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The Lords of Ruin -- Battletech/Killzone

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Just a heads up that the next update is on its way, but that it's only 50% done at 5k words. Obviously I'll be editing things down before i post, but it may be another week before it's done.
 
prometheus110 said:
Within minutes of their arrival, the Clanner dragon in Arc-Royal was left broken and slain and the Federated Suns had become the heroes of the hour. For the first time in their lives, Republic troops on the planet and aboard the countless crippled and wrecked vessels found within themselves gratitude for the Federated Suns; the Commodore's decision to immediately begin Search and Rescue operations only further endearing him to them.
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I think this could be useful if we want to normalize relations with the Federated Suns since they did save numerous ORDI lives, and we currently have a common enemy. After all the Clan invasion was enough in canon to get the Draconis Combine and Federated Suns to work together and those two states have a far nastier history between each other then Helghan and the Federated Suns.
 
sciencefiction said:
I think this could be useful if we want to normalize relations with the Federated Suns since they did save numerous ORDI lives, and we currently have a common enemy. After all the Clan invasion was enough in canon to get the Draconis Combine and Federated Suns to work together and those two states have a far nastier history between each other then Helghan and the Federated Suns.
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The question is if certain elements in Suns want that peace/normalization. After all we gave the Feds potentially their worst defeat ever (and if it isn't the worst it's definitely in the top 3). That's a embarrassment that many wouldn't want to let go continuing to demand war with ORDI or the outback states (which may become ORDI members in the future) to reclaim lost glory and territory. And with the Combine being drastically weakened at the end of the Invasion ORDI stands as the only true threat against them.
 
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Davion will act within the constraints of realpolitik and the interests of the Federated Suns, right now his primary concern is with the reactionaries trying to gather influence and form a power bloc, either to subvert his own rule or to drive the realm's politics. He does not seem to be a specific proponent of revanchism but he absolutely would attack us if an opportunity presented itself in order to steal the narrative.

If we want to avoid a war with the Suns, I would say publicly acquiring a force multiplier like the BPLs and re-opening an embassy for a semblance of a move toward normalization would be the best bet. This would be about as close to MAD as the Inner Sphere is used to, with both sides aware that neither will walk away from a fight in earnest unscathed and that recovery could be just as bad as the one from the 1st and 2nd Succession Wars, or worse since Helm is scattered all around the Inner Sphere, meaning everyone could be trapped in constant cycles of building up infrastructure, trying to digest their neighbors, and then exploding into civil conflict like the Outback War as they prove unable to manage that much territory, with rivals coming in to take advantage of the chaos.

But with the prospect of any naval conflict proving uncertain and leaving his worlds exposed, he would be incentivized to play things more conservatively. Remember, Morgan is no Hanse Davion. Even if they try to pull something with the Lyran Commonwealth, he can be outmaneuvered.

Edit: Keep in mind, that I'm in favor of round two. The Suns should not be able to threaten us again. And spreading leftism should basically be an ongoing goal of the Republic in perpetuity.
 
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Crake said:
Edit: Keep in mind, that I'm in favor of round two. The Suns should not be able to threaten us again. And spreading leftism should basically be an ongoing goal of the Republic in perpetuity.
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If we want to keep spreading leftism I recommend we should start doing some actions in the FWL. They are the most likely to be influenced to become a ally trough diplomacy alone and with them being a "democracy" their already more aligned with our views so further influencing them to become a true democracy trough more peaceful reforms would be ideal and likely possible. It would deprive the Feds of a potential ally so if round 2 does commence we won't have any funny surprises.
 
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A Peace Written In Blood
  • Threadmarks
    • Magistracy Armed Forces Bunker
    Unknown Location, Salonika, Canopus
    1 April 3051

    The elevator doors slid open with a sigh to reveal a hallway of bare grey ferrocrete, the polished steel reflecting a warped image of Ambassador Kastor back to himself for just a moment before they vanished into the walls. Ignoring the burst of irritation at the sight of himself dressed in little more than a collared shirt and khaki pants—his tie forgotten somewhere during the VTOL ride to wherever they were—the Helghan ambassador kept his face still as he eyed his Canopian guide, the dark-haired woman smoothing her ebon and emerald service jacket before retrieving an ID card from her breast pocket.

    "How long do I have to wait until I discover why I skipped the spring festival?" He risked carefully, his tone light despite his mood. "I imagine Dame Salazar was quite put out."

    "This way," the petite woman said without looking back, her curt words echoing in the leaden air as she stepped into the hallway.

    Glancing at the obsidian dot in the corner of the elevator cabin, an anonymous watcher doubtlessly staring back, Kastor sucked his teeth before following her, the clack-clack-clack of his footsteps a hypnotic metronome. Keeping his stride equal to his escort's and staring straight ahead, it didn't escape his notice that yet more cameras dotted the walls of the underground passageway—one black lens after another staring back at him from the corner of his eye—nor did the steady hiss of the ventilation system fail to reach his ears.

    A veteran in the service, he could recognize where he was as easily as he could argue theory against a communist. More so, in fact.

    What the hell do they want me in a bunker for? He thought as they turned a corner.

    An instant later, he banished the thought from his mind as he spied the two guards lurking before another door, the humanoid figures looming like knights of old in their matte black power armour with entirely too-modern assault weapons held at the ready. Wordlessly, his guide raised her ID card to one of the pair, the insect-headed figure taking it in hand and staring in silence as their suit undoubtedly poked and prodded the slim rectangle.

    After what felt like an age, the guard finally nodded, a genderless voice with a rough and electric burr issuing from the helmet. "Cleared for entry."

    Swivelling its head towards him, Kastor's spying his own tired eyes in its array of lenses, the guard appraised him before clearing their throat.

    "Please take care to stay close to Ensign Suero, Ambassador Orlock," the guard said evenly. "This facility is considered Priority One, and unescorted visitors will be detained with prejudice."

    Flashing the pair a million-watt smile—the one that had won him a place on Canopus—the Helghan Ambassador nodded agreeably.

    "No fear. I've been where you are," Kastor replied as his mind raced. "I don't plan to make your lives any harder than I already have."

    Priority One. Not the top of the food chain, but close enough that Gemini would be pissed if I got lost. Why so secure a meeting place, though?

    If the guards felt any kind of way about his response or could see through his false levity, their expressionless helmets didn't let them show it. However, despite their emotionless exteriors, Kastor would bet the farm that they relaxed fractionally, the time-honoured strategy of relating to someone's struggles as effective here in the heart of the Magistracy as it was on Highwater. Even so, neither guard relaxed their grip on their weapons.

    Letting his smile fade into one of its many time-worn siblings, the Helghan ambassador prepared to launch into tales of his own time as an officer in the Republic military when, without warning, a light behind the guards began to pulse, the door below it rising into the ceiling a moment later to reveal another elevator cabin.

    "Take care, Ambassador," the guard repeated, their comrade nodding to the adjutant—Ensign Suero, Kastor reminded himself—as she stepped inside.

    Giving the pair a parting nod, the Helgham ambassador followed the young woman into the cabin. A heartbeat later, the elevator door slid down and shut with a resounding clunk, a soft hiss filling the air.

    An airtight seal, Kastor thought as he fought the urge to yawn, the noise dying away as quickly as it began.

    "Yes, sir," the ensign answered, her tone tinged with surprise.

    Giving a start, Kastor felt a flush creep up his collar as he shot her a look, a spark of curiosity visible in her ice-blue eyes at odds with her reserved expression.

    "Did I say that aloud? My apologies."

    "None needed, Ambassador," she replied, a slight shift in Kastor's inner ear and a vibration at his feet telling him that they had begun descending yet further into Canopus' crust.

    "This facility is sealed against nuclear, chemical, and biological threats of all kinds," the woman continued in a tone that spoke of rote memorization and repeated spiels. "And we maintain a substantial reserve of food, water, and medical supplies. In the event of a partial breach into the facility, individual levels can be sealed away from the rest, and each level can be further subdivided by security doors if required."

    "Sounds like a fortress," he mused.

    The dark-haired woman shook her head. "We're far from that. This facility was constructed in the 2600s to ensure continuity of government in the event of a strike against the Magistracy. We haven't built any real fortresses yet."

    Ignoring the unsubtle emphasis she placed on the final word, Kastor tilted his head towards the woman and said lightly, "Still, it's an impressive set of features for a survival bunker."

    "The Star League taught us to take these threats seriously."

    Kastor's expression froze.

    Ever since the Clans had begun their insane invasion of the Inner Sphere, the Republic's allies had started unburying their deep-seated traumas; images from the Reunification War broadcast in crisp high-fidelity to holovids across the Periphery or printed on every surface that seemed fitting and a few that weren't. While the Republic's foreign affairs department found it useful for the AgitProp struggle, Kastor couldn't agree. In his experience, stewing in misery never ended well for anyone.

    Pushing the thought aside, Kastor redeployed his verbal arsenal to an altogether more worthwhile front, the forty-year-old crossing his arms and leaning against the cool steel of the cabin wall. "Speaking of, where are we? The crew on your black helicopters aren't much for conversation."

    As soon as the words left his mouth, Ensign Suero's polite look fixed in place. Though very little had changed, it suddenly felt to him as if the air temperature had dropped to an icy low, the man half-expecting to see his breath steam as he exhaled.

    "That would be my fault, Ambassador Orlock. I've been-" the ensign paused as she reached for the right word, her chill eyes narrowing in concentration, "impressing the need for secrecy on personnel here recently. The VTOL crew may have been a little overzealous."

    Waving down the implied criticism of the steely-eyed women who had plucked him from his residence and shuttled him to who-knew-where, Kastor nodded. "Still..."

    At Kastor's words, the ensign gave an awkward cough, her expression shifting to something dangerously close to embarrassment. All at once, the icy shell she had built around herself seemed to crack just a little.

    "This is the Rams Head Mountain Complex," Suero answered after what felt like an age, the woman meeting Kastor's courteous gaze. "We're about a hundred klicks south-south-west of the capital, which is why your trip was so short. General Grier would like to see it cut down further, though."

    The name struck Kastor like a flash bomb, the man letting his arms drop as he pulled away from the wall.

    "Elissa's here?"

    "General Grier, yes," she replied curtly, ignoring his owlish blink. "I've served under her since she took command last year."

    Kastor, dismissing his surprise with a shake of his head, hummed. "I thought she was involved with the Keres program up near Athos? At least, that's what El-"

    He paused as he caught sight of Suero's sour expression.

    "General Grier," he hastily corrected himself, "said the last time we spoke."

    The ensign shrugged cooly and opened her hand, palm side up, the gesture telling Kastor 'I don't know what to say' even as her expression settled into one of studied placidity.

    "Unfortunately, I am not at liberty to discuss the details of General Grier's prior deployments. You would have to speak to the general."

    About to press her for more, Kastor stopped as he felt the almost subconscious rumbling of the elevator cease. A heartbeat later, the elevator doors sprung open, and he found himself face to face with the general herself, Elissa Grier, shadowed by a stocky man whose copper skin bore the faint tracery of surgery scars; the pair standing alone in an antechamber as plain as the corridor that had come before it.

    "Liz!" Kastor chirped as he strode out the elevator, formality forgotten, and extended a hand.

    Shorter than him by a good twenty centimetres with a plain and almost unremarkable face framed by chestnut hair, the woman seemed to Kastor to be the very model of a modern Magistracy general. Wearing her dress greens, the general held her expression in place for a long moment as the ambassador approached before breaking into an easy grin as she seized his hand in hers.

    "Evening, Kaz," the general replied as they greeted one another. "It's been a minute. Hot damn, it's good to see you again."

    Freeing his expression for once, Kastor felt his face mirror that of his friend as Ensign Suero took up a position behind her. "The same goes for you, Liz. I thought you were up near Athos overseeing-"

    He jerked his head towards the general's bodyguard and proffered his hand.

    "Lance Corporal Stark," the Keres soldier said flatly, the man giving the ambassador a curt nod but making no attempt to shake his hand.

    Probably for the best, Kastor thought as he let his arm drop. I've seen how strong your implants make you.

    The general grinned ruefully. "They had me up there for eight months before bringing me back. My kind of work, but they needed me here, or so they say."

    Despite himself, Kastor glanced around the empty antechamber as if expecting the walls to drop away and some hidden function to be revealed.

    "I can see why," he drawled, the general snorting and brushing aside the comment.

    "I had you brought down the back way, Kaz. Rams Head is busier than usual, and I didn't want to call you ambassador all day. Your ego's big enough already."

    Kaz couldn't help it. He laughed, the sound of it rolling off the walls and filling the space with noise.

    God knows what they think of this, the ambassador thought as he eyed the general's bodyguard and adjutant, the pair keeping their faces carefully neutral even as their eyes tracked him like seeker warheads. Though he could never really cut loose when dealing with the Canopians, what with his every action and word being put under a microscope by the anti-spinward state, the general was one of the few he could be looser with. As straight a shooter as they could be considering their relationship, he'd come to enjoy their once-frequent chats as more than just a way to gather intel on the mood inside the Canopian government.

    Besides, her husband made a hell of a barbacoa.

    "So," he breathed as the last echoes of laughter died away. "What the hell is Rams Head? Before today, I'd never heard of it."

    At his words, the general's face stilled, an iron shutter seeming to drop across her face and a polite smile fixing itself in place.

    "We'd be upset if you had, ambassador," she replied.

    Noting his friend's newfound demeanour, Kastor straightened and rolled his shoulders, the general planting her feet wide and putting her arms behind her back.

    "Welcome to the Rams Head Mountain Complex, ambassador Orlock," the general said, her words clipped and precise. "Thank you for agreeing to see us on such short notice."

    "No thanks are necessary," he responded, the expected answer as formal as the general's official greeting. "The Republic is ever willing to listen to our allies' words."

    "These might prove more difficult than you're used to," his friend replied cryptically.

    Spearing Grier with a quizzical look, the Helghan ambassador frowned as she gestured for him to follow, the stocky woman immediately turning and walking towards a nearby exit. Acutely aware of Ensign Suero and Lance Corporal Stark falling into place behind him, Kastor could only suck his teeth and give a minute shake of his head.

    What the hell have you done? He asked the retreating general's as he did as he was bade and followed.


    Helghan Ambassadorial Apartments
    Hilton Head Island, North America, Terra
    1 April 3051

    Sara Christensen let the missive drop to the table and shook her head, a few strands of platinum hair coming loose from the tie that held them. "They can't be serious."

    "I believe they are, ma'am," Jurgen, her long-time aide, replied evenly, a glance in the parlour mirror showing Sara that the soft-spoken man stood in the doorway with his hands clasped together. "I'm afraid they're insistent that there isn't enough room to accommodate our request."

    Short and slight with cold grey eyes, Helghan's ambassador to ComStar gave an undignified snort as she redid her hair, efficient motions seeing her ponytail restored and pulled over her woollen suit jacket. "I suppose it's too late to back out now?"

    Jurgen's reflection nodded, his pale skin almost luminous against his uniform's black and silver. "Yes, ma'am."

    "Fuck it," Christensen muttered just loud enough for her chief aide to hear, "We'll deal with it."

    Giving her reflection one last look to confirm that everything was how she wanted it—a Helghan leader staring back at her—Sara turned on her heel and strode towards the exit, the balding Jurgen offering her folio thick with papers as she passed by.

    "What's this?" She asked as she took it, now-familiar terms such as 'expected casualties', 'material analysis', and countless others flitting past as she thumbed through the pages. "Briefing materials?"

    "Yes, ma'am. Direct from ComStar."

    Outside the parlour's soundproofed quiet, the Republic's ambassadorial apartments were ablaze with activity that tore at her attention with every passing moment. Everywhere she turned, staff of all descriptions rampaged this way and that as they prepared for her journey, deputies, analysts, and security personnel dashing around like the chickens she raised during childhood as she and Jurgen stood unmoved by the maelstrom. Fighting back the urge to laugh, the Helghan ambassador snapped close the folio and made her way to the apartment's foyer, expert eyes drinking in the ambassadorial apartment as she did every time she made to leave.

    Built by ComStar to expressly host diplomatic staff and rented by Helghan to give their staff a home—albeit one complete with regular bug sweeps—the ambassadorial apartments were austere by Inner Sphere standards but more than comfortable by the Republic's. A sprawling multiroom, multistory complex shared with the embassy-proper, the apartments boasted everything from a kitchen to rival a Michelin restaurant to a heated indoor swimming pool, all staffed and managed by Helghan personnel. Designed in an ageless modern style, the cream walls and white marble table tops were demurely lit by countless soft-white lights, the entire ensemble offset by, in Sara's opinion, the apartment's best feature: honey-gold floorboards kept at just the right temperature by the complex's heating system.

    Just as she reached the foyer, Jurgen's voice broke the calm, bringing her back to the present.

    "The car is coming up the drive now, ma'am."

    "Very punctual," she replied dryly as the man took a position beside the black timber door. "Anything I should know?"

    Jurgen cocked his head askew. "Standard escort, standard vehicles. Nothing out of the ordinary. Our security staff have given it the green light."

    Despite his words, the man favoured her with an enigmatic look. There was something he wasn't telling her.

    Flitting her eyes over her friend and aide's otherwise impassive face, Sara nodded slowly. "Better not keep them waiting, then."

    "No, ma'am."

    A moment later, she was through the door, and the apartment's chaos was replaced by hooting bird calls and rustling leaves. Outside, the apartment's ageless interior was replaced by a green expanse of carefully maintained grass, the occasional weeping willow hunched over the grounds like a creature from the black lagoon. Turning away from the rolling lawn, Sara felt a frown tug at her mouth as she spied the car the Primus had sent to collect her, the six-wheeled offroader crunching its way up the gravel driveway while its escorts waited beyond the embassy gates. Located on the outskirts of Hilton Head's Harbour Town—the island owned in its entirety by the order—the ambassadorial complex was only a brief journey from the quasi-religious group's famed headquarters, just close enough to remind everyone who held the real power on Terra without.

    "That's a Mao-Heng," Jurgen said with a wonderstruck tone, the svelte man stepping past her and gazing at the car with hungry eyes. "Capellan; from the 2700s. Rebuilt, too."

    Bemused by the normally unflappable man's sudden change—and preferring sport to cars besides—Sara said nothing.

    "It's a new model, not an original '97 version, thank god, but they've replaced the engine. Definitely electric."

    Making agreeable noises as the man listed all the differences to some long-forgotten model, the ambassador noted those that drew particular commentary. In her ever-changing, never-clear world, such things inevitably paid off at some point; experience told her to never let a chance to learn go to waste.

    "I'll ask Gregor to buy you one for Christmas," Sara joked as the car halted a diplomatic distance away, his husband's mention cutting short Jurgen's spiel.

    Before Jurgen could reply, the driver and her partner—both suited in a manner that screamed bodyguard to Sara—exited the vehicle and beckoned them closer, a twitch of the woman's hand opening the doors via some unseen mechanism. Lending the woman a grateful look as she assisted her into the car, the Helghan ambassador whistled softly as her eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior. More obvious than the changes Jurgen had picked up on during the car's approach, the interior was extravagant bordering on the absurd: four quilted leather seats a deep-hued mahogany colour, a wooden trimmed centre console lying between them, and a holoprojector were the least of the changes she was sure had been made. Compared to the usual car ComStar sent, this was on a whole other level, and she doubted she and Jurgen were receiving special treatment.

    The Primus wanted her to be comfortable before he sprung something on her, though what that might be, Sara found she couldn't say. Even so, her instincts were shouting that she wouldn't appreciate it.

    Sighing as the car began to roll down the driveway towards the exit—Jurgen smiling thinly at the almost noiseless quiet with which it moved—Sara looked at the folio still in her grip and flipped it open.

    Twenty minutes later, the Helghan ambassador found she had more questions than when she'd started reading, the contents of the folio bubbling away in the back of her mind as the armoured car halted outside one of the countless buildings that made up ComStar's headquarters compound. Though her initial skim through had shown her similar figures to what she'd been reading about since the Clan invasion began, the journey from the embassy complex had revealed a dominating focus on internal Clan politics and culture, rituals such as the invaders' combat trials discussed in exhausting detail by unnamed but knowledgeable authors. Exiting the Mao-Heng with her mind half on the folio, still, it took Sara a moment to notice the adept waiting beneath the building's eaves, a nervous face peering out from beneath a hooded robe, thick-rimmed glasses perched delicately on the end of his nose and a crooked smile cutting across his face.

    "Madam Ambassador!" The man—the boy, Sara corrected herself—said with a chipper tone as she spotted him, a jerky bow of the head followed by a glance over her shoulder. "Mister Miroslav."

    Beside her, she felt Jurgen stir at the mention. Keeping her voice low, she muttered, "Be nice."

    "Welcome, Ambassador Christensen," the pale-skinned man said as he approached. Forced to look down on Sara thanks to his height, his already precarious glasses teetered on the edge of falling.

    "I'm Adept Gamma II Allan. Primus Everson and the Precentor-Martial apologise for not being here to greet you personally."

    A junior diplomatic aide, Sara thought as she teased out the meaning of the man's rank. Very junior.

    The thought rankled her. The Republic had done much to support ComStar in combating the Clans; weapons and equipment that might have been better spent on the frontlines were tossed into ComStar's maw, and the toaster-worshippers had nothing to show for it. Dispatching a junior aide to meet her...

    Keeping her irritation unvoiced and off her face, Sara beamed and greeted the man with a proffered hand.

    "No apologies necessary, Adept Allan. These are difficult times for us all."

    Or maybe not so junior, she thought as a surprisingly firm grip and the feel of not-quite-gone callouses met her own.

    Scrutinising Allan's face, she let a fraction of her suspicions leak through her grin. On Terra, midlife crises were had at eighty years of age, and youthful looks lasted well into the seventies. A senior diplomat pretending to be a junior member was merely one of the tricks she'd experienced on humanity's homeworld.

    Either not recognising her suspicions or too good an actor to let such a thing slip, the adept pumped his head up and down in an exaggerated nod.

    "You're too kind, Madam Ambassador."

    "Ambassador Christensen, or simply Ambassador, please," she said. "The Republic isn't quite as formal as you may be used to."

    The supposed adept nodded again, his crooked smile growing broad and revealing teeth like tombstones. "Of course, Ambassador Christensen. If you and Mister Miroslav would care to follow me, most of the other guests are waiting in the briefing room."

    Gesturing for the pair of them to follow, the adept suddenly wheeled around and set off, Sara and Jurgen following at a polite distance as he led them into the building. Trying to puzzle out the man's age with one part of her mind, the Helghan ambassador kept her face impassive as they followed him, her eyes sweeping across every inch of the ComStar facility as she committed every twist and turn to memory, another part of her noting the way their surroundings changed. Initially flush with the sort of artistic accoutrements and furnishings that diplomatic meeting halls boasted the galaxy over, every footstep led them deeper and deeper into the austere, once-plentiful chairs vanishing and plush carpeting giving way to polished ferrocrete. Presently, the man stopped before one otherwise nondescript doorway, the low ceiling and frost-grey walls surrounding it lending the scene an almost militaristic bent.

    Murmuring thanks as they were ushered through, Sara noted the familiar faces of her fellow ambassadors and their aides almost instantly, quaint little paper cards marking out where each state's representative was supposed to sit at the U-shaped table that dominated the room—a podium standing opposite the bend. Fighting the urge to crack a rather undiplomatic joke at the room's size, she nodded to the Canopian and Taurian diplomats.

    "Crystal, Richard," Sara said as she and Jurgen took their assigned seats. Replaying with a dazzling smile, the broad-shouldered woman waved while the veteran Taurian paused his conversation with his Lyran opposite—Wolf Heintze—to acknowledge her.

    "Doctor Lehua," she added a moment later as the Aurigan economist caught her eye.

    New to Terra, having only recently replaced the nation's prior representative, she had yet to develop anything more than a polite working relationship with Keanu Lehua despite their nation's historic friendship; the failure born of the constant press of engagements Terra's wealthy elites forced her to undertake.

    It was, she decided as she muttered a greeting to the man, an oversight she would have to fix over the coming months.

    Leaning back in her chair, Sara noted the quiet buzz of conversation among the other diplomats with some interest, keen ears trying and failing to pick up snatches of hushed words shared between the ambassadors and their aides. The Clans were on everyone's mind—that much was obvious—but then the Clans had been on everyone's mind since the invasion began, and ComStar remained frustratingly evasive about the reason for their meeting since they'd requested her presence only a week ago.

    Still ruminating on the matter, Sara gave a start when Crystal Rusch, the Canopian diplomat, suddenly spoke up. "So, what do you think? Is ComStar about to announce some miraculous intervention or just another round of containment strategies?"

    Richard Segal, the Taurian, chuckled darkly from across the table. "If it's an intervention, they're cutting it real close."

    "After Skandia…" the man continued, his voice low, glancing at the departing Heintze. "After Skandia and Arc-Royal, I reckon there might not be much left in the tank."

    "Helghan is committed to defending the Free Republic," Sara replied seriously, confidence in the party line injected into her tone by force of will.

    Truthfully, with the election only a few months away and the public mood unreadable, she wasn't confident there'd be much stomach for further casualties. Not, she thought cynically, until the Clans were knocking at the Republic's door. Even so, her instincts—and her orders —were aligned, and so she lied.

    Keanu, his brown eyes flitting from face to face, joined in quietly, the economist pushing aside the data pad before him. "Whatever it is, it'll cost. We know they've been hoarding resources, and we know-" he nodded to Sara, "that they were preparing to enter the fight last year. It's hard to see them changing their mind so quickly."

    Before Sara could reply, the door to the room swung open with a sudden violence, and Léonce Tindall entered with a jangle of mech spurs looking uncomfortable in his dress uniform. Roughly handsome with a weathered face that bore a thick scar starting from his nose and terminating in the middle of his cheek, the nobleman turned AFFS officer turned envoy to ComStar had proven difficult to judge at the best of times; years in command prepared him well for the diplomatic games Terra had forced them all to play.

    "Ambassador Christensen," the man greeted with a smile whose sincerity she couldn't decipher as he slid into the seat beside her.

    "Ambassador," Sara returned evenly.

    Together, they sat in an awkward silence, both diplomats watching and waiting to see who would make the first verbal thrust at the other. Then, quite unexpectedly, Léonce cleared his throat and leaned in closer.

    "You have my condolences," the man said, "for those you lost fighting the Clans. They fought like devils from what our boys and girls have told us."

    "The Republic thanks you," she replied automatically, her mouth dry as she tried to piece together the man's intentions. "We offer the same for those lost at Arc-Royal."

    "War," she added, "is a terrible thing."

    Unexpectedly, the dark-haired man pursed his lips, and his voice took on a tone as if quoting another. "It is well that war is so terrible, otherwise we should grow too fond of it."

    Seeing her blank look, Tindall shrugged and leaned away. "Robert E. Lee."

    "A traitor and slaver through and through," the FedSun diplomat continued reasonably, "but even the foulest vipers can speak the truth sometimes, no?"

    Sara nodded as she tried to work out what the man was getting at, the phrase settling in the silence between them. Strange words for an AFFS officer, but she supposed that years of war let even the darkest truths resonate.

    "I think the Clans have grown fond of war," she replied, breaking the silence with considered words. "Their so-called honour, their rituals. They've made war a way of life..."

    Léonce's expression darkened, his smile fading and his gaze growing long—some memory flashing behind his eyes. "And delivered it straight to us, yes."

    If the man was expecting a reply, he didn't let it show, an awkward silence growing between them. Unsure of how to respond, Sara allowed her gaze to drift to where the Capellan diplomat sat between the Lyran and Free Worlds League representatives.

    That placement, she knew, was no accident—ComStar had been rather upfront about it in their message to her that morning. Centuries of conflict had left the two states bickering over nothing. Breaking up the ORDI bloc with the Capellan diplomat between them, while frustrating, seemed ComStar's way of containing the ever-simmering tensions between the two states.

    Still, Sara mused, the tension between the Lyran and Free Worlds League delegations was palpable despite ComStar's best efforts. No amount of strategic seating or trade deals could ease a rivalry that had outlasted the Star League—and likely would outlast them all.

    All at once, the everpresent low murmur abruptly stilled as the room's side door swung open with a slow, deliberate creak. Torn away from her thoughts by the sudden noise, the Helghan ambassador found herself turning as a tall figure stepped into the U-shaped room, his posture commanding attention.

    Fuck me, Sara thought as Anastasius Focht, the mysterious Precentor-Martial of ComStar, entered with a quiet authority that seized the eye of every person in the room. ComStar's planning something big.

    Dressed in an unadorned white robe—a dress as austere as the room they found themselves in and vastly more so than the ceremonial garb of other ComStar officials—Focht's presence alone seemed to imbue the room with an electric tension. Silver-haired and craggy-faced, the man's sharp, calculating eyes scanned the room like a BattleMech's sensors, lingering on each ambassador for just a fraction longer than polite as if measuring them.

    "Ambassadors," Focht began, his voice gravelly yet firm, "thank you all for coming. I trust your journeys were uneventful."

    Without waiting for a response, Focht stepped further into the room, the clack of his shoes gunshot loud in the silence and his hands clasped behind his back. "I understand that you have many questions as to why ComStar has called this meeting and why now, of all times. "

    His words were slow and carefully chosen, each precise in placement and application. "The Clan invasion has altered the balance of power in ways we have not seen since the fall of the Star League. It has killed in ways we have not seen since the fall of the Star League. And while many of you have fought valiantly, the threat continues to grow."

    Focht turned slightly, the man addressing the entire room but allowing his gaze to settle on Sara. Staring back, her peerless blue eyes unblinking, the Helghan diplomat sat unbowed by either the attention or the implied judgement in his tone, and for a moment, just a moment, she could have sworn she saw Focht's lips quirk into a smile before he shifted his gaze to Léonce.

    "ComStar has not called you here to deliver vague platitudes or false assurances. Our purpose today is far more direct. What we face requires a unified response. But it will not be without sacrifice."

    The word "sacrifice" seemed to hang like a stone. The Concordat diplomat, Segal, leaned forward in his seat while Crystal Rusch's brows knitted together. Even Jurgen's usually impassive face tightened as he glanced sidelong at Sara.

    "What we propose," Focht continued, pausing as if hesitant to give voice to the thought, "is something unparalleled in modern history. A gamble made against the Clans with resources, strategy, and leadership at a scale they have never seen before."

    Focht walked towards the podium, his robes brushing silently against the polished floor. "ComStar has long been a force for peace in the Inner Sphere, a lone voice speaking of a better future for all humanity. That future is now in jeopardy, and though we are a peaceful religion, we can no longer afford to stand on the sidelines. Today, I will outline a plan that will turn the tide in our favour and end this hideous invasion once and for all."

    Focht stopped at the podium, his gaze once more sweeping the room and his voice grave. "It will not be easy, nor will it be without risk. We may win everything, or we may very well lose everything."

    "Now," Focht said, the tension breaking with an almost audible snap. "Shall we begin?"


    Rams Head Mountain Complex
    Rams Head Mountains, Salonika, Canopus
    1 April 3051

    The door slid shut behind Kastor with a resounding thud as he sat at the general's table, a sudden pressure in his ears telling him that the seal was airtight. Big enough to seat a score but only playing host to a fraction of that number, the table lay in the centre of some unnamed meeting room deep inside the Rams Head Complex; the black faux-wood circle illuminated from above by a metres-wide ring light. Suspended from a spider-like fixture that clung to the ceiling, the circular light cast the room in a twilight hue that coloured the room's shadows a deep and foreboding black, an electric shiver running down the ambassador's spine as he thought back to his earlier doubts.

    "Drink?" Elissa asked as she threw her dress jacket over a nearby chair. Aside from the general's bodyguard and adjutant, they were alone in a room clearly built for staff officer briefings.

    Kastor shook his head. "No, thank-"

    A heavy tumbler was thrust into his open hand, surprise stopping Kastor mid-rejection and forcing him into silence.

    Thank you, it's too late for me, he thought lamely, sparing Ensign Suero a queer look as she joined the general's bodyguard in the corner.

    Swirling the amber liquid almost absently—a smoky aroma filling the air—Kastor turned to his old friend and raised an eyebrow.

    "A little late for a drink, isn't it, Lis?"

    The general smiled, the pale corners of her eyes crinkling as if laughing at a private joke, and tipped an identical glass towards him, the ice cubes rattling like grenade pins at her gesture. "It's a thirty-year single malt, Kaz. It'll be the best damn drink you have all month. Trust me."

    Rolling his eyes and snorting in disbelief, Kastor shook his head. Then, ignoring the way her eyes bore into him, he sniffed the amber liquid...

    And grudgingly conceded that she might not be entirely full of shit as his mouth watered involuntarily, the scent of roasted walnuts, creme brulee, peaches, and hazelnuts overwhelming his sense of smell without remorse.

    Slowly, his eyes never leaving Elissa's face, the Helghan ambassador sipped the drink, an involuntary spluttering leaving him as a cold fire erupted down his throat, and its bouquet exploded into a dizzying array of flavours.

    "Holy shit," he gasped as he caught his breath, ivory teeth flashing in the twilight dark as Grier let out a guffaw.

    "The best damn drink you'll have all month", the general repeated as she lowered her tumbler onto the table with a resounding clunk, the noise loud as a gunshot in the comparative quiet.

    Dimly, as if from a great distance away, Kastor felt the cold fire grow warm, a pleasant heat filling his belly as the golden liquid began to wind its way through his bloodstream.

    "It was a birthday gift from Shanti," she added a moment later at Kastor's querying expression. "Distilled 3021—around the time your people were figuring out lasers, I think—and put straight into Magliss's rare casks. She had it delivered to my husband a couple months back."

    Kastor smiled even as his mind worked to piece together the connection, a bewildering array of noble familial connections racing through his mind. "It's a big gift to give a third cousin. I imagine it made my book seem a bit passé."

    "Second cousin," Elissa politely corrected as he peered at the golden fluid. "And no."

    "Besides," she added with a laugh. "With how Magliss is doing, I think Shanti can afford it. Hell, she can probably afford a planet."

    Conceding her point with a tilt of his head, Kastor gently lowered his glass to the table.

    "Not that I don't appreciate the chance to taste something made back when I was in primary school or enjoy chatting again, Lis, but you didn't send a VTOL after me just to share a drink and shoot the shit, did you?"

    All at once, the good humour animating the woman seemed to vanish like tears in the rain, her face stilling into a mask of itself as she schooled her emotions. Slowly, she exhaled.

    "Not just to share a drink, no."

    Sensing the sudden shift, Kastor leaned forward in his seat, the well-loved leather creaking as a coldness filled his gut.

    "Is it the front?" He ventured without mercy, his voice steady. "Have they dropped the big one?"

    It was the nightmare scenario to end all nightmare scenarios in the minds of many a politician and military figure in the ORDI; an Irradiated Petrusite bomb dropped on a defensive lynchpin or densely populated and hundreds of thousands or millions killed. Demonstrated during the second battle of Skandia, the revelation that the Clans wielded such a weapon had triggered emergency meetings throughout the government within hours of its first use and spawned worries about the chances of the Free Republic's long-term survival if more were used against ground targets. Ambassador to one of Helghan's staunchest allies, he had been read into numerous scenarios involving them, and he didn't enjoy any of them. Having fought in the Mandate Intervention, he could picture how the aftermath would look; the taste of blood, the stink of burnt hair, and the sight of greasy blast shadows invading his mind unbidden.

    However, before the thoughts percolated much further, Elissa Grier shook her head.

    "Christ no, Kaz. God in heaven, can you imagine?"

    Grier blanched.

    Yes. Easily.

    Keeping such thoughts to himself, Kastor leaned back and breathed a sigh of relief.

    "No," she continued with a sharp gesture. "I brought you here to discuss... the opposite. Our big one, so to speak."

    Kastor stilled at the words, ice water filling his veins and banishing the whiskey's pleasant warmth.

    "Our big one?" His words were slow, deliberate. He wanted no misunderstandings.

    Gried nodded to her adjutant, the young woman disappearing through the room's sole doorway before returning with a man in tow. Her face set in stone, the general rose from her seat and introduced the man with a sweep.

    "Ambassador Orlock; Doctor Chris Lawson."

    Quickly matching her, some faint sense of recognition flaring at the back of his mind, Kastor shook the man's hand and said in a neutral tone, "Pleased to meet you, Doctor."

    "Likewise, Ambassador Orlock. General Grier has spoken highly of you."

    The man's voice was soft and low and buzzed with a Luxen accent.

    "Kastor, please."

    Giving him a once over, Kastor was surprised by how little presence the doctor had compared to the general and her associates; mousey brown hair, a simple woollen shirt, and his short stature conspired to leave nothing much by way of impression. Even his handshake was nothing special; cool, dry hands and just enough pressure to remind you it was a handshake. Compared to some of the characters Kastor had met in his role as ambassador, the overwhelming normality of the man was a refreshing draught.

    "For context, Kaz, Doctor Lawson is the Chief Genomic Engineer in charge of the program here at Rams Head," Grier continued as they returned to their seats, the doctor choosing one on the far side of the table from the woman. "He's been here since before I was handed the reins and oversaw all aspects of the process from design to implementation."

    Flitting between the pair, their faces sanguine in the room's low light, Kastor felt himself frown.

    "The program?"

    Leaning forward in his seat as the pair shared a look, something unidentifiable transmitted between them, the ambassador started as he brushed against the half-forgotten tumbler of whiskey, the clink of ice snatching his attention for a brief moment.

    "Doctor?"

    "Of course," the man murmured back to Grier.

    There was a moment's silence and then a loud click as the doctor—Lawson—manipulated some unseen control, a quiet hum growing from the ring light suspended above their heads. An instant later, a blue light burst into existence a few centimetres above the table's centre before expanding into a floating starfield as wide across as Kastor was tall. Then, as quickly as it appeared, the hologram shifted into a map of the Inner Sphere, discrete blobs of colour denoting the four Great Houses, the ORDI, the Free Republic, and the Invading Clans bursting into life. At this godlike remove, the Clans' multi-hued invasion corridor looked to Kastor like nothing less than a cancer invading the Inner Sphere, the Clans' grasping tendrils burrowing through the soft flesh of known space.

    Coloured a deep crimson by the hologram, the doctor gave a quiet cough and began to speak, his words accentuated by hand gesturings.

    "As General Grier has explained, I am the Chief Genomic Engineer at Rams Head. For my sins," his lips twitched at the words as if in response to a private joke, "for my sins, I have been head of operations here for the past eighteen months."

    "While I don't expect you to know me by reputation given that my work was, until recently, largely theoretical, I contributed a great deal to the development of discriminatory ecogenic viruses."

    All at once, the sense of recognition that had lurked in the back of Kastor's mind since the man first appeared erupted into new life.

    "You're that Lawson!" He declared as images from a half-remembered briefing exploded into his consciousness. "Your team was the first to make the breakthrough, right? You did the Omen test. The gene plague."

    At the time, it had been quite a feather in the Canopians' cap to develop a tool able to wipe out specific species of alien life and leave related but distinct ones in peace. Time and the Clan Invasion had soon driven it from the media feeds, but for the brief time it'd been there, it had been the talk of the town.

    The man nodded.

    "I was," he paused as he searched for the right word, "reallocated to a different project before we finished, but yes, I did much of the foundational work the team improved on."

    "Reallocated?" Kastor repeated blandly before a sudden fear struck him. "Is that why I'm here? Is something wrong?"

    The others, he thought. If the Canopians made a mistake, they'd want to tell the rest of us as quietly as possible. Leaving aside Canopian pride, an ecocidal virus losing efficacy or, god forbid, jumping species would be a catastrophe-

    Lawson laughed, the sharp bark cutting short Kastor's train of thought.

    "No," the doctor added after a moment. "No, the system works as intended in all the tests we've run before and since revealing it to the public. As near as we can tell, our fail-safes kick in at the appropriate times."

    Kastor sat back with a heavy sigh, the ambassador idly grabbing the whiskey glass and taking another sip. As before, a cold fire burned to his stomach and bloomed into a blazing fire, warmth filling his limbs.

    "So what then? Why am I here?" He asked as he leaned back in his chair, the soft leather creaking with every motion.

    Wordlessly, Grier and Lawson both looked at the map.

    "The Clans," the general said after a long pause. "You've probably seen the same reports I have; seen the number of bodies coming home. It's not sustainable."

    Without warning, the hologram floating above the table blinked from a map of the Inner Sphere to one of the Clans' Invasion Corridor—markers for a hundred battles fading into view alongside a list of names that scrolled by so quickly they became a glowing red blur in the corner of Kastor's vision.

    He grimaced. "It's not good, no. A lot of good people have sacrificed a lot to stop the Clans from eating the Rasalhagians—hell, some have given everything—but we'll be damned if we let the bastards turn people into slaves or commit another New Bergen."

    It was, in truth, a bit of creative storytelling to say that the Republic was 100% dedicated to fighting the Clans on the Rasalhagians' behalf, and Kastor was pretty sure Grier knew it. Already partly drained by the earlier Mandate and Outback Interventions, the steady stream of losses suffered in combat against the Clans and their seemingly unstoppable progress elsewhere in the galaxy had only further exhausted the public's will to fight. The Canopians and Taurians seemed to feel differently, but enough time and enough losses would see the same thing happen to them; he was sure of it.

    Elissa sighed.

    "It's worse than that," she said with a shake of her head, "Fighting like this, sending troops and ships and supplies halfway across the galaxy; it's not sustainable, and it's not giving us the victories we need."

    "We won at Arc-Royal," Kastor pointed out coolly. "And Skandia. Twice. The supposed genetic supermen don't have a fleet left in the region."

    "Neither do we," Elissa countered instantly. "Not really. And they only count as wins if we're being generous, which I'm not sure we should."

    Kastor grunted softly. The noise wasn't quite a concession but wasn't quite a rejection, either. Slowly, he sipped his whiskey.

    "Well, we're not going to stop fighting any time soon," he continued after swallowing. "We either fight them over there, or we fight them over here. Unless the Clans choose to stop or we figure out some way to stop them, we don't have much choice in the matter, regardless of what people say."

    "I agree, so does the Magestrix. Hence the Rams Head Complex and Doctor Lawson."

    Kastor paused mid-sip as the general's words triggered a vague unease in his gut, his stomach twisting as animal instinct pieced together something his conscious mind singularly failed to grasp. Staring over the rim of the glass, Kastor shifted his attention between the two as he puzzled over the enigmatic words and their herald.

    A general who oversaw special projects for the Magestrix. A geneticist who laid the foundation for genetically-targeted viruses. An enemy who defined themselves by their genetics.

    "Shit," he muttered as the fire in his belly gutted and faded, the once-wonderful flavour turning to ash in his mouth.

    "Yes, Ambassador. We have created a virus that targets the Warrior caste."

    The hologram flickered and reformed, the star map replaced by a splatter of view screens that hung in midair. Blinking at the change and lowering his glass, Kastor furrowed his brow as he caught sight of things shaped like balls and rods and bricks and peanuts floating on backgrounds of lurid pink and purple, a halo of pale blue light around each one.

    "These," the doctor began bloodlessly, gesturing limply at the floating display, "are cellular samples taken from numerous sources."

    "On the right," light pulsed around fully half of the panels, Kastor's eyes snatched by the change, "are cell samples acquired from a variety of sources throughout the ORDI and Inner Sphere; the cells themselves coming from multiple parts of the human body."

    "On the left," light pulsed around the other half, "are cloned samples retrieved from Clan POWs held on Cassilda. As with the others, these cells range in type, though the nature of their acquisition limited the options of our personnel in retrieving them."

    Fighting to keep his face steady as arcane text faded into view around each screen, the man wondered, How the fuck did you get those?

    Either not caring or not for his struggle for control, the doctor continued his explanation.

    "Of those samples retrieved from Clan POWs, these were obtained from non-warriors caste personnel captured and transported back to the Republic; mostly technician caste." A subset of the Clan samples began to glow with a green light, the words 'non-warrior' appearing above the clustered panels.

    Suddenly, the soft whirring of the holographic projector above rose an octave, and the cells on the floating screens began to shift and writhe.

    "In the interests of time, the following footage has been sped up by a factor of ten."

    For a long moment, the cells existed in their luridly coloured environments, the spheres, rods, bricks and peanuts squirming unpleasantly as if trying and failing to find a purpose in their strange surroundings. The tumbler all but forgotten in his hand, Kastor scoured the unfamiliar shapes for any indication of what he was meant to be watching out for before irritation got the better of him, and he snapped.

    "What am I meant-"

    It appeared on the screens simultaneously, the thing they had been waiting for. Rod-shaped with a bulbous head on one end and a cluster of finger-thin legs on the other, the intruder drifted into view on an unseen current, first one, then five, then two dozen alien entities. Slowly, even in the accelerated reference frame of the videos, the strange things approached the cells, descending onto their surfaces like dropships on an airless moonlet.

    Kastor's jaw snapped shut.

    "The videos will now be played at one hundred times normal speed."

    Expecting much the same as before, the ambassador ignored how his stomach tightened at the sight of so many wriggling cells and instead intensified his scrutiny of the living morass.

    For a minute, they sat in silence as the videos progressed; the only sounds Kastor could hear were the hum of the holoprojector above his head and the thudding of his heart in his chest. Then, without warning, the cells taken from Clan warriors began to shrink, the thick membrane surrounding each one collapsing in on itself as dark spots formed within the cell. Captivated by the change, Kastor watched as the dark spots grew and grew, and the edges of the cell membranes began to splay out in all directions; the image of fried eggs on the pan invaded his thoughts, unwanted. Slowly at first, and then with gathering speed, the cells continued to shrink until, at last, they resembled spiked balls akin to dandelions. There was a heartbeat of nothing... And then the cells exploded into a shower of dark spots, all cohesion lost and nothing identifiable remaining.

    "What the fuck?" Kastor muttered despite himself, a grimace rising high upon his face as an orgy of death swept across the screens.

    Turning to Lawson expecting to see happiness or satisfaction written upon his face, the Helghan paused as he instead caught sight of the mousey man illuminated by death's hoary glow, his face seemingly carved from stone.

    "What," the ambassador said slowly, "was that?"

    The doctor blinked slowly, his stiff face loosening as he turned away from the screen, cells still bursting one after another.

    "Sorry?"

    Kastor jerked a hand toward the holograms.

    "The cells. The virus. What was that?"

    "Apoptosis. Programmed cell death."

    "Triggered by Eschaton," said the general. "Look at the others, Kaz."

    Drawn in by his friend's words, Kastor looked back up at the floating panels and felt his brow knit in confusion. On the left, the screens were filled with the formless chaos of mass cell death, every inch of the holographic screens displaying some churning, swirling, sickening wreckage. On the right, meanwhile, all was normal, the cells as lively as they'd been when the video started. Wrenching his gaze from the lively image and turning it to the remaining cells, those identified as belonging to the non-warrior Clanners, Kastor felt his gut tighten.

    "Biological weapons are ordinarily imprecise tools," the doctor said softly as a living cell drifted into Kastor's view. "Even gene plagues have their limit. However, thanks to the Clans' breeding program, we have identified multiple genetic markers associated with the Warrior Caste."

    If he didn't know any better, the Helghan would almost assume the man's tone was mournful.

    "We've taken those markers—genetic markers shared by only a small number of people even within the Clans—and used them to create the Eschaton virus: A gene plague that targets the Clan Warrior caste almost exclusively."

    A dead cell drifted past, its presence a siren call. Wordlessly, Kastor gestured at it.

    "Almost?"

    Grier coughed. "There will be some civilian casualties. A result of caste-mixing, we think. The impact will be minimal, however. Most will serve as carriers for the virus and experience something like a mild cold. Only a few percent of the total population has the markers necessary to trigger the virus's lethal aspect."

    Staring up at the screens, the Helghan ambassador nodded mechanically for a moment before freezing as the import of the general's words struck him.

    "Total population?" He repeated, his tone incredulous. "Total? This isn't a tactical weapon?"

    "Not anymore. Not after Skandia."

    The word struck him like a hammer blow, the man rocking back as if hit with a physical force. An instant later, the sound of shattering glass filled the briefing room, and Kastor blinked as he realised that he'd dropped the whiskey glass at his feet, the heavy tumbler bursting and spilling the thirty-year single malt across the pale grey carpet.

    No one moved.

    Closing his eyes, he sighed.

    "Why? How long have you been planning this? What is your plan, even?"

    "In short," Grier said, her voice soft. "We use astrogation data from Skandia to identify the Clan homeworlds, then we use the Wa'a Kaulua to get a strike force there. It's the only ship anyone has with the range to get out there and hit the Clans where it hurts. Refit with manufacturing systems from the Republic, it can build delivery platforms with built-in warp drives and have them spread the virus to every world we see."

    He saw it in a flash of insight: The flash of missile buses warping into orbit above a dozen worlds, the flare of rocket motors as they sprayed out warheads in all directions. Most would be little more than a distraction; noise makers, radar dazzlers, the occasional nuke, but some would carry deadlier cargo and be hidden by the cacophony. Unnoticed, they'd drift to the planets and disgorge their contents over cities and continents, and a wave of death would follow.

    Jesus wept, he thought.

    "And you want me to do what? Ask my government to commit genocide? Same as, I guess, you asked the others?"

    Grier shook her head. "Not genocide; a targeted strike against Clan Warriors."

    Kastor gestured at the cloud of screens, a dead cell drifting past on one labelled 'non-warrior.'

    "And how many civilians will we be killing?"

    The general's eyes were like flecks of ice, cold and hard in her head.

    "How many?"

    "Estimates vary, but generally, the maximum extent is only a few per-"

    "How many?" Kastor repeated loudly, the creak of shoe leather from by the wall telling him that he had pushed almost to the edge of Lieutenant Stark's patience.

    "Fifty million," the doctor interjected, ignoring the withering glare sent his way by the general. "At least. Possibly as high as two hundred million, depending on the development level of the Clan medical system and the total population."

    "It's a result of genetic exchange within Clan society and the inherent imprecision in biological weapons, even ones designed like this. Currently, our estimates suggest that the Clan homeworlds boast a combined population of anything from one to two billion people—the lower, the better."

    Kastor leaned back slowly.

    "And what will happen to them? The ones that die, I mean."

    The doctor shrugged listlessly. "Within a few hours of infection, they will experience discomfort as their cells shrink. Within twelve to sixteen hours, every cell in their body will begin to disintegrate, and within two days, they'll be dead. For warriors, we estimate the survival rate with modern medical care to be 30 percent; without, 2 percent. Non-warriors will likely only die in 5% of cases at most."

    Kastor sighed.

    "All I can say is," he said in a carefully level voice, "any plan that murders two hundred million people for the crime of having the wrong genes is not a good plan. That is not the Helghan way."

    "Kaz," Elissa said flatly. "The Clans are coming for us all. We can't stop them, not without killing ourselves in the process, Skandia proved that. We can keep fighting, but as long as their homeworlds stay untouched, as long as their production lines are never threatened, they can and will keep coming for us."

    "Eschaton offers a solution that kills as few people as possible. You have to consider it. You have to tell your government."


    ComStar Meeting Room - 2.03 Canary
    Hilton Head Island, North America, Terra
    1 April 3051


    As if spoken into existence by his words, a man's face appeared in front of Focht's podium in the blink of an eye, the volumetric image thrown by some hidden projector for the diplomats' benefit. Large as life, the holographic face was stern and lined, with a head of thinning brown hair, dark eyes, and a well-kept beard. Staring out at the audience—a suit collar peeking into frame and his eyes focused on some point in the middle distance—the stranger seemed more financial assayer than foe to Sara; nothing of the Clans' famed aggression and vitality on display.

    Making a sweeping gesture towards the image, Focht continued. "Elias Crichell, the former Khan of the Jade Falcons, was recently elected IlKhan following something the Clans call a Grand Kurultai—what might be better called a council of Khans."

    "As the Clans' newly instated war leader, we can lay the blame for the recent change in their tactics entirely on him; the assaults on the Free Republic and Lyran Commonwealth his brainchild according to certain dissatisfied Clanners ComStar has spoken to."

    Surprise flashed through Sara at the Precentor-Martial's words, the Helghan diplomat narrowing her eyes as she scoured the hologram. The strikes on Skandia and Arc Royal had been brutal by all accounts, and the ORDI and Lyran fleets in the region had been devastated in the process of beating the Clanners back. If this Crichell, this Jade Falcon, had been the one to envision the strikes, then there was more to the man than first met the eye.

    Suddenly, a quiet cough sounded from among the diplomats opposite Sara, the noise grabbing her attention just in time for her to see the Draconis Combine representative lower his hand.

    "Please forgive me, Focht-Sama," Hector Seki said without invitation, his crisp black suit in sharp contrast to his salt and pepper hair, "but how do you know this Crichell serves as the Clans' IlKhan—their leader? The Combine has heard nothing on this matter."

    And how many prisoners does the DCMS take alive? Sara thought archly, the urge to say as much suppressed with no small effort.

    In truth, the man's words bothered her. As of her last communication, the Republic was still trying to nail down the Clans' current leadership, and it had perhaps the best access to Clanners in the Inner Sphere. That ComStar had managed to identify the Clanners' new leader when the Republic hadn't spoke well to either the organisation's eavesdropping ability or its interrogation techniques. Sara found neither thought appealing.

    Piercing the man with his remaining eye, the silvery light cast from the hologram lending the already severe man a grim aspect, Focht said. "ComStar maintains some communication channels with the Clans; this is known."

    Schooling his features into something resembling equanimity, Seki smiled.

    "How?" He pressed again, his tone as even as his dark eyes.

    If he was bothered by the man's continued interruptions, the Precentor-Martial did little to show it. Slowly folding his hands wi
    thin his robes, his sole eye gleaming steel-grey in the light cast from the hologram, Focht gave a fractional bow.

    "ComStar knows Elias Crichell serves as IlKhan because we spoke aboard his flagship."

    Sara blinked at that, and a hushed murmur ran through the crowd as aides and diplomats began to speak. Halting Jurgen in place with a raised finger, Sara forwent a hurried discussion to examine her fellow dignitaries, the cracks in their once-perfect poker faces lending her a taste of countless unspoken concerns.

    Do you think you can set policy? Scowls seemed to ask. How can we use this to our advantage? Whispered low looks. Why did he speak to you? Wondered narrowed eyes. Staring up at the podium with sanguine determination, Sara silently asked the man much the same.

    "I see," said Seki after what felt like an age, his soft words ending the mutters as effectively as a gunshot. "Thank you for your elucidation, Focht-Sama. Please continue."

    "Your diligence is appreciated, Ambassador Seki," Focht replied brusquely. "As I was saying, the naval strikes against the Free Republic and the Lyran Commonwealth were pushed by Crichell and his supporters among the other Clans, likely as a means of overwhelming local resistance."

    No one made a sound. No one even moved. But all at once, Sara felt the psychic pressure of fully half the room turn on the ORDI power bloc, pitch-perfect poker faces and unblinking eyes levelled towards them. Not even the Federated Suns' ambassador could resist doing so; the Helghan ambassador felt more than saw Léonce Tindall turn his head fractionally to better watch them from the corner of his eye.

    "However," the Precentor-Martial continued, "the painful failure of the IlKhan's plan has left him politically vulnerable and risking leadership challenges from within his own Clan."

    "Good," boomed Wolf Heintze from the Lyran party, a short laugh from the boisterous diplomat underscoring his amusement. "They should shoot each other more."

    Focht gave a thin-lipped smile at the remark, his cold exterior slipping slightly before vanishing a moment later.

    "Quite," was all the man had to say.

    An instant later, a gesture toward the IlKhan's head saw the hologram replaced by a cloud of faces whose pictures had clearly been captured by hidden cameras; twisted mouths and shadowed eyes telling of candid images taken in haste while ghostly transparency spoke of photos of holograms. Peering at them from her position at the table, Sara huffed as she realised she could recognise only two-thirds of the crowd, the others sparking vague familiarity at best.

    Losses must be terrible, she thought unkindly, grim satisfaction filling her at the realisation.

    "However", Focht began as one of the images floated to the forefront of the cloud; a greyhound of a woman staring out at the crowd of diplomats with a familiar hunger in her stare, a Jade Falcon star and bar pinned to her collar. "Crichell's political weakness serves the Inner Sphere only inasmuch as it is an opening we can exploit. Having lost so many resources for no real gain, IlKhan Crichell is facing extreme pressure from his Khans and their SaKhans to win a great victory or face a Trial of Grievance."

    The Precentor paused as if gathering his thoughts, a deafening quiet falling across the room and an electric buzz filling the air; the only sound to reach Sara's ears was the quiet whir of air conditioning systems.

    "Regardless of which course he takes, the outcome will leave the Inner Sphere with no meaningful ability to challenge the Clan invasion in the short to mid-term. While intelligence gathering efforts," Focht nodded to the ORDI delegation, "have narrowed down the size of the Clan population and military with remarkable efficacy, it remains a fact that the Inner Sphere cannot strike out at the Clan homeworlds. Without demonstrating the ability and will to attack the Clans' industrial base and with no ability to intercept Clan Warships during their journey into the Inner Sphere, we cannot expect to halt the invasion on anything more than a temporary basis."

    "As such," the man stated grimly, his eye flashing in the half-light, "ComStar has been forced to exploit the man's weakness unilaterally."

    "What the fuck?" the Helgha diplomat muttered under her breath as the hologram changed once more, a beach ball-sized planet flickering into existence in place of the Clanners' portraits.

    In Sara's inexpert opinion, it seemed hospitable as far as planets went; pristine white clouds, gleaming blue seas, and a swath of dark green were the first things that caught her eye. Vibrant compared to the still-drab Helghan, fecund compared to the austere Highwater, and warm compared to the freezing New Oslo, the unnamed planets seemed as welcoming a place as any the Republic's ambassador had been to, and the smattering of lights on the world's dark side spoke of a decently developed technology base. Spearing the Precentor-Martial with a look, Sara leaned back in her seat and waited for the other shoe to drop.

    The Precentor-Martial did not disappoint.

    "This is the world of Lyndon," he said as he spread his hands wide. "A planet in the Lyran Commonwealth, Lyndon has served as an agricultural world and raw material source for its neighbours for many years; most of its land masses are covered in temperate grasslands or forests controlled by agro-combines and mining conglomerates. Cooler and drier than many of its neighbours, Lyndon's population remains relatively small and compact compared to other planets in the region, most of its population living in or around one of its two spaceport cities."

    "Exciting," Sara heard someone mutter under their breath, the words spoken too softly to identify their source.

    "By all accounts," Focht continued, either not hearing or not caring for the comment, "Lyndon is not a world the Clans would target as a priority, and its value is so low in comparison to others that its expected that the next Clan assault will bypass it entirely in favour of more worthwhile challenges.."

    "But I know of a way to make it a prime target for the Clans. That is, quite simply, to take advantage of IlKhan Crichell's weakness and challenge the Clans to a battle on this world."

    "Why?" Someone asked aloud, a sudden heat flaring across Sara's cheeks as she realised that she was the one who had spoken.

    Beside her, Ambassador Rusch coughed lightly, the Canopian's expression unreadable. "I agree; why would we issue such a challenge?"

    Focht smiled grimly. "Clan psychology is simple, and the psychology of a Clan leader under threat of death or replacement is simpler still."

    "In the wake of his singular failure to deliver victory via naval means, IlKhan Crichell must deliver a crushing blow against the Inner Sphere as cost-effectively as possible if he wishes to avoid disgrace as a war leader of the Clans. Simultaneously, he must give the other Clans a chance to earn honour and glory on the battlefield if he wishes to regain their goodwill. These factors left him vulnerable to a trap set with just the right bait, a trap whose success will earn the Inner Sphere a much-needed respite."

    Something in the man's tone sparked a frisson of tension down Sara's spine, unease gripping her heart in its gold grasp.

    "A trap?" Richard Segal asked dubiously, the Taurian giving voice to Sara's unnamed doubts.

    "A battle," Focht said lightly. "A battle on Lyndon between ComStar and all ten invading Clans. If ComStar triumphs, the Clans will cease hostilities against the Inner Sphere for twelve years. If the Clans triumph, ComStar will cede Terra."

    There was a pause as the crowd absorbed the man's words, and then...

    "Merde!"

    "Hells!"

    "Idiot."

    "What the fuck?" Sara repeated aloud, the undiplomatic question lost in the blaze of similar outbursts.

    The reaction was immediate and loud, cursing in a half dozen languages filling the room as the idea finally filtered into the minds of the assembled diplomats.

    The very idea seemed insane to Sara. While information on the Clans remained scarce even within the ORDI—Clan POWs were remarkably tightlipped about many things—they had proven more than willing to talk about what Terra meant to them, how its capture would unite the Clans behind whichever Khan and Clan accomplished it. Offering Terra to the IlKhan was not merely playing with fire; it was equivalent to dousing oneself in kerosene and jumping feet first into hell.

    Slowly at first, their outrage burning out in fits and spurts, silence once again fell over the host of dignitaries as they waited for someone to make the first move.

    "Well," Wolf Heintze boomed loudly as the last words died away, the Lyran red-faced and his hands steepled. "That appears to be an emphatic rejection of the idea, then."

    "You misunderstand," Focht said lightly, death's cold rasp returning to Sara's heart at his words. "ComStar has already issued the challenge; this meeting is simply the notification."

    That statement, Sara quickly learned, truly set the cat among the pigeons.


    Wolves At The Door
    OOC: Just to make it absolutely clear: If ComStar wins, there'll be a 12 year ceasefire that everyone's expected to hold to unless they want to continue getting bodied by the Clans

    To the Helghan government's extreme surprise, ComStar's much anticipated April announcement saw the nation caught off-guard when, via a priority HPG message from Terra itself, Ambassador Sara Christensen reported that ComStar had just done something deeply stupid and potentially very clever.

    Prompting an emergency meeting of Gemini Malkiewicz's cabinet at midnight local time, ComStar's unilateral announcement that it had challenged the Clans to a Trial of Possession for Terra was met with disbelief and anger by the increasingly caffeinated ministers; the sheer guts it took to conceive of such a plan impressing some, but not nearly enough. However, as the day ground on and the depths of the night gave way to the early morning sun, it became apparent that ComStar's analysis of the Inner Sphere's ability to force the Clans to stop was, unfortunately, well reasoned, and the idea of securing a 12 year-long ceasefire by challenging the Clans for control of a single planet and its increasingly irrelevant communications network grew increasingly convincing. Moreover, as the details of the specific challenge levied against the Clans trickled in, it became clear that ComStar's Precentor-Martial had used the organisation's status as the last surviving entity from the Star League to negotiate terms that were as favourable as they could possibly be without giving the Clans cause to reject them; restrictions on a million tiny things subtly chipping away at the Clans' advantages.

    Planned to be held on the Lyran planet of Lyndon, the Trial of Possession would see the invading Clans—the Smoke Jaguars excepted—dispatch forces to face off against ComStar defenders and, presumably, a host of mercenary regiments for control of cities and strategic sites across the planet. From what can be gathered, whichever side scores best according to the Clans' still-esoteric scoring system will be considered the Trial's victor and deliver peace or great bloodshed to the Inner Sphere. Seemingly organised with the assistance of the Lyran Commonwealth, few are willing to theorise on what tricks ComStar has up its sleeves, but many hope it's something good lest the ORDI have to fight a rearguard action until the Clans burst from eating the fruits of their victories.

    What does the Republic do?
    [] Provide whatever material support can be arranged given the timing and location
    [] Not a damn thing, lol


    Immanentising the Eschaton
    Delivered via a courier ship courtesy of Helghan Ambassador Kastor Orlock, the knowledge that the Magistracy has developed a biological weapon capable of targeting Warrior Caste genomes with high precision has proven revelatory to Gemini Malkiewicz's government, to say the least.

    According to the report delivered by the ambassador, the Eschaton virus exploits the Clan's deeply rooted eugenic beliefs to trigger rapid-onset cell death upon infecting someone bearing genetic markers largely localised to the Clan Warrior Caste. Meanwhile, Clan civilians lacking those markers will experience a mild cold at most and serve as carriers. This binary will enable Eschaton to spread throughout the Warrior Caste despite its lethality to individual caste members and maximise the number of warriors killed. Estimated to be able to kill seventy percent of infected Warrior Caste members at an absolute minimum and five percent of infected Clan civilians—primarily due to caste mixing and genetic modification—the Eschaton virus represents a never-before-seen class of biological weapon that promises to deliver a lengthy peace to the Inner Sphere should its deployment against the Clans prove successful.

    Not content with merely developing the virus, the Magistracy of Canopus, under Magestrix Emma Centrella, has also devised a plan to deploy it—one that has raised eyebrows and blood pressures across the Republic. In documents held by the same secure storage device that played host to the ambassador's report, the Canopian government proposed a multi-national conspiracy to refit the Aurgian Coalition's Wa'a Kaulua class JumpShip into a long-range strike platform for use against Clan population centres. This plan, whose success hinges on the discovery of Clan astrogation data among recently wrecked Clan Warships and will only proceed if all ORDI member-states vote in favour, involves refitting the Wa'a Kaulua with Helghan manufacturing equipment capable of producing one-shot Warp Drives using in-situ materials. Additionally, ninety percent of its crew would be replaced by die-hard ORDI military personnel, and a story will be concocted to disguise its launch as part of a long-range exploration effort to maintain secrecy.

    While the exact impact of the Eschaton virus is impossible to predict given the number of variables involved, the Canopians claim—and Helghan analysts agree—that a successful deployment will prove devastating to the Clans. Materially speaking, the annihilation of the Warrior caste in the Clan homeworlds will limit the warmongering nations to only those forces already present in the Inner Sphere and curtail reinforcements for upwards of sixteen to eighteen years—the shortest length of time it would take to gestate, birth, and train new sibkos. Additionally, the loss of experience and institutional knowledge that comes as a side effect of so many deaths would greatly hamper the Clans' ability to fight the Inner Sphere and greatly ease efforts to reconquer territory or take the fight to the Clans. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, the targeted nature of the virus and the inevitable discovery that its precision was entirely due to their eugenics program will doubtlessly rock the Clans to their philosophical core.

    Understandably, due to these facts, the Helghan government's highest echelons are split on how the Republic should respond. While few in number, self-described pragmatists concerned over the possibility of ComStar failing in their defence of Lyndon have encouraged the Prime Minister to unilaterally cast a vote in favour of the plan and present its success as a fait accompli to the Helghan people should the truth ever come out. Meanwhile, a comparatively enormous coalition of legally and morally-minded people have advised Malkiewicz to categorically reject the plan, numerous reasons cited as to why. To the grim amusement of both sides, the only thing agreed upon is that the Republic government should, under no circumstances, ever publicly admit to the existence of the Eschaton virus; knowledge of its existence is deemed radioactive to international relations due to the unfounded paranoia it is sure to inculcate throughout the galaxy.

    What Answer Does The Republic Give To The Magistracy?
    [] Approve the Plan.
    [] Reject the Plan.


    OOC: Unlike (I think) every other vote in The Lords of Ruin, how you vote here will be the sole determiner of whether this action succeeds or fails. If you vote no, then all other ORDI nations will turn out to have voted no as well, and the idea will be buried, its proponents told to forget about it, and nothing will come of it. However, if you vote yes, the other ORDI nations will have also voted yes, and the alliance will engage in a secret program to refit the Wa'a Kaulua with manufacturing equipment able to construct improved warp drives, replace its crew with loyalists willing to push the button, and, in 3052, it will carry out a successful attack against the Clan homeworlds that will kill at least 50 million Clan civilians and colossal portion of the Clan Warrior Caste present there.

    As the quest will end after the Battle of Lyndon, the impact of this decision will only be felt in the sequel quest I plan to write after recovering from nation-state quest burnout. However, whatever you decide will have a major impact on domestic politics, inter-ORDI politics, and Inner Sphere politics (with the exact consequences depending on multiple factors).
     
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  • Threadmarks
    • As always, there'll be a day long moratorium on voting and the vote will last for a week.
     
    BTW, because this touches on a sensitive topic, I'll be paying more attention than usual to what people say here, so please don't get all weird about the Clanners.
     
    Welp, we're pulling a Genophage on the Clan, then. Fuck 'em, we can loot their tech once they're dead. Warp jump, drop a aerosol and let 'em Warrior caste & their offshoot turn into fine red mist.

    Worse atrocities aside, if Comstar failed their gamble, we'll pull that. And repay their Warcrime dozen fold with petruside their homeworlds, similar to what happened to Helgan in Killzone 3 thanks yo ISA fuckery.
     
    I say we let Comstar do their gamble (maybe even supplying some Pet weapons and shields to further guarantee their success) and if it fails we approve the deployment of the Genebomb. With the Clans having shown willingness to use Ir Pet for potential fireships/bombardments I think we have enough of a casus belli to use the Genebomb. The invasion needs to be put to a halt and if it takes the Genebomb to do so then so be it.

    This is a rough plan for if Comstar looses. The battle on Lyndon will commence but we will have ships from every successor state that is fighting ready in a nearby system and if the battle ends in a Comstar defeat we strike with full force. Nukes, BPL's, Ir Pet everything will be used in this decapitating strike against the Clans leaders and best soldiers and with the decapitation we also launch the Genebomb on all the fronts which should bring a end to the invasion.
     
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    Freaking ComStar, deciding shit at the expense of others.

    The only reason why the IlKhan proposed this in the first place is because he's outmatched in Space, so he's forcing things on the ground and ComStar is happy to accept that shit because at the end of the day, nothing changes for them.

    Freaking discount Mechanicus.
     
    Biological weapons are bad Mmkay?

    [X] Reject the Plan.
    [X]Plan: Don't let the genie out of the bottle.

    Also why is there no option to wait until after Comstar's challenge to decide to do it or not?
     
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    LysanderArgent said:
    Biological weapons are bad Mmkay?

    [] Reject the Plan.

    Also why is there no option to wait until after Comstar's challenge to decide to do it or not?
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    Because they didn't know what ComStar was planning. :V

    But I've mentioned on the discord that I'll be accepting that specific write in should people wish.
     
    LysanderArgent said:
    Biological weapons are bad M'kay?
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    We might not have a choice if the Comstar gamble fails. But I do agree that the Genebomb should be our absolute last resort. So I propose we lease Comstar our full Pet ground arsenal including mechs to give them a extra edge. Make it clear to them we give them our full support in this gamble but should they fail we will have a backup plan we can enact. That plan being the refined version of the rough one I posted earlier.
     
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    I mean yeah, but at the same time this kind of thing happens in cannon via Society....and it didn't stick (though to be fair the reaveing kinda hurt that). In fact it wouldn't surprise me in the slightest that the reason those genetic markers exist at all is because of the society in the first place. Point is that this isn't going to magically make the clans better if it works. And it may make them a greater threat long term.
     
    Also, just since it's come up on the discord: Releasing the virus on Inner Sphere worlds will lead to a ~1% death rate among infected populations since even the non-terminator version is still an illness. Immunocompromised people, those with poor respiratory systems, heart disease, etc are vulnerable to these sorts of pathogens.

    Moreover, some people/historically isolated populations are just plain unlucky enough that the terminator effect will fire on their particular genetic makeup. The sole reason the Canopians were able to get such accurate targeting for the terminator effect is due to Clan genetic modification... but said genetic modification didn't involve adding any truly new or weird genetic markers; they were just shuffling existing human genes around to try and get the perfect warrior. As a result, it can fuck up.

    You can 100% still do it if you want, but I want you to have all the information the Republic can feasibly know.
     
    While this is top secret, I'm nevertheless fearful of uncorking the genie of targeted, genocidal biological weaponry.

    It also bears pointing out: the Clan warrior caste is not the only population that has proven disruptive to the Inner Sphere that possesses a unique set of biological and genetic markers.

    The bulk of the population of the Helghan Republic is, in all likelihood, similarly vulnerable to a targeted biological weapon. Something to be kept in mind if the genie is let out the bottle.
     
    So this is it.

    Should the Battle of Lyndon fails, then Eschaton is green lighted towards the Clans' homeworlds.

    I agree with @Omega-Chris on this; we let Focht fight the Clans at Lyndon first, and if it failed, green light the deployment of Eschaton.

    Time to end this war, and I pray that Focht wins the battle, lest we popped the genie off his lamp.
     
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    So limited genocide weapon?
    Sure,im not really above being a monster for survival

    first lets see if the gamble pays up,would be wasteful to kill 1% of civilians and most of their armed forces just to realize it was unnecesary
     
    We are not pulling a budget Terracide. Full stop.

    You are not going to make an argument that convinces me. I'm not even going to try to point out how flawed an idea it is that this will make life easier on us in the future (it won't).

    The Clans still have a shred of decency in them, Smoke Jaguars aside. Doing this will make them the monsters that agitprop made of them.
     
    Crake said:
    We are not pulling a budget Terracide. Full stop.
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    Then what do you suggest we do if the Comstar gamble fails? It's unlikely our civilians will stomach our participation in the Invasion for much longer. A decapitations strike if the gamble fails will trow the Clans into complete disarray which gives us the opening to at least push them back before requesting a ceasefire fire.
     
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