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  ILLICIAN LANCERS CONCLAVE

  AL QALYŪBĪYAH, KAFR SILIM

  CAPELLAN MARCH

  FEDERATED SUNS

  25 MAY 3151

  “You’ve all read the reports. Duke Alexander Hasek is back at the helm of the Capellan March,” Colonel Kenneth Ramaley said. “This changes everything. We should be sending an envoy immediately. Our contract is with the Suns—and will be again when we re-sign in July, of course—but we have already heard his calls for retribution against the Capellans. We could be in the thick of the action soon.”

  Luciana purposefully leaned back in her chair, just keeping a roll of her eyes at bay. The movement was a bold enough statement in the brotherhood conclave, but an eyeroll would’ve been too much. Even for her.

  The two-dozen people in the large circle of chairs couldn’t help but notice her casual leaning back from the normal decorum of straight-back sitting. All the better to show off our brotherhood sashes.

  She glanced around the room, containing all officers ranked captain or higher of the two regiments of the Illician Lancers, her own Fifty-Ninth Strike Regiment and Rameley’s Twenty-First Rangers. Long before she was born, these conclaves would’ve only consisted of majors and above—when four regiments were still in the command—and all wearing the ancient robes of the original Illician Order, with a legacy that reached all the way back to Terra. But sometime during the late Succession Wars, the robes had been exchanged for sashes bearing the bright logo of the Lancers. She wanted to disparage the act, but knew it simply came from frustration at the third such conclave in as many months.

  Will we be as deadlocked? As undecided as before? How in the world did the Prince denude us of so much of our identity simply by putting us in the corner? But she was a Lancer to the bone, and every time she put the sash on every six years for the conclave, she swelled with pride at the immense history it represented.

  Her eyes were momentarily drawn to the stone arch—the keystone missing its seal—in the back of the room. It was said the stones came from the brotherhood’s ancient Illicia abbey on Terra before it had been destroyed during the fall of the Star League. An arch under which every new Lancer was sworn in, and every potential Elder fasted and meditated before their solemn vows. An arch each of them touched upon entering the conclave; depressions in the very rock, worn away at the touch of a thousand soldiers.

  And now, draped across that arch, were multiple regimental sashes honoring the fallen. The Fifteenth, Eighteenth and Thirty-Third, all decimated during the war against the Usurper. The First and Seventh, annihilated liberating Terra at the end of that conflict. The Ninth, destroyed during the Jihad. The Fourth, destroyed during the early Republic years. Across six centuries, the Lancers had lost seven regiments. But they were still here, proud and tall and able to take on any contract, any enemy, and win the field.

  “Colonel Morales,” General Cassius said, her sonorous voice matching her tall, willowy figure, pulling Luciana’s focus from ancient history to the current moment of where their future might lead. “You believe differently?”

  “Oh no,” she began, knowing she had to keep her tongue under control. “This does change everything. For the Federated Suns. And it does change the fact that we could be swept up in Hasek’s vendetta. But we’ll get clobbered in the process. He’s a playboy acting the part of a military commander.”

  “So, you are okay with the endless years of convalescence here? As our skills slacken and our reputation further tarnishes?”

  Colonel Ramaley’s eyes stared daggers at Luciana as she met his gaze, his immaculate beard nearly quivering. His phrasing left little doubt he’d nearly called her out, in public, over the fact he believed it was her fault they were in this predicament. Are we? Isn’t it really my fault? A ghostly feeling seemed to agree, and she floundered for a moment. Until she actually managed to snag onto the endless buttressing words of her XO, and forged on, now that she’d taken the limelight in the conclave discussion.

  “Of course not. And I’m not the one losing my skills.” Chuckles bubbled through the room at the obvious reference to her thorough routing of Ramaley in their last training exercise, causing the colonel’s face to redden, his eyes sharpening further, if possible, in dislike. At least it’s not outright hate. That she’d lived with plenty, and knew the difference.

  She paused, sweeping eyes around the room to ensure every major and captain was paying attention. “Yes, we want off this border of boredom. We want the contracts worthy of our history. When the holovids come and the news reports of battles across the Inner Sphere over the last century, they feature Wolf’s Dragoons or Kell Hounds. Or croon over the Eridani Light Horse or Northwind Highlanders or the Grey Death Legion. Where are the accolades for us? Why are we not known as far and wide? We were mercenaries before the Light Horse. And our roots back to Terra are as ancient as the Highlanders’.”

  Heads nodded at this, many with frustrated features that always sparked when this strange conundrum was spoken out loud. I’m walking a fine line here. We don’t bring this up because none of us likes to face it. That despite all of that, we simply don’t have the recognition we deserve. Not to mention, saying it aloud feels like complaining, and that we never do. She took a deep breath redolent of anger and frustration and forged on, hoping this wouldn’t blow up in her face.

  “Hasek is a fool, and we all know it. Hitching our fortunes to his is a desperation move. Yes, I suppose it might work. But the odds are stacked against it. And it’s one thing for him to order us into action and have it implode. That may be forgiven. It’s another thing entirely to court him. To actually send an envoy shows how much we are willing to tie that albatross around our neck. You think this posting is bad now? What happens when we do that and then it goes sideways? Do you think the Prince will ever forgive us then? We’ll be guarding the Filtvelt border before you can say Blake’s Blood. If they ever sign us again.”

  While not all heads were nodding, she was pleased a good number were. “Then what is your suggestion, Colonel?” General Cassius asked.

  She took a deep breath, knowing her immediate answer would ring hollow. I don’t know. But having taken the stage, she had to say something. “We send an envoy to Julian instead. Convince him he needs our regiments to recapture the Tongue worlds and fully vanquish the snake salient.”

  Colonel Ramaley burst out laughing, ridicule liming the sound, as several others joined in. “Please, Luciana. Why don’t we just send you? I’m sure the Prince would love to see you. You can bring him a souvenir from Saso.”

  Fury bit, bright and sharp, and, despite her dark complexion, her face betrayed bright red over such a direct mention of her failure. While she still had several nodding in her direction at her previous words, some who’d previously been swayed now glanced away at her shame.

  “Enough!” General Cassius cut through the hubbub, and silence instantly reigned. While they were a fractious group, and the conclave to elect a new general always led to rowdy, heated discussion, General Cassius was still the general, until she wasn’t. Respect of the commanding officer was sacrosanct. Especially in the conclaves. “There are a hundred mistakes across our heritage. And many have left entire regiments dead on forgotten worlds. We do not need to dredge up history. Even recent history. Instead, we are here to determine where we will go. And who shall lead us.”

  The room quickly devolved into more heated discussions, and most seemed to argue for joining Colonel Ramaley’s plan for sending an envoy to Hasek. And yet, despite no real desire to send an envoy to Julian Davion, and the public shaming that still required she clench her fists to keep her lips sealed from a hot retort, her anger began to calm some. Enough had heard her arguments. Had been convinced. Siding with Hasek was a fool’s errand. At least for now.

  Yet it was clear there would be no consensus on where their future would go. No consensus on who would lead them. Irritation twined with relief. We’ll need to call a new conclave next month. But Rameley won’t
get the votes. We won’t tie ourselves to the playboy and get ourselves killed.

  MULE-CLASS DROPSHIP JOTUNN

  NEAR ORBIT, KAFR SILIM

  CAPELLAN MARCH

  FEDERATED SUNS

  17 JUNE 3151

  The short, dark-haired woman moved easily in zero gravity as she entered the Jotunn’s large conference room.

  Ya’el had originally considered bringing the Jormungandr down into orbit. But regardless of the reputation of the Sea Foxes, bringing a WarShip—even one converted to merchant use—into near orbit of the mercenary’s planet would be a cause for concern he did not mean to elicit. Instead, he’d secured a DropShip, parked himself in orbit and broadcast an invite to one woman, Colonel Luciana Araya Morales.

  It was, as he’d thought many months ago at the start of this journey, the boldest move of his career. Now we shall see if the dice land in my favor.

  “SaKhan Labov,” Luciana said in a clear, strong voice as she and her security retinue entered, dress uniforms resplendent in orange and red striping that matched their logos. Her voice was firm and crisp, along with her eyes. Confusion and hunger warred with equal measure. A tension he didn’t realize was present eased from his stomach. Maybe, just maybe, she was the correct choice.

  “Aff,” he replied, standing from his position at the table, gesturing with his arm for her to take a seat.

  Luciana glanced back at both men, who secured the hatch entrance with alacrity, then eased forward, sliding into the chair and securing the seat belt that would keep her from floating off. He followed suit.

  “You seem to have me at a disadvantage,” Luciana said. “I only know your name from the message you broadcast to this world. But you broadcast it to me directly. I’m assuming you know far more about me than I do you.”

  “Aff,” he responded again, leaving it to her to broach the topic. Do you have the drive I need?

  The silence stretched as they matched gazes, her ponytail wafting lazily in the zero-g. Just about…now. The silence stretched a good ten more seconds before she opened her mouth. Despite the reputation of a fiery temper, you do have patience when needed. Excellent.

  “If we’re just going to stare into each other’s eyes the entire time I’m here, I hope you’ll buy me dinner first?”

  Ya’el smiled easily at her attempt to lighten the situation. “Just gauging if you have the patience to see through what I can offer you. Not many would.”

  She stiffened at the barb, as he knew she would. “You know nothing about me. We’ve never met. Yet you’re gonna lecture me? I get enough of that from others in my own command. I don’t need the vaunted Foxes to deign to stoop to my level.”

  Despite the acerbic words, she kept still, and he couldn’t help letting his smile grow larger, which only darkened her glower. Fiery, and yet still, a core of patience. But she shoots straight. No dissembling here. To the heart of it.

  “I do believe I know you, after the months of devouring every bit of data I could find. I know you are blamed for the failure on New Syrtis. I know that blame has only festered after three years of sitting out one of the greatest wars in House Davion history. But I also know it was not your fault. It was not anyone’s fault. The vagaries of war mean even the best commands cannot accomplish all their objectives. You have a sterling service record stretching back centuries. For Prince Davion to punish you for one moment in a well prosecuted campaign is short-sighted at the least.” He left any further condemnations unsaid, but read a reciprocal thought in her eyes.

  “And you’re here to what, make it all better? Make the command forget the death of Colonel Bradley? And the last three years?” Luciana barked a scoffing laugh.

  “Yes,” he replied, placing his hands flat on the cool metal of the table between the two of them.

  Silence again. And this time, it stretched for long minutes until Ya’el smiled in concession and broke it. “Are you happy with the Mercenary Review and Bonding Commission bonding of your contracts?”

  Confusion swept her features. “What in the world does the MRBC have to do with any of this?”

  “It is all interconnected. It is on the path forward for you. And for I. It is all interwoven in various ways. And that includes the vestigial MRBC.”

  “So, you’re here for yourself?”

  It was his turn for the large laugh. “Of course I am. I am a Sea Fox. If I did not tell you upfront that my hand was in the pot alongside yours, there would be no trust.”

  That surfaced a wry smile on her tense face, and she nodded.

  “So, my question? Are you happy with the MRBC’s current enforcement, oversight, and financial services for your contracts?”

  Luciana cocked her head, the end of her short braid sneaking across her shoulder. “I never thought I would say this—nor I doubt anyone would—but ComStar was a brake against the MRBC. And with their collapse, well, the years since have seen the MRBC become more ineffectual, incompetent and corrupt. I suppose it’s inevitable, with the amount of funds that move through their bank accounts, with no good oversight. The Houses are all too busy fighting their wars, and they just need the cannon fodder. So no one digs, and the corruption continues, burning mercenaries.” She shrugged, mouth twisting slightly, malaise mirrored in her eyes. “But what are you going to do?”

  Ya’el clacked his teeth together several times, the sound loud in the room. “There is often a sense that a bad contract is better than no contract. And I will concede that in a few situations, especially for those down-on-their luck outfits, that sense may even be true. But any Fox knows that if you find yourself in a bad contract, you need to get out of it. Find a way out. And find a better contract. There is nearly always a better contract. If you are willing pay the price of the gamble.”

  “And I suppose you’re about to tell me what that gamble is?”

  He waited a moment longer, nearly wishing for a pair of dice to throw on the table in a dramatic gesture. Nevertheless, he reached under the table—being both impressed and amused at the stiffening of her guards at the hatch—and pulled out a small noteputer. He placed it on the desk, turned it on, and slid it over to her, its bottom suction allowing it to slide without floating. “That Clan Sea Fox acts as your broker for all future contracts.”

  “What?!” She burst out laughing. Which slowly ebbed into incredulity as she started reading the noteputer, and then glanced between it and him several times. “You…um…this…has to be a joke.”

  “Not at all, Colonel,” he continued. “Skip to Appendixes D and E, you will note several instances in the last decade when the MRBC failed in its obligations as the primary broker on contracts. Three instances of mercenary outfits failing to adhere to the stipulated contract terms, one where a corporation failed to do so, and finally, one where a House failed its responsibilities. In each of those instances, it was the MRBC’s obligation to indemnify the wronged party and ensure payment—or penalties—were appropriately allocated. And during the last six months, I have spent a considerable amount of time, along with the full resources at my disposal, to dig much deeper into the MRBC. And I can tell you with full confidence, the situation will only get worse. The rot will only grow. The MRBC already lacks the confidence of the various powers and mercenary outfits within the Inner Sphere. In less than a decade they shall pass into history, as ComStar already has. It has already begun.”

  Ya’el paused, amused she attempted to listen to him, but her eyes were drawn inexorably back to the noteputer. He waved at it. “That represents a solution. Some are already filling the void the MRBC has left, but lack the scale to be effectual. Perhaps some other interstellar entity will try and expand into the mercenary brokerage market, but they will be just as corrupt and inefficient. We can and will guarantee a different outcome.”

  She raised eyebrows until they nearly vanished under her bangs. “You aren’t about to tell me there’s no corruption in the Clans.”

  He actually joined her in a long laugh. “Ah, no, Colonel. Co
rruption is found everywhere. Even the Sea Foxes dealt with it when one of our own attempted to assassinate our Khan, using the Jade Falcons, back in the ’30s.” He managed to say it without wincing; a dark day the Foxes often tried to hide. But he’d found that revealing something obviously painful resulted in a more open dialogue.

  “What I can say, however, is that the Sea Fox Khanate has the connections, finances, and military to vouchsafe any contract we bond. And to be clear, we are not hiring you. Your contract is up with the Suns in July. We would assist you privately in obtaining a new, better contract, and publicly broker that arrangement.”

  “The Federated Suns has hired the Lancers for centuries. I’m sure their bureaucrats already have the next contract lined up, ready for our signatures.”

  “I am sure as well. But when was the last time you actually negotiated that contract? Truly negotiated. As though you would walk away?”

  Luciana slowly leaned back in the chair, face changing, as though he’d said something distasteful. “Why would we leave the Suns?”

  “Because they are treating you as a misbehaving dog, to be sent to the corner when you did not perform exactly as ordered,” he said, leaning forward, voice hardening. Time to push. “You have one of the longest histories of any mercenary outfit in the Inner Sphere. One of the longest histories of any combat command. And yet here you sit, on the sideline, while the House you have faithfully served stands at the precipice of destruction. Why…are…you…not…fighting…alongside…the…Prince?”

  She opened her mouth several times, anger and shame washing in equal measure across her features, before she finally closed it, unable to respond.

  “Exactly,” Ya’el said. “So why should you not walk away?”

  “Are you suggesting we do?” she retorted, words limed with hurt.

  “I am not suggesting you must. I am suggesting that when we come to the negotiation table, you ensure that they understand you are done being a lap dog.”