a little pissed. I want to get back to the black before any unfortunately mistakes are made."

(- Damage at the moment, Buck?)

(- The other Amps are having a ball. Marik defenses were a joke. I don't think there's an intact electrical transformer in the entire city, our hardware virii have turned the local network into a password-free joke, and if they have any military hardware left that's heavier than a pickup truck with a light machinegun, we can't find it. *chuckle* It's going to take years to put this system back in working order. Whoever inherits this Duchy is going to be cursing Anton's name for the rest of their lives.)

(- I think they're doing that already. I bet we can cheer up Janos, though. He's going to like our gift. What's the butcher's bill?)

(- We haven't lost anyone yet. A few of our 'mechs took minor hits, a lot of gear is going to need repairs, and one scout lost a hand actuator.)

(- How'd that happen? *raised eyebrow*)

(- Golden BB. Someone got lucky with a PGM and hit the wrist joint. Go figure.)

(- And the other side?)

(- Duke Moron lost his lifeguards and his household units, no survivors. Units in the city and elsewhere, the estimate is 20% casualties. Fortunately for all of us, they're used to 'we lost, we surrender.' It could have been a bloodbath if they'd gotten stubborn about it.)

(- Central update: C3 to all hands. Prepare for pullback. Message from Sharf follows: "I don't care HOW much fun you think you're having, people, pull back and head for the dropships or forfit all bonuses. And yes, that means YOU, Norville. We are NOT here to play 'blow up the Federalists'. So move it.")

(- Aww...)

Ignoring the rest of the banter, Moore pulled back to the material world and carefully eased Major Wolf to the ground. "Think you can stand?"

Wolf nodded, his face tense. "I won't give the bastards the satisfaction. I'll board your dropship on my own two feet even if it kills me."

Jack chuckled. "Good for you, Major, and I hope it won't. Your brother would get pretty pissed with us, and that's if he got here first. Captain Kerensky wouldn't leave anything behind but a grease spot. You got yourself a wild one there, Major. She looks like she could take you two falls out of three even on the best day of your life."

Joshua nodded, then swore as the action sent a stabbing pain through his neck. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

"Lucky man."

A scream of displaced air split the sky overhead. "That would be our ride, then?"

Jack appeared to look at something only he could see. "And she's right on time. Shall we?"

"Let's."

Twenty minutes later, Joshua Wolf was watching blue sky fade to black, and smiling so hard his face hurt.

~*~