Celebration - Parades and Remembrences.
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Lord Of Flames
I write good, sometimes.
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September, 3030.
It's hard not to smile at the festive mood that's consumed the province in the wake of the pirates defeat, even if the people cannot see it through the thick panels of your cockpit. Your Black Knight was one of the five BattleMechs walking in this parade. You had been worried that you might damage the road, but a quick dry run during the night a week or so ago allayed most of your worries.
Now all you had to do was beware the hanging pennants.
In front of you, a cohort of knights trotted their horses side by side, each of them adorned in the colorful raiment of their parade dress. In each of their hands was a banner matching their drapery, their house sigils held proudly as they trotted before the cheering crowd.
Behind your BattleMech, the infantry, your new space marines foremost of all, marched in even squares. The companies were broken up by your lance mates and behind them drove the scores of vehicle lances, moving forward at a slow clip so that the slowest among them could keep up easily.
It made for quite a pretty sight, and it only redoubled as you turned down the final causeway, where the crowds grew thickest, and a stage had been erected before the steps of the church. This was the center of Hammer Crest, and so where your family waited. The whole of the square had been cleared out, no market open today to honor your fellow soldiers as they filed in. For your part, your 'Mechs came before the dais, and gave a short bow of respect, before you took up a place behind your family, all five 'Mechs on one knee like a knight taking his vows.
It was pageantry, but you couldn't miss the adoring look in the eyes of the children that stood behind the tassel bearing links that blocked off the parade square. The five of you dismounted from your machines, and You joined your family on the stage. Lord Tristain, Alistair, took up his place a step down on the tiered plinth, his fellow MechWarriors beside him, as the parade blocks filed into the square.
It was honestly a tight fit, but a fitting show of support for the brave soldiers of house Gawain.
At the head of the parade, the Knights on their gallant steeds advanced together, and as one drew their swords, saluting your father on his throne.
They were not the only ones, as every soldier took their arms from their marching positions, and at the command of their sergeants raised them vertically in front of themselves. The Tanks behind them, if they had them, raised their barrels high, letting the flags that hung from them fly in the wind.
Your father rose from his seat, and Lord Gawain took a few steps forward. His cane was an ever-present aid, but you did not move to help him yourself. Alone, this was an image of a man who had recovered from a terrible injury, but still had far to go, an inspirational image. Aided by his son, it was a piteous one.
"Men of House Gawain!" He called, his voice strong. "I salute you!" from his waist he pulled a simple long sword, decorated just enough to be a fitting addition to his clothes but polished to a mirror shine by the squires, and held it high, echoing the knights before him.
"We have been attacked by ruthless bandits! We have had our homeland struck by terrible foes! Our Homeworld suffered from the presence of these Pirates on its dirt, but we did not let it suffer long!" His shout was met with cheers from the men, who for once were not cuffed by their officers.
"For the first time in an age, Pirates did not walk our lands, take our peoples, or destroy our livelihoods for days, weeks without a proper response! They landed on our shores, and we broke them in a Day!"
"We crushed them under the treads of our tanks and brought their bastard machines low with the might of our cannons! Where they think themselves demons we ought to fear, we pierced them on the spears of angels!"
"My Son, Elric of House Gawain, took the fight to the enemy. Three times he sortied, without repair, without resupply, with his will alone to fight pushing him on, and he was victorious!" With a magician's poise, your father reached to the side and pulled aside the cloth that covered the recovered head of the Pirate Corsair, the torn metal at the bottom cleaned of carbon, but still a rainbow hue of yellows and blues from the intense heat of the reactor failure.
"He has slain their warlord and given Freirehalt a peace it has not known in ages! He and his MechWarriors are the heroes of the day, and deserve all the glory they have carved for themselves!"
It wasn't the end of the speech, but as you gradually paid less attention to his words you looked to the people, to the crowd, the soldiers in front of you.
You had a discussion with the smiths about their failings, and they were quick to make the required adjustments to see your commission complete on time this go around.
"And as such, I relinquish this plinth to my Son, for he has some words to offer for the brave men and women he fought alongside."
There's your cue.
As you step up to the podium, your hands coming to rest on the slanted panel and the lip at its base, you look over the ranks of your family's army. There are many here, and while you may have been focused on the 'Mech-on-'Mech combat, they had not been idle. Sir Christoph is an effective commander, and though there were hiccups, he had conducted himself and his soldiers with great honor.
"I am a MechWarrior." You say first, choosing to paint yourself as a fellow soldier rather than the entitled heir of your house. "I fought for my homeland and I defeated my enemy. These are simple facts, ones that require no further recognition because they are the expectation of my position. But You?"
You make a show of looking from square to square, something that would give the troops the feeling you were looking right at them. "You are not MechWarriors, lords, or hired mercenaries. You do not war clad in fourteen meters of steel might and ablative armor. You do not use the heart of a star to power your weapons as you take the fight to the enemy. No, you are men, and you war as men always have, with your own two hands, with the weapons in them, and the body you have honed. Some of you are Knights, many others men of good character and upright zeal, who take to the field as our ancestors did, though armored cavalry has changed from barded horses to roaring engines and spinning tread."
You sweep your hand back to your Black Knight looming behind your parents. "You do not enjoy the protections I do, the might I can deploy with a moment's thought and the pull of a trigger." You pause to let that sink in for a moment, before you continue. "And so, I salute you, for you are the best of us. The good book says, 'No greater love hath man, than to lay down his life for his friends.' As soldiers, there is never a guarantee that you will return home to your families, but you fall in regardless, knowing that your task is important. You do battle in the name of my family not just for glory or honor, but because you love that which you defend much more than you hate what you are fighting.
Pirates are the scum of the Earth, honorless cravens that despoil whatever they touch, stealing from the poor, starving the hungry in their greed. Given free reign, anarchy would rule over the universe, where the only thing standing between your family, your community, and total devastation was you. This past month, we have uncovered the mettle of our fine soldiers, our knights, and MechWarriors. They have been tested, and they have not been found wanting."
With that declaration, you move into the next section of the ceremony, as you step from behind the podium, coming to a stop beside a table that had been setup on the lower tier of the platform.
"There are many who will be recognized, but I would personally like to honor a handful. The first of them, Sir Christoph."
The man dismounted from his tank, the Pike sitting in its parade colors of blue and white stripes, a single pike set in the middle of its flying pennants. When he reached the platform you stood at, he went to one knee, his head bowed.
"Sir Christoph, long have you served my family and now your son stands as one of our vassals, a MechWarrior in his own right. You led the combat vehicles and the knights of my family against the pirates that crash landed in our province, intent on stomping them out like the embers of a dying flame. What you found was a pirate force that far outstripped what any of us expected, but did you falter? No, you stood your ground, held the line, and pushed them into the sea. Without you, my warriors and I would have been outnumbered, outgunned, and ground down with time. For this, I would offer up this award, and new duties, in the name of my father."
Reaching over to the table, you uncover a medal from where it sits, a longsword set in a laurel wreath, flanked on either side by the recognizable silhouette of a Pike. "Our military is changing, growing, and with growth comes a change of titles and ranks. For this, my father would have Knightly orders founded, to better support, train, and lead the disparate parts of our military to greater effect. For you, we would offer the title of Grandmaster of a new Order of Knights dedicated to the armored cavalry. Will you accept this honor, Sir Christoph?"
"I accept, my lord." His voice carries over the square, and you nod down at him as you lay the medal and its ribbon over his head.
"Then rise as Grandmaster Christoph of the Iron Lances." You lower your voice as you clap him on the shoulder with a smile, leaning in. "We will speak of the details another day."
When he rose, Sir Christoph stepped back towards the assembled squares, taking up a position just outside of one, saving him the walk all the way back to his tank, which had raised its three barrels higher still. He is not the last soul called before you, as Alice is next and when she rises, she is the new lady of a stretch of land from the Western border with Knightway's Laoricia to the river Ordre north of the Bay of Knights.
Sir Mitchell, like many of the knights, sees a grant of more land around his holdings, as well as the right to construct a number of air bases as he sees fit. It will be up to him to convince the current land holders, or your father if they should still be held by the Lordship, of their value. Any that are on your family lands will see a heavy subsidy in their construction, as well as a refurbishment for the facilities he already has. Sir Sharp sees a similar grant, though he is more clearly put under the command of the senior pilot, his Sabre making for a good scout craft to feed targets back to the heavier Ironsides.
To Alistair and the other MechWarriors, a new medal, featuring not a Gawain badge, but rather a small planet, the sole continent of Freirehalt emblazed on its face. They are not the only recipients, as the award is one that many of the knights and soldiers will receive, though only these three from your hand, granted for rushing to the defense of their people without regards to any political concerns, only the well-being of the planet itself.
You call a number of other names, knights accepting awards for managing a confirmed mission-kill on enemy units, the money to be split between them and their crews. There are already men watching to make sure it happened equitably enough, and if the knight should withhold the moneys for themselves, a Guardsman might be by to have a chat.
You call forth the officers of the men you'd led up to the Jumpship, its new name still pending a discussion between you and your father, and your voice carries over the ranks of your soldiers as you speak.
"Those of you who braved the black of space to board the pirate JumpShip, I have honors aplenty for you, but as so many know, the reward for leal service is more work.
You are space marines now, and that means you will draw a higher wage because of your newfound specialty, compensation for the increase in your responsibilities. Some of you may not remain in this role, may move on or return to your previous posts, but your contributions shall not be forgotten. For others, this is where you want to be, and so you shall remain, garrisoning our jumpships and our dropships as we explore the stars, bringing either the hand of friendship, or the iron fist of vengeance to them.
To set you apart from your fellow troops, I have something for you all. 200 souls went up with me, and to each of you, I offer this."
With a gesture, the servants that had been waiting off to the side advance to each officer, pulling back the cloth to reveal a helmet freshly fitted. You had made clear your wrath to the smith's that had failed you, and this time they had made good their promises and more. Armor smiths on Freirehalt worked in a bit more than simple steel and leather, though those were the bulk of their trade.
The flak-cloth tailings that were currently stuffed into the helmets would serve well to catch any debris or shrapnel before it could do terrible damage to the exposed neck, as well as help seal the helmet to the soft suit under their armor. Fine ballistic glass set just behind the slightly exaggerated eyeholes protected the eyes and hid them from sight, giving any marines an advantage in close quarters, when the enemy could not watch their eyes for hints of what was to come. It was a definite improvement over the haphazard nature of their armor during the boarding action.
"Each of you will take this armor with you into your future, whether in space or planetside, and know that you have done something few in the Inner Sphere could claim.
You have opened up our world to do more than sit and wait for the Artemis to return. A single JumpShip, a single collar, a single dropship, all these the only connections we had to greater humanity. For your efforts, and the efforts of your fellow soldiers, no longer can we suffer a freak failure that would isolate us forever, cut off the trail of trade and supplies that allow us to flourish out here among distant stars from our ancestral homeworld. Cheers to you, men of Laoricia, who have opened the path to the stars wide!"
The captain takes the helmet from you, and with your declaration you thrust your fist into the air, the crowd joined the soldiers as they cheered their fellows, and you imagine that many of that cohort were thankful for the face concealing helmets that were the standard. You let them roar for a moment, before you slowly let your fist fall, and when it was on the podium once more. With a pat on his shoulder, and a private word of thanks, you let him and his officer return to their square.
With this crowd listening to you, already in great spirits from the show and pomp of the parade, now was the time to seize the initiative in shaping a narrative, one that had the benefit of being mostly true.
"Some months ago, I vanished from our world for an expedition not to the stars, but instead to a closer site. On Roundel, I found something I never expected, and today I share with you but a small part of it." The crowd quieted as they listened to you speak, more than a few quirking their heads like dogs as questions dance in their eyes.
"I found an old friend of Freirehalt sitting up there, alone and forgotten after its crew sacrificed their lives to defend our world in a desperate action. The Avalon was but a single dropship, but against three she did duel, and against three she did win. Amidst the plains of Roundel, I found her grave, and inside, I found her champion, felled not by the enemy, but standing there, as if they'd fallen asleep while techs loaded fresh munitions. Though I left the Avalon amidst the lunar dust of Roundel, I did not leave her champion to lie, for I know that any warrior that would stand in defense of our people would not want their machine left to rot and sit when it could do more."
From a building purchased out from its previous owners for a pittance to your father, the warehouse doors opened wide and from them stepped a 'Mech, covered in a navy blue panoply, shining silver paint chasing up the torso, while bands of gold circled its biceps and the lip of its missile launcher, a green lens at the top subtly actuating as it fed data straight to the Artemis unit embedded deep inside the torso.
You had the privilege of watching the BattleROM of the Excalibur soon after you returned with it to Laoricia, and with it came a respect for the machine and the MechWarrior that had piloted it to war.
Roundel, December of 2971.
Should I have been a pilot?
The thought has little reason to cross the mind of Vivian Bedivere, heir and daughter of her Father Marcus Bedivere, as she sat in her crashseat, harnessed into her BattleMech, the mighty Excalibur, painted in its royal blues and chased silver edging.
She was loading for combat, the locking lugs of the ammunition feeders locked unto the shoulders of her 'Mech as they fed rockets and ferro-magnetic slugs into their respective hoppers. The Lostech Gauss rifle on her right arm was topped with a blunted blade, intended to protect the gauss rifle in case of an enemy managing to close the distance, while the HUD of her neurohelmet was constantly calculating the distance, vector, weather conditions, and a hundred other things that might impede her ability to hit the Mechbay door with her Artemis enhanced LRMs.
A pair of cylinders sat on her opposite arm, the pulse lasers there intended to be a final defense for the Excalibur should it be overrun, at the cost the missile launchers size. A difference of five shots in a volley seemed a fair trade for the ability to gouge off a ton of armor in just under three seconds at close range, and that was before considering what damage the radical heat differential and scatter would do to any internals it struck.
She had only had the pleasure a single time before this sortie, when she managed to open up the side torso of a Pirate Trebuchet, blowing its ammo bins straight to hell, along with its pilot.
And now she was getting ready to do something incredibly stupid, to sortie out of the Avalon and face up to a company of 'Mechs all on her own. For all that Vivian was a crack shot with her 'Mech's main weapon, and a passable skirmisher on the run with the others, she was under no illusions that even one of the SLDF's gunslinger graduates could have taken on those numbers and lived.
"Vivian, this is the captain. Enemy 'Mechs have been detected making their way towards the crash site and will enter weapons range shortly. The Avalon will fight until it breaks apart, my girl. Take as many down as you can, but withdraw before you are lost as well."
She listed as her father spoke, glancing up at the percentages of her ammo boxes as they finally ticked over to full, flashing green in their corner of her nuerohelmet display. With a mechanical clank, the loaders disengaged from her 'Mech, and she hit a switch to slide closed the quarter ton of armor that covered the feeding ports, taking short steps forward as she cleared the catwalks of the mechbay.
"Copy Captain. Excalibur, deploying."
It does not take Vivian long to remind herself that again, this was a stupid fucking idea, as she maneuvers around a set of jutting lunar rocks to avoid a volley of PPC fire, the electric blue bolts fizzing out against the rocks as the charge disperses with little more than scorched dust on its surface. The strange reversed bang of her Gauss rifle, caused by the slug moving faster than sound before it even leaves the barrel, is deadened by the thinness of Roundel's atmosphere, but she can't help but smile to herself as she reads out the result on her warbook's automatic tracking, as the Panther she hit staggers back sans its most powerful weapon, the arm it was attached to laying in the lunar dirt.
Backing up from her cover to angle her torso properly, she uses her 'Mechs connection to the dropship to triangulate the enemy position, before sending a hyper accurate volley of LRM fire raining down on the enemy. That damn vindicator won't be a problem any more, as its own LRM bins suddenly find themselves taking fire, the head trailing smoke as it ejects wholesale from the body. That's new and smart, but probably unintended by the pirates. Who knows what madness they jury rig into each of their machines?
Either way, Vivian's luck doesn't hold out, as she finds herself staying in combat, dumping slugs, missiles, and the occasional flash of her pulse lasers against the approaching enemies. The lighter units are rightfully afraid of her, the Excalibur designed to be a Heavy Cavalry 'Mech that hunted the likes of Commandos, Mercuries, and whatever else the traitor Amaris has scrounged for a scout 'Mech corp. Heavier enemies are less bothered by her loadout, only keeping their advance slow as she reminds them from time to time that a rail-accelerated ferro-magnetic slug, going faster that some aerospace fighters at full burn, is plenty powerful enough to punch a hole through armor and ferroglass at extreme ranges for everyone but her.
Of course, blowing the head off the Guillotine as it tried to use its jumpjets to outflank her had been a fluke, but the enemy didn't need to know that.
She gave one last shot at the enemy, running her Missile bin dry as she plugged a slug into the compromised torso armor of an enemy Griffin, dropping the bastard as his gyro failed to adjust to the loss of armor in that section, before she retreated back to the Avalon for her third resupply.
How many 'Mechs has she downed now, six, seven? It could have been as low as five, as she swore that at least one of the 'Mechs she'd dropped had gotten back up with the help of their allies, like the Catapult whose knee actuator she had blown out. He was being a right bastard, blind firing LRMs into her estimated position to try and flush her out.
Shame about the Anti-Missile System she had, yet another piece of irreplaceable tech in her family machine.
"Captain Bedivere, Excalibur returning for resupply. Enemy 'Mech count is at demi-company strength, down a full lance of light 'Mechs. Heavier machines are weathering my sniping better, but I-" The words died on Vivian's tongue as she rounded a corner, and came to face to face with a 'Mech she'd seen in the distance but had not expected to see again so soon.
The deathmask visage of a Banshee is terrifying for a MechWarrior in the opposite machine, but when Vivian had faced down an Atlas in raids before, it was less scary and more helpful in telling her to jink to the left as the enemy pilot fired his PPC, his heaviest hitting weapon, at point blank, a follow up from his Autocannon cracking across the collar of Vivian's Excalibur and sending shrapnel into her Ferroglass, spiderwebbing the port as she stepped into the Banshee's personal space and jamming her into the armor just below the armpit of the enemy assault 'Mech.
For all the Banshee was poorly armed for an Assault 'Mech, it had the armor of one, and for all the Excalibur was impressive armed, it lacked the armor to just brawl at knife-fight ranges. She could win, probably would if the pirate missed as he kept doing, pumping more shells through his autocannon into the rocky outcrops behind Vivian, but it would take time and ammunition she didn't have.
Thumbing the triggers on her joysticks, the pulses fired once, twice, a third time sent heat warnings flashing in her hud and the emergency lights of her cockpit. She rocked back on the third, turning a blow that should have caved in her 'Mech's head, and Vivian herself, into a glancing blow that just ablated off the armor of her torso, but still jarred shards of ferroglass free from the viewport and sent them into Vivian. She would have to check herself over in a moment, coolant poisoning was a bad way to go, but for now, she hammered the triggers twice more. Her gyro protested as she kicked the 'Mech off a large boulder to adjust her angle, taking her under the opposite punch of the Banshee, and keeping the still glowing section of armor in her sights, and she was rewarded for her efforts, the offending arm popping free as she cored out the joint, and then a fireworks show as the top right of the enemy 'Mech simply disappeared in an aborted explosion.
Her father had once shown her what an implosion looked like using an old plastic bottle and rubbing alcohol, and for all her thoughts strayed to that image, it was almost the opposite, like a crinkled bottle hammering itself out proper, and then further to burst apart in a shower of smoking munitions and broken metal.
"Vivian to Avalon, apologies for last transmission, found a squatter that tried to sell me the farm. I told him to keep it. Returning for resupply. Enemy elements are moving forward rapidly, you should prepare for contact. Over."
The way back was slowed by Vivian's lack of jumpjets, forcing her to backtrack through the same canyons she had walked out through, but back she did get, and up the ramp to her Mechbay the techs were already there, waiting with the loaders prepped, and Armor panels preformed to replace what had been damaged.
A check of her injuries from the shower of ferroglass revealed nothing pressing, and thankfully nothing had pierced her vac suit that could not be repaired with sailor's tape. It would be a pain to clean the blood that had dripped down her suit into the leather of her couch out later, after it had plenty of time to dry, but needs must as she drained one of her cockpit's water bottles.
From the hatch behind her came the familiar banging of the Tech crew that helped keep her 'Mech up to date on its maintenance, and with the flick of a few buttons, she unsealed the hatch, stale recycled air being replaced with slightly less stale recycled air from the dropship, two techs stepping in to do some last minute calibrations and repairs. She nodded to Laurence as he carefully bounced past her, a foam spray gun in hand as he floated over the font instrument panel, bracing his feet against the crashbars that ran across the interior panels and started applying emergency sealant over the cracks.
"We got enough LRM ammo to keep you going for a month," he said between squeezes of the tool, black gel squirting out of the tip and drying to a matte sheen in a few moments. ", but while the gauss slugs are simple, we only carry so many of them, you know?"
Honestly, it was true. Gauss sabots are essentially a well-shaped, elementally pure and magnetically identical set of steel-alloyed bolts, cylinders with a small ring running around the center to help seat them in the 'firing' chamber. At that point, a piston would drive the slug into the magnetic coils of the gauss rifle, each pulling on the slug faster and faster, until it reaches speeds better suited to aircraft after it clears the three-meter barrel. Sadly, each sabot or slug weighs over a hundred Star League Kilos each, meaning that each ton added a very limited number of shots to her magazine, and the Avalon simple didn't stock more than a dozen tons of ammo at a time for a weapon that wasn't mounted to its hull.
At times like this, Vivian wandered if the Star League had ever experimented with it, or if the Overlord-class had simply fallen by the wayside in terms of advancement. Who knows what those wack jobs with more money and time than sense were trying to develop back then, like 'Mechs that could actually fly.
If Vivian had wanted to be a pilot, she would have talked her father into finding her an ASF when the Camelot made its way back to the Inner Sphere for supplies. Freirehalt may be improving, but gods did they not have the factories to produce things beyond the most basic amenities.
Regardless, when the ammunition loaders clinked empty once more, and her bins were full, she left her mechbay behind and sortied once more.
Thrice more would she take up overwatch, tearing into the enemy machines, putting down a few more, badly maiming a handful more, and then retreating once more. Would that she had her sister machines beside her, a Black Knight cleaving in knife fight range, a King Crab sending shells the size of people through the armor she would had crippled, or the retort of another Gauss Rifle from a Highlander. Alone she was a mighty presence, but only an irritant for the reinforced company of pirate machines that tread towards her only home.
It was in the final sortie that the thought occurred once more.
Do I even remember the words I swore to my father?
Of course, the thought came at an inopportune time, her gauss rifle cycling as she send a pulse of green into the sparking internals of the enemy Hunchback.
To protect the innocent.
The damned medium's reprisal sees her viewport spiderweb as the AC-10 mounted in its shoulder scours not only her center torso, but the shrapnel slams into her Excalibur's head. She double taps the seals around her neurohelmet, just to be sure, but despite the hiss of air seeping through the broken ferro-glass she fights on.
To fight the unbeatable foe.
She slams the launch key for her missiles, the Hunchback at the extremes of her minimum range, just enough for the Artemis system to correct their course, taking them from a direct route to an arcing flight that takes them just far enough to trigger their proximity fuses, the enemy 'Mech falling limp as the missiles slam not just into the armor, but through the weakened head armor.
To go where the brave dare not.
She whirls her 'Mech around as she glances at the sensor report, an Assassin trying to make good its name only for her Gauss rifle to spit its last sabot, tearing its leg from the hip assembly and sending the whole 'Mech rolling badly down the hillside.
To right the unrightable wrong.
With her rifle empty, her arm becomes a club with a sharpened edge as she meets her next attacker, the enemy 'Mech heavy than her by a pittance, but enough that when it sends a crushing fist into her chest her gyro sends up a flashing warning, but she catches herself with a veteran's footwork, slamming the decorative edge into the Orion's hip mounted autocannon, badly denting the barrel and giving her a moment to step back as the pirate hits the trigger anyway, sending his right arm flying as the misfire detonates the round in the chamber with nowhere to go. The explosion topples the enemy 'Mech, the mechwarrior clearly not expecting it, and so as she slams her Excalibur's armored fist into the cockpit, she doesn't wait to let her lasers sing, an explosion of metal slivers, blood and glass floating from the ruined canopy.
The ammo alarms sound as she lets off a final load of missiles, both bins firmly empty. Victoria was left with only her medium pulses, a pitiful armament on anything but a 'Mech a fifth her weight. A return to the Avalon was in order, but would she even arrive in time to resupply before the enemy? She had been swarmed for the past twenty minutes as she blew through the ammo, armor, and what little wits she had left after sortieing again and again for half a day.
She dived into the backs of the enemy as she cleared the hill, coming into the back of a lance, PPCs and autocannon rounds kicking up moon dust around them as the Avalon fired on its approaching enemies. Lasers flashed, fists flew, and honor prevailed as she fought on, the enemy forced to choose between turning to face her and exposing their soft rear armor to the dropship's gunners, or to let her cut through them with her lasers.
By the time they fell, her 'Mech had seen better days, battered remnants all that remains of the coat of darkest blue and shining silver on her armor, the internal lights that lit the green of her 'Mech's ferro-glass shorted from far too many close calls with a PPC.
Limping into the Mechbay, she sagged in her chair as the loaders came down one more time, clicking empty far sooner than before. It didn't matter, as the techs slammed home the last of the prepared plating, their tools welding it into place, the whole of her 'Mech resembling a patchy mix of blues, blacks, and greys as she steadied herself for one last battle.
Vivian Bedivere was a Knight of Freirehalt, and if she had to choose when to die, today was as good a day as any other.
Freirehalt, Eastern Laoricia. September, 3030.
You had sworn in your heart not to take the Excalibur for your house unless you could find no one left that shared blood with the Avalon's champion and her captain, and you were not one to break your oaths.
It had taken months, journal entries a source of names, and putting your budding intelligence network to work finding a golden needle in a haystack. To your surprise, they had succeeded faster than you expected, content as you were to have this artifact of Freirehalt's history sit in waiting for its next master for years if necessary.
The young man they had brought before you was nothing special to look at, and if you had not heard his name you wouldn't know him from Adam. His skin was far darker than yours, and his hair was shaved close to his skull, but patrician cheekbones shown through his dark skin.
Young Casey Bedivere was of an age with you, if a few years younger, and he was the grandson of the youngest Bedivere sibling, little Cassandra left behind when her father and sister went to war on Roundel. She had been left the singular heir to her household, with healthy coffers and a villa well staffed with trusted confidants of her family. The house no longer rated the prestige of 'Mech-owning nobility, but they were still well respected.
It would not last.
Through the years that followed the loss of the Avalon and the Excalibur, she struggled to maintain the family's fortunes, her attempts to replace trade that traveled anywhere in a day with regular caravans doomed to failure, stymied by her inexperience, bad timing, and enemy action.
Hindsight often revealed certain things to those that went looking, and in this case, the Lord Daniel Summermere had not been idle. He coveted the wealth of the Bedivere family, who had chosen to retain the Avalon rather than stake a claim to any corner of the map, and so they became a wondering family, their residence either their DropShip or one of the villas they maintained around the planet. Was it any wonder that he offered his son's hand to the lady several times over the years as she grew from a stick-thin teenager to a beautiful young woman?
Her refusal had doomed her house's chance to remain recognized nobility. Fifty years of service, honest dealing, and earned friendships, wiped away in less than a generation as the fortune slowly vanished under debts, the villa sold to cover the last of them, leaving the family isolated and alone in a land that cared little for them.
You couldn't say much about Casey's early life, but the tale of his early adulthood painted a tale of a man dissatisfied with his lot in life, who had heard the tales from his grandmother's knee as a boy and longed for those same lofty heights. He had gone from job to job, leaving an apprenticeship despite an apparent talent for working metal, spending a summer as the student of the local Knight mechanics, and when one of your men had approached him, he was a few moments from decking his sergeant, who had just dumped another shift on the man just before he was due to head home.
An invitation from the young 'Mech-lord of Laoricia, as well as a small sum to settle any business or debts he had, and Casey had taken his surcoat and thrown it unto his sergeant's desk, glad to be quitting another fruitless job.
"House Bedivere," You call, your voice reaching the crowd as they scrambled to see this sixth 'Mech walk down the road alone, "Is revived from the grave! Their mighty Excalibur will stand with the lords of Freirehalt again, and bring death to our world's foes as it did before! This is our time to rise, to become more than we have been, and to see if the stars themselves are out of our reach!"
> With the defeat of the pirates, you have time to consider things you ignored before. You have questions for your Father.
Later that week, the Gawain keep.
When the parade and ceremony was concluded, a great many soldiers left a fair bit prouder, a few knights richer, and you with time on your hands.
So it was that you started to review some of the short reports that had crossed your desk in the lead up to the pirate landings, among them one from a team of surveyors. Their leader reported they'd been unable to reach their objective, let alone begin studying the region, before a recall order was sent by a runner atop a dirt-bike, signed by Lord Gawain.
It was one of a handful of things you wondered, and with time to spare for the moment, you rose from your desk. It took you no time at all to navigate the familiar paths of your family home, and soon you found yourself in your father's study.
The man was sat at his desk, a pair of reading glasses on his face, and you don't miss the small smile that pulls at his lips as he calls you in after your knock.
"What do you need, Elric?"
"I received an odd report on my desk a few weeks ago, right before the whole business with the pirates. One of the survey teams?" You see the twinkle of recognition in his eyes. "I'm going to assume you didn't just recall them for their own safety, right?"
"No, the thought crossed my mind, but I didn't want them to waste their time up in those craggy hills and mountains."
"I might agree if they'd been looking for somewhere to build a settlement, but they were geologists and mine-men. I know our mountains produce fine stone from our quarries, a good amount of metal here and there, but to cut off a third of a chain seems absurd."
Your father smiles a bit more at your pressing, before he rolls his shoulders, leaning back in his chair. "You were always like those dogs you liked to chase. Could never let go of a bone. I could tell you that I surveyed those mountains years ago, found nothing, and tell you to take your Lord's word. I'm sure you'd press me for a report in one of my cabinets."
He gestures to the many fine wooden cabinets that do in fact run beneath the bookcases. "And I'm also sure that I could find one close enough to the site to ward you off for a while." He looks down at that, a chuckle rumbling in his chest. "Or, knowing my son, you would go for a walk, and go look for yourself."
You nod at his words, knowing them to be true. "So, what was the real reason?"
"I went looking in those mountains years ago, and I know what's there." The man works his fingers along his jaw, his reading glasses gently tapping in his hand. When he looks up, he looks a little less like the imperious lord and more the exasperated father.
"You were a year old, my father was over a year dead, and our house was on the verge of ruin. I headed into those mountains after one more week of fruitless searching, money flowing out and nothing in. Gladwell had just taken a patch of land to the north of the keep in a forfeited duel. I was not in a great place, and so I went out for a month, your mother sat in my place with a story that I was ill and recovering."
"I don't know what I expected to find in those mountains, a miracle, a quick exit, or just stones. But I went looking, and I found what I was looking for. It took a few more years, and by chance a JumpShip came into the system, beat to hell, shot at, looking for resupply and food stuffs.
As you might imagine, that JumpShip was the Artemis, and it and its crew had just suffered a massive misjump that landed them 200 light-years away from where they wanted to be. I saw my chance, and I met with the then captain of the Quiver, who would carry what supplies they could buy back to the Artemis. I convinced the man to come with me to see my find, and with his testimony, I made the deal that saved our house. More money than I could ever expect to spend in my lifetime on Freirehalt, and I invested it quickly.
I sent Thaddeus with the Artemis once they got pointed in the right direction, and he made my case to banks, companies, and everyone I thought might be interested. They sent surveyors, lawyers, miners, and in return I bought out the stakeholders in the Artemis, the Quiver, a few small agriculture companies in the Lyran Commonwealth."
"Just what did you find out there that would be worth a JumpShip?" The story added up, and you watched as your father rose from his desk, a sight that still surprises you, and walked to a small painting. Pulling it from the wall, he revealed a small safe. From inside, he pulled a lumpy shape, covered with a silken cloth.
When he pulled it aside, it revealed a glittery rock, some kind of ore.
"I found a seam of Germanium."
~
"Germanium, like what Jumpships use for fuel?" Your father nods at your simplistic answer, grasping that you don't quite understand.
"Germanium is an odd mineral, because it is very conductive, beyond that of gold or almost any other pure element, but also not a true metal. On Terra, nine or ten centuries ago, they first discovered the uses of it in superconductors, and then later when the first star-ships were being imagined, slower than light generation ships, a scientist created the first jump drive, alloying the mineral with titanium to create a ball of superconductive-heat resistant metal that could handle the energy needed to warp space and move a Jumpship -at the time- a handful of lightyears away from where it started. It took them a month to jump back because the star they'd landed around was, well… the first go around they picked a bad star to say the least. They managed to jump home, and really the rest is history."
"So, you sold this seam of Germanium to companies in the Inner Sphere for a ridiculous sum of money, and bought out the JumpShip and DropShip?"
"Yes."
You really can't contain your disbelief. "They gave you I don't know-"
"650 Million C-bills."
"- 650 million C-bills, and you…" You really can't put it into words, and half the trouble is you don't even know what you'd spend 650 MILLION C-bills on. You doubt that the whole lords of Frierehalt, let alone the people could pull together more than a hundred. "Just why? How, even?"
"Because Freirehalt was dying, Elric. We were cut off for 40 years from the Inner Sphere. We lost a source of income, of parts, and of resources we simply didn't make on the planet. We were very alone, Elric, and when you're alone and desperate you start to get violent.
Those 40 years were the bloodiest between the lords we've ever seen Elric. You wonder how the Sanmon-Armmore feud got so bad, those 40 years played a big part in it. Medicine we'd taken for granted? Stopped coming. Rough materials we needed? Stopped coming. Income to pay our people, our staffs and armies? Stopped coming. The other houses, with their 'Mechs, turned on one another for petty scraps hoping they'd manage to land in the black come year's end.
Your Grandfather fought five times in a year for a stretch of four, if I remember right. He won every battle, but they'd just come again, taking farmland, beachfront property, something that would give them an edge.
I almost hate myself for thinking it, but I wonder if losing the Black Knight didn't save everyone because it pushed me to that mountain range."
You can hear the mourning in the man's voice when he talks about the Black Knight and your Grandfather, but he recovers quickly, taking his seat as he leaves the Germanium to sit on your side of his desk.
"I hope that satisfies you, Elric. I don't like to think about those days, as I'm sure Lord Sanmon, say, would agree with me. He's old enough he saw before them, when we were at our peak."
You nod, your eyes taking in your father once more. "It explains a lot, and I understand why you didn't want word of mouth spreading. Miners like their drink, and if they found a seam of something worth more than some planets, well…"
He nodded, before looking up from the expensive rock. "Was there anything else, Elric?"
"I had a few ideas, and some questions." You say to him, and you pull out some of the sheets of paper you've been doing math on, a small map you've drawn out as a demonstration of your railway idea.
You walk him through your numbers, the major stops, the areas it would travel over, the concern as it passes through the mountains to reach Knightway's side of Laoricia. When you are finished, he speaks up.
"Your projected costs are likely low, but the utility of it can't be understated. To move from having to caravan or ship raw materials by sea and instead be able to get them overland where they need to go far quicker, that'd be an improvement. With mobility comes expansion, there's a customer base that wants their products faster than they can travel over land, and they'd pay to use our railway to cut the journey by as much as 2/3rds over Laoricia. Still, that's thousands of miles of steel we'll need."
"As for building our own trains, we have the math, we know we have the materials, and the fuel. The trick is building a trainyard that actually builds them properly with the staff to do it safely. We'd need cranes and other machines. Let me look into that, I think I can get some more numbers together, could even just purchase some out from the dockyards."
>Your Father approves of your idea to build a Laoricia Rail Network. He does suggest budgeting for around 25m for it all said, over the course of five years. If you are under budget, nothing is lost, and if you overshoot your original budget, then you are still covered.
The topic strays to politics as you discuss the impact that a train network, even one isolated to a single shared-region, would have on trade and power projection.
"Lord Ruxhall has been making me think he's, I don't want to exaggerate, unhappy with his partnership with Lord Summeremere and Lord Gladwell."
Your father gives you a nod, understanding what you mean. "He was always considered the junior partner in their little clique, but with Gladwell's bloody nose and Summermere's unpleasant behavior, I too get the feeling that their aims are starting to stray apart."
"Any idea on how to drive that wedge without-"
"Provoking our prickly neighbor or pissing off the bull?" Your father cuts you off, finishing your question. "The man has a daughter or two old enough to wed, at least one unmarried before. Marriage would serve to bind us together, but I know you're not one for that kind of talk." He pauses to think for a few moments.
"Ruxhall's main need is clay, but not for clay's sake. His farmland is limited, and that restricts the amount of people he can actually support and tax. Speeding his sowing and reaping would be quite a boon, and let him try to expand his farms to less populated areas. We could offer him a few of our combines, I know that we've got some ten or so ready for use or sale."
You move on from the topic of Ruxhall, thoughts shifting to the new addition to your retinue. "I can't imagine that everyone is happy about what I've been up to. Summermere's grandfather ousted the Bedivere, beggared them from the shadows."
"You're learning." He says as he looks over another piece of paper. "You've revived a name that a handful still remember, and you have such a sterling reputation that you could have grabbed anyone off the street, proclaimed them a lord of the Round Table, and only been questioned by the people that already dislike you." He glances over his glasses. "We cannot vassalize him, but we can offer him aid until he gets his feet under him. It's one thing to restore what was lost, another to claim dominion over that sacred thing."
"I'm aware, father. I just don't know how to help him without taking him under our shield. If I could, I'd give him a keep, enough money for a year, and wish him good luck, but that would only set him on a slow fall."
"So don't." Your brows scrunch at that answer, and your father elaborates at his own pace. "Bedivere is a young man, who needs to learn his limits. You can be the safety net that will keep him from death or dispossessed, but don't let him know that. He'll make his own problems, and he'll solve many of them. I raised one young man that way, and I imagine he'll turn out alright if you do the same."
Well, that's one tact you could take with it.
Your father looks back up at you from another report he pulls out detailing the factory's output to date. "I saw that look when I said 'wed'. Speak Elric, I've been married to your mother for 23 years, and with any luck I'll be married another decade or more when this finally catches up to me."
You can't help but lean forward, elbows on your knees, resting your chin on your hands. "I've been giving my marriage some thought. I have a handful of candidates I may want to… court."
"Well, Godsfield's girl was pretty enough from what I recall, and she got along with your sister.
Lady Armmore perhaps? Troublesome as it might be, I won't tell you not to. The heart wants what it wants.
Lord Sanmon sent me a letter about your correspondence with his grandaughter. I couldn't tell if he was chiding me for letting you, or congratulating me about you helping his girl find her spine."
You shrug at the names he mentions. "Lady Armmore is a friend, not something I expected after I all but insulted her when we first met. I suppose she started this whole mess when she mentioned legacy. Mine is set in stone already, or some trash."
Your father smiles as he reads another paragraph, speaking up without looking up. "Isn't it? What did you say 'to see if the stars are beyond our reach?' You have something beyond the stories I told you of knights in shining armor and honorable conduct. You are the flagbearer now, and the world waits to see what comes." He gives a singular shake of head as he thinks about it. "I think just about every young man expects it'll be him, and so few are right."
"I suppose Lady Sanmon is not a poor choice," you grant to your father. "But she's so much younger than me. I wouldn't want to press a suit unwanted."
"She's six years your younger, but in twenty, it won't make much difference. She could, or perhaps not, be the heir, but regardless she's the apple of her Grandfather's eye from what little I've seen of the pair. The man doesn't dislike you, a rare thing for his old-" Your father coughs to the side as he avoids giving a rant about the elder lord.
You speak up with your own thoughts once more. "But both of them are across the continent. Any children I have would either be in line, or close enough in either case."
"So be it. You can't control that any more than I can make the sun come out and dry out the flooded fields, or conjure clouds to shade and water the drought lands. Pick one, son, and don't regret your choice."
With that heavy topic shelved, and man-to-man wisdom dispensed, you spend a few more minutes talking with your father, enjoying the atmosphere as you trade points about drills, business practices, and finally local music.
You don't say that it is terribly rustic, but the man clearly hears it in your voice as he points out that if you want something closer to the electric music of the Inner Sphere, you can set up a whole infrastructure to supply those amps with power.
He suggests creating dams that will use water to turn wheels to spin a turbine for it.
When you finish your half-hearted debate, you give the man a squeeze on the shoulder and go about your business, a bit surer in your step, fewer questions on your mind.
It's hard not to smile at the festive mood that's consumed the province in the wake of the pirates defeat, even if the people cannot see it through the thick panels of your cockpit. Your Black Knight was one of the five BattleMechs walking in this parade. You had been worried that you might damage the road, but a quick dry run during the night a week or so ago allayed most of your worries.
Now all you had to do was beware the hanging pennants.
In front of you, a cohort of knights trotted their horses side by side, each of them adorned in the colorful raiment of their parade dress. In each of their hands was a banner matching their drapery, their house sigils held proudly as they trotted before the cheering crowd.
Behind your BattleMech, the infantry, your new space marines foremost of all, marched in even squares. The companies were broken up by your lance mates and behind them drove the scores of vehicle lances, moving forward at a slow clip so that the slowest among them could keep up easily.
It made for quite a pretty sight, and it only redoubled as you turned down the final causeway, where the crowds grew thickest, and a stage had been erected before the steps of the church. This was the center of Hammer Crest, and so where your family waited. The whole of the square had been cleared out, no market open today to honor your fellow soldiers as they filed in. For your part, your 'Mechs came before the dais, and gave a short bow of respect, before you took up a place behind your family, all five 'Mechs on one knee like a knight taking his vows.
It was pageantry, but you couldn't miss the adoring look in the eyes of the children that stood behind the tassel bearing links that blocked off the parade square. The five of you dismounted from your machines, and You joined your family on the stage. Lord Tristain, Alistair, took up his place a step down on the tiered plinth, his fellow MechWarriors beside him, as the parade blocks filed into the square.
It was honestly a tight fit, but a fitting show of support for the brave soldiers of house Gawain.
At the head of the parade, the Knights on their gallant steeds advanced together, and as one drew their swords, saluting your father on his throne.
They were not the only ones, as every soldier took their arms from their marching positions, and at the command of their sergeants raised them vertically in front of themselves. The Tanks behind them, if they had them, raised their barrels high, letting the flags that hung from them fly in the wind.
Your father rose from his seat, and Lord Gawain took a few steps forward. His cane was an ever-present aid, but you did not move to help him yourself. Alone, this was an image of a man who had recovered from a terrible injury, but still had far to go, an inspirational image. Aided by his son, it was a piteous one.
"Men of House Gawain!" He called, his voice strong. "I salute you!" from his waist he pulled a simple long sword, decorated just enough to be a fitting addition to his clothes but polished to a mirror shine by the squires, and held it high, echoing the knights before him.
"We have been attacked by ruthless bandits! We have had our homeland struck by terrible foes! Our Homeworld suffered from the presence of these Pirates on its dirt, but we did not let it suffer long!" His shout was met with cheers from the men, who for once were not cuffed by their officers.
"For the first time in an age, Pirates did not walk our lands, take our peoples, or destroy our livelihoods for days, weeks without a proper response! They landed on our shores, and we broke them in a Day!"
"We crushed them under the treads of our tanks and brought their bastard machines low with the might of our cannons! Where they think themselves demons we ought to fear, we pierced them on the spears of angels!"
"My Son, Elric of House Gawain, took the fight to the enemy. Three times he sortied, without repair, without resupply, with his will alone to fight pushing him on, and he was victorious!" With a magician's poise, your father reached to the side and pulled aside the cloth that covered the recovered head of the Pirate Corsair, the torn metal at the bottom cleaned of carbon, but still a rainbow hue of yellows and blues from the intense heat of the reactor failure.
"He has slain their warlord and given Freirehalt a peace it has not known in ages! He and his MechWarriors are the heroes of the day, and deserve all the glory they have carved for themselves!"
It wasn't the end of the speech, but as you gradually paid less attention to his words you looked to the people, to the crowd, the soldiers in front of you.
You had a discussion with the smiths about their failings, and they were quick to make the required adjustments to see your commission complete on time this go around.
"And as such, I relinquish this plinth to my Son, for he has some words to offer for the brave men and women he fought alongside."
There's your cue.
As you step up to the podium, your hands coming to rest on the slanted panel and the lip at its base, you look over the ranks of your family's army. There are many here, and while you may have been focused on the 'Mech-on-'Mech combat, they had not been idle. Sir Christoph is an effective commander, and though there were hiccups, he had conducted himself and his soldiers with great honor.
"I am a MechWarrior." You say first, choosing to paint yourself as a fellow soldier rather than the entitled heir of your house. "I fought for my homeland and I defeated my enemy. These are simple facts, ones that require no further recognition because they are the expectation of my position. But You?"
You make a show of looking from square to square, something that would give the troops the feeling you were looking right at them. "You are not MechWarriors, lords, or hired mercenaries. You do not war clad in fourteen meters of steel might and ablative armor. You do not use the heart of a star to power your weapons as you take the fight to the enemy. No, you are men, and you war as men always have, with your own two hands, with the weapons in them, and the body you have honed. Some of you are Knights, many others men of good character and upright zeal, who take to the field as our ancestors did, though armored cavalry has changed from barded horses to roaring engines and spinning tread."
You sweep your hand back to your Black Knight looming behind your parents. "You do not enjoy the protections I do, the might I can deploy with a moment's thought and the pull of a trigger." You pause to let that sink in for a moment, before you continue. "And so, I salute you, for you are the best of us. The good book says, 'No greater love hath man, than to lay down his life for his friends.' As soldiers, there is never a guarantee that you will return home to your families, but you fall in regardless, knowing that your task is important. You do battle in the name of my family not just for glory or honor, but because you love that which you defend much more than you hate what you are fighting.
Pirates are the scum of the Earth, honorless cravens that despoil whatever they touch, stealing from the poor, starving the hungry in their greed. Given free reign, anarchy would rule over the universe, where the only thing standing between your family, your community, and total devastation was you. This past month, we have uncovered the mettle of our fine soldiers, our knights, and MechWarriors. They have been tested, and they have not been found wanting."
With that declaration, you move into the next section of the ceremony, as you step from behind the podium, coming to a stop beside a table that had been setup on the lower tier of the platform.
"There are many who will be recognized, but I would personally like to honor a handful. The first of them, Sir Christoph."
The man dismounted from his tank, the Pike sitting in its parade colors of blue and white stripes, a single pike set in the middle of its flying pennants. When he reached the platform you stood at, he went to one knee, his head bowed.
"Sir Christoph, long have you served my family and now your son stands as one of our vassals, a MechWarrior in his own right. You led the combat vehicles and the knights of my family against the pirates that crash landed in our province, intent on stomping them out like the embers of a dying flame. What you found was a pirate force that far outstripped what any of us expected, but did you falter? No, you stood your ground, held the line, and pushed them into the sea. Without you, my warriors and I would have been outnumbered, outgunned, and ground down with time. For this, I would offer up this award, and new duties, in the name of my father."
Reaching over to the table, you uncover a medal from where it sits, a longsword set in a laurel wreath, flanked on either side by the recognizable silhouette of a Pike. "Our military is changing, growing, and with growth comes a change of titles and ranks. For this, my father would have Knightly orders founded, to better support, train, and lead the disparate parts of our military to greater effect. For you, we would offer the title of Grandmaster of a new Order of Knights dedicated to the armored cavalry. Will you accept this honor, Sir Christoph?"
"I accept, my lord." His voice carries over the square, and you nod down at him as you lay the medal and its ribbon over his head.
"Then rise as Grandmaster Christoph of the Iron Lances." You lower your voice as you clap him on the shoulder with a smile, leaning in. "We will speak of the details another day."
When he rose, Sir Christoph stepped back towards the assembled squares, taking up a position just outside of one, saving him the walk all the way back to his tank, which had raised its three barrels higher still. He is not the last soul called before you, as Alice is next and when she rises, she is the new lady of a stretch of land from the Western border with Knightway's Laoricia to the river Ordre north of the Bay of Knights.
Sir Mitchell, like many of the knights, sees a grant of more land around his holdings, as well as the right to construct a number of air bases as he sees fit. It will be up to him to convince the current land holders, or your father if they should still be held by the Lordship, of their value. Any that are on your family lands will see a heavy subsidy in their construction, as well as a refurbishment for the facilities he already has. Sir Sharp sees a similar grant, though he is more clearly put under the command of the senior pilot, his Sabre making for a good scout craft to feed targets back to the heavier Ironsides.
To Alistair and the other MechWarriors, a new medal, featuring not a Gawain badge, but rather a small planet, the sole continent of Freirehalt emblazed on its face. They are not the only recipients, as the award is one that many of the knights and soldiers will receive, though only these three from your hand, granted for rushing to the defense of their people without regards to any political concerns, only the well-being of the planet itself.
You call a number of other names, knights accepting awards for managing a confirmed mission-kill on enemy units, the money to be split between them and their crews. There are already men watching to make sure it happened equitably enough, and if the knight should withhold the moneys for themselves, a Guardsman might be by to have a chat.
You call forth the officers of the men you'd led up to the Jumpship, its new name still pending a discussion between you and your father, and your voice carries over the ranks of your soldiers as you speak.
"Those of you who braved the black of space to board the pirate JumpShip, I have honors aplenty for you, but as so many know, the reward for leal service is more work.
You are space marines now, and that means you will draw a higher wage because of your newfound specialty, compensation for the increase in your responsibilities. Some of you may not remain in this role, may move on or return to your previous posts, but your contributions shall not be forgotten. For others, this is where you want to be, and so you shall remain, garrisoning our jumpships and our dropships as we explore the stars, bringing either the hand of friendship, or the iron fist of vengeance to them.
To set you apart from your fellow troops, I have something for you all. 200 souls went up with me, and to each of you, I offer this."
With a gesture, the servants that had been waiting off to the side advance to each officer, pulling back the cloth to reveal a helmet freshly fitted. You had made clear your wrath to the smith's that had failed you, and this time they had made good their promises and more. Armor smiths on Freirehalt worked in a bit more than simple steel and leather, though those were the bulk of their trade.
The flak-cloth tailings that were currently stuffed into the helmets would serve well to catch any debris or shrapnel before it could do terrible damage to the exposed neck, as well as help seal the helmet to the soft suit under their armor. Fine ballistic glass set just behind the slightly exaggerated eyeholes protected the eyes and hid them from sight, giving any marines an advantage in close quarters, when the enemy could not watch their eyes for hints of what was to come. It was a definite improvement over the haphazard nature of their armor during the boarding action.
"Each of you will take this armor with you into your future, whether in space or planetside, and know that you have done something few in the Inner Sphere could claim.
You have opened up our world to do more than sit and wait for the Artemis to return. A single JumpShip, a single collar, a single dropship, all these the only connections we had to greater humanity. For your efforts, and the efforts of your fellow soldiers, no longer can we suffer a freak failure that would isolate us forever, cut off the trail of trade and supplies that allow us to flourish out here among distant stars from our ancestral homeworld. Cheers to you, men of Laoricia, who have opened the path to the stars wide!"
The captain takes the helmet from you, and with your declaration you thrust your fist into the air, the crowd joined the soldiers as they cheered their fellows, and you imagine that many of that cohort were thankful for the face concealing helmets that were the standard. You let them roar for a moment, before you slowly let your fist fall, and when it was on the podium once more. With a pat on his shoulder, and a private word of thanks, you let him and his officer return to their square.
With this crowd listening to you, already in great spirits from the show and pomp of the parade, now was the time to seize the initiative in shaping a narrative, one that had the benefit of being mostly true.
"Some months ago, I vanished from our world for an expedition not to the stars, but instead to a closer site. On Roundel, I found something I never expected, and today I share with you but a small part of it." The crowd quieted as they listened to you speak, more than a few quirking their heads like dogs as questions dance in their eyes.
"I found an old friend of Freirehalt sitting up there, alone and forgotten after its crew sacrificed their lives to defend our world in a desperate action. The Avalon was but a single dropship, but against three she did duel, and against three she did win. Amidst the plains of Roundel, I found her grave, and inside, I found her champion, felled not by the enemy, but standing there, as if they'd fallen asleep while techs loaded fresh munitions. Though I left the Avalon amidst the lunar dust of Roundel, I did not leave her champion to lie, for I know that any warrior that would stand in defense of our people would not want their machine left to rot and sit when it could do more."
From a building purchased out from its previous owners for a pittance to your father, the warehouse doors opened wide and from them stepped a 'Mech, covered in a navy blue panoply, shining silver paint chasing up the torso, while bands of gold circled its biceps and the lip of its missile launcher, a green lens at the top subtly actuating as it fed data straight to the Artemis unit embedded deep inside the torso.
You had the privilege of watching the BattleROM of the Excalibur soon after you returned with it to Laoricia, and with it came a respect for the machine and the MechWarrior that had piloted it to war.
Roundel, December of 2971.
Should I have been a pilot?
The thought has little reason to cross the mind of Vivian Bedivere, heir and daughter of her Father Marcus Bedivere, as she sat in her crashseat, harnessed into her BattleMech, the mighty Excalibur, painted in its royal blues and chased silver edging.
She was loading for combat, the locking lugs of the ammunition feeders locked unto the shoulders of her 'Mech as they fed rockets and ferro-magnetic slugs into their respective hoppers. The Lostech Gauss rifle on her right arm was topped with a blunted blade, intended to protect the gauss rifle in case of an enemy managing to close the distance, while the HUD of her neurohelmet was constantly calculating the distance, vector, weather conditions, and a hundred other things that might impede her ability to hit the Mechbay door with her Artemis enhanced LRMs.
A pair of cylinders sat on her opposite arm, the pulse lasers there intended to be a final defense for the Excalibur should it be overrun, at the cost the missile launchers size. A difference of five shots in a volley seemed a fair trade for the ability to gouge off a ton of armor in just under three seconds at close range, and that was before considering what damage the radical heat differential and scatter would do to any internals it struck.
She had only had the pleasure a single time before this sortie, when she managed to open up the side torso of a Pirate Trebuchet, blowing its ammo bins straight to hell, along with its pilot.
And now she was getting ready to do something incredibly stupid, to sortie out of the Avalon and face up to a company of 'Mechs all on her own. For all that Vivian was a crack shot with her 'Mech's main weapon, and a passable skirmisher on the run with the others, she was under no illusions that even one of the SLDF's gunslinger graduates could have taken on those numbers and lived.
"Vivian, this is the captain. Enemy 'Mechs have been detected making their way towards the crash site and will enter weapons range shortly. The Avalon will fight until it breaks apart, my girl. Take as many down as you can, but withdraw before you are lost as well."
She listed as her father spoke, glancing up at the percentages of her ammo boxes as they finally ticked over to full, flashing green in their corner of her nuerohelmet display. With a mechanical clank, the loaders disengaged from her 'Mech, and she hit a switch to slide closed the quarter ton of armor that covered the feeding ports, taking short steps forward as she cleared the catwalks of the mechbay.
"Copy Captain. Excalibur, deploying."
It does not take Vivian long to remind herself that again, this was a stupid fucking idea, as she maneuvers around a set of jutting lunar rocks to avoid a volley of PPC fire, the electric blue bolts fizzing out against the rocks as the charge disperses with little more than scorched dust on its surface. The strange reversed bang of her Gauss rifle, caused by the slug moving faster than sound before it even leaves the barrel, is deadened by the thinness of Roundel's atmosphere, but she can't help but smile to herself as she reads out the result on her warbook's automatic tracking, as the Panther she hit staggers back sans its most powerful weapon, the arm it was attached to laying in the lunar dirt.
Backing up from her cover to angle her torso properly, she uses her 'Mechs connection to the dropship to triangulate the enemy position, before sending a hyper accurate volley of LRM fire raining down on the enemy. That damn vindicator won't be a problem any more, as its own LRM bins suddenly find themselves taking fire, the head trailing smoke as it ejects wholesale from the body. That's new and smart, but probably unintended by the pirates. Who knows what madness they jury rig into each of their machines?
Either way, Vivian's luck doesn't hold out, as she finds herself staying in combat, dumping slugs, missiles, and the occasional flash of her pulse lasers against the approaching enemies. The lighter units are rightfully afraid of her, the Excalibur designed to be a Heavy Cavalry 'Mech that hunted the likes of Commandos, Mercuries, and whatever else the traitor Amaris has scrounged for a scout 'Mech corp. Heavier enemies are less bothered by her loadout, only keeping their advance slow as she reminds them from time to time that a rail-accelerated ferro-magnetic slug, going faster that some aerospace fighters at full burn, is plenty powerful enough to punch a hole through armor and ferroglass at extreme ranges for everyone but her.
Of course, blowing the head off the Guillotine as it tried to use its jumpjets to outflank her had been a fluke, but the enemy didn't need to know that.
She gave one last shot at the enemy, running her Missile bin dry as she plugged a slug into the compromised torso armor of an enemy Griffin, dropping the bastard as his gyro failed to adjust to the loss of armor in that section, before she retreated back to the Avalon for her third resupply.
How many 'Mechs has she downed now, six, seven? It could have been as low as five, as she swore that at least one of the 'Mechs she'd dropped had gotten back up with the help of their allies, like the Catapult whose knee actuator she had blown out. He was being a right bastard, blind firing LRMs into her estimated position to try and flush her out.
Shame about the Anti-Missile System she had, yet another piece of irreplaceable tech in her family machine.
"Captain Bedivere, Excalibur returning for resupply. Enemy 'Mech count is at demi-company strength, down a full lance of light 'Mechs. Heavier machines are weathering my sniping better, but I-" The words died on Vivian's tongue as she rounded a corner, and came to face to face with a 'Mech she'd seen in the distance but had not expected to see again so soon.
The deathmask visage of a Banshee is terrifying for a MechWarrior in the opposite machine, but when Vivian had faced down an Atlas in raids before, it was less scary and more helpful in telling her to jink to the left as the enemy pilot fired his PPC, his heaviest hitting weapon, at point blank, a follow up from his Autocannon cracking across the collar of Vivian's Excalibur and sending shrapnel into her Ferroglass, spiderwebbing the port as she stepped into the Banshee's personal space and jamming her into the armor just below the armpit of the enemy assault 'Mech.
For all the Banshee was poorly armed for an Assault 'Mech, it had the armor of one, and for all the Excalibur was impressive armed, it lacked the armor to just brawl at knife-fight ranges. She could win, probably would if the pirate missed as he kept doing, pumping more shells through his autocannon into the rocky outcrops behind Vivian, but it would take time and ammunition she didn't have.
Thumbing the triggers on her joysticks, the pulses fired once, twice, a third time sent heat warnings flashing in her hud and the emergency lights of her cockpit. She rocked back on the third, turning a blow that should have caved in her 'Mech's head, and Vivian herself, into a glancing blow that just ablated off the armor of her torso, but still jarred shards of ferroglass free from the viewport and sent them into Vivian. She would have to check herself over in a moment, coolant poisoning was a bad way to go, but for now, she hammered the triggers twice more. Her gyro protested as she kicked the 'Mech off a large boulder to adjust her angle, taking her under the opposite punch of the Banshee, and keeping the still glowing section of armor in her sights, and she was rewarded for her efforts, the offending arm popping free as she cored out the joint, and then a fireworks show as the top right of the enemy 'Mech simply disappeared in an aborted explosion.
Her father had once shown her what an implosion looked like using an old plastic bottle and rubbing alcohol, and for all her thoughts strayed to that image, it was almost the opposite, like a crinkled bottle hammering itself out proper, and then further to burst apart in a shower of smoking munitions and broken metal.
"Vivian to Avalon, apologies for last transmission, found a squatter that tried to sell me the farm. I told him to keep it. Returning for resupply. Enemy elements are moving forward rapidly, you should prepare for contact. Over."
The way back was slowed by Vivian's lack of jumpjets, forcing her to backtrack through the same canyons she had walked out through, but back she did get, and up the ramp to her Mechbay the techs were already there, waiting with the loaders prepped, and Armor panels preformed to replace what had been damaged.
A check of her injuries from the shower of ferroglass revealed nothing pressing, and thankfully nothing had pierced her vac suit that could not be repaired with sailor's tape. It would be a pain to clean the blood that had dripped down her suit into the leather of her couch out later, after it had plenty of time to dry, but needs must as she drained one of her cockpit's water bottles.
From the hatch behind her came the familiar banging of the Tech crew that helped keep her 'Mech up to date on its maintenance, and with the flick of a few buttons, she unsealed the hatch, stale recycled air being replaced with slightly less stale recycled air from the dropship, two techs stepping in to do some last minute calibrations and repairs. She nodded to Laurence as he carefully bounced past her, a foam spray gun in hand as he floated over the font instrument panel, bracing his feet against the crashbars that ran across the interior panels and started applying emergency sealant over the cracks.
"We got enough LRM ammo to keep you going for a month," he said between squeezes of the tool, black gel squirting out of the tip and drying to a matte sheen in a few moments. ", but while the gauss slugs are simple, we only carry so many of them, you know?"
Honestly, it was true. Gauss sabots are essentially a well-shaped, elementally pure and magnetically identical set of steel-alloyed bolts, cylinders with a small ring running around the center to help seat them in the 'firing' chamber. At that point, a piston would drive the slug into the magnetic coils of the gauss rifle, each pulling on the slug faster and faster, until it reaches speeds better suited to aircraft after it clears the three-meter barrel. Sadly, each sabot or slug weighs over a hundred Star League Kilos each, meaning that each ton added a very limited number of shots to her magazine, and the Avalon simple didn't stock more than a dozen tons of ammo at a time for a weapon that wasn't mounted to its hull.
At times like this, Vivian wandered if the Star League had ever experimented with it, or if the Overlord-class had simply fallen by the wayside in terms of advancement. Who knows what those wack jobs with more money and time than sense were trying to develop back then, like 'Mechs that could actually fly.
If Vivian had wanted to be a pilot, she would have talked her father into finding her an ASF when the Camelot made its way back to the Inner Sphere for supplies. Freirehalt may be improving, but gods did they not have the factories to produce things beyond the most basic amenities.
Regardless, when the ammunition loaders clinked empty once more, and her bins were full, she left her mechbay behind and sortied once more.
Thrice more would she take up overwatch, tearing into the enemy machines, putting down a few more, badly maiming a handful more, and then retreating once more. Would that she had her sister machines beside her, a Black Knight cleaving in knife fight range, a King Crab sending shells the size of people through the armor she would had crippled, or the retort of another Gauss Rifle from a Highlander. Alone she was a mighty presence, but only an irritant for the reinforced company of pirate machines that tread towards her only home.
It was in the final sortie that the thought occurred once more.
Do I even remember the words I swore to my father?
Of course, the thought came at an inopportune time, her gauss rifle cycling as she send a pulse of green into the sparking internals of the enemy Hunchback.
To protect the innocent.
The damned medium's reprisal sees her viewport spiderweb as the AC-10 mounted in its shoulder scours not only her center torso, but the shrapnel slams into her Excalibur's head. She double taps the seals around her neurohelmet, just to be sure, but despite the hiss of air seeping through the broken ferro-glass she fights on.
To fight the unbeatable foe.
She slams the launch key for her missiles, the Hunchback at the extremes of her minimum range, just enough for the Artemis system to correct their course, taking them from a direct route to an arcing flight that takes them just far enough to trigger their proximity fuses, the enemy 'Mech falling limp as the missiles slam not just into the armor, but through the weakened head armor.
To go where the brave dare not.
She whirls her 'Mech around as she glances at the sensor report, an Assassin trying to make good its name only for her Gauss rifle to spit its last sabot, tearing its leg from the hip assembly and sending the whole 'Mech rolling badly down the hillside.
To right the unrightable wrong.
With her rifle empty, her arm becomes a club with a sharpened edge as she meets her next attacker, the enemy 'Mech heavy than her by a pittance, but enough that when it sends a crushing fist into her chest her gyro sends up a flashing warning, but she catches herself with a veteran's footwork, slamming the decorative edge into the Orion's hip mounted autocannon, badly denting the barrel and giving her a moment to step back as the pirate hits the trigger anyway, sending his right arm flying as the misfire detonates the round in the chamber with nowhere to go. The explosion topples the enemy 'Mech, the mechwarrior clearly not expecting it, and so as she slams her Excalibur's armored fist into the cockpit, she doesn't wait to let her lasers sing, an explosion of metal slivers, blood and glass floating from the ruined canopy.
The ammo alarms sound as she lets off a final load of missiles, both bins firmly empty. Victoria was left with only her medium pulses, a pitiful armament on anything but a 'Mech a fifth her weight. A return to the Avalon was in order, but would she even arrive in time to resupply before the enemy? She had been swarmed for the past twenty minutes as she blew through the ammo, armor, and what little wits she had left after sortieing again and again for half a day.
She dived into the backs of the enemy as she cleared the hill, coming into the back of a lance, PPCs and autocannon rounds kicking up moon dust around them as the Avalon fired on its approaching enemies. Lasers flashed, fists flew, and honor prevailed as she fought on, the enemy forced to choose between turning to face her and exposing their soft rear armor to the dropship's gunners, or to let her cut through them with her lasers.
By the time they fell, her 'Mech had seen better days, battered remnants all that remains of the coat of darkest blue and shining silver on her armor, the internal lights that lit the green of her 'Mech's ferro-glass shorted from far too many close calls with a PPC.
Limping into the Mechbay, she sagged in her chair as the loaders came down one more time, clicking empty far sooner than before. It didn't matter, as the techs slammed home the last of the prepared plating, their tools welding it into place, the whole of her 'Mech resembling a patchy mix of blues, blacks, and greys as she steadied herself for one last battle.
Vivian Bedivere was a Knight of Freirehalt, and if she had to choose when to die, today was as good a day as any other.
Freirehalt, Eastern Laoricia. September, 3030.
You had sworn in your heart not to take the Excalibur for your house unless you could find no one left that shared blood with the Avalon's champion and her captain, and you were not one to break your oaths.
It had taken months, journal entries a source of names, and putting your budding intelligence network to work finding a golden needle in a haystack. To your surprise, they had succeeded faster than you expected, content as you were to have this artifact of Freirehalt's history sit in waiting for its next master for years if necessary.
The young man they had brought before you was nothing special to look at, and if you had not heard his name you wouldn't know him from Adam. His skin was far darker than yours, and his hair was shaved close to his skull, but patrician cheekbones shown through his dark skin.
Young Casey Bedivere was of an age with you, if a few years younger, and he was the grandson of the youngest Bedivere sibling, little Cassandra left behind when her father and sister went to war on Roundel. She had been left the singular heir to her household, with healthy coffers and a villa well staffed with trusted confidants of her family. The house no longer rated the prestige of 'Mech-owning nobility, but they were still well respected.
It would not last.
Through the years that followed the loss of the Avalon and the Excalibur, she struggled to maintain the family's fortunes, her attempts to replace trade that traveled anywhere in a day with regular caravans doomed to failure, stymied by her inexperience, bad timing, and enemy action.
Hindsight often revealed certain things to those that went looking, and in this case, the Lord Daniel Summermere had not been idle. He coveted the wealth of the Bedivere family, who had chosen to retain the Avalon rather than stake a claim to any corner of the map, and so they became a wondering family, their residence either their DropShip or one of the villas they maintained around the planet. Was it any wonder that he offered his son's hand to the lady several times over the years as she grew from a stick-thin teenager to a beautiful young woman?
Her refusal had doomed her house's chance to remain recognized nobility. Fifty years of service, honest dealing, and earned friendships, wiped away in less than a generation as the fortune slowly vanished under debts, the villa sold to cover the last of them, leaving the family isolated and alone in a land that cared little for them.
You couldn't say much about Casey's early life, but the tale of his early adulthood painted a tale of a man dissatisfied with his lot in life, who had heard the tales from his grandmother's knee as a boy and longed for those same lofty heights. He had gone from job to job, leaving an apprenticeship despite an apparent talent for working metal, spending a summer as the student of the local Knight mechanics, and when one of your men had approached him, he was a few moments from decking his sergeant, who had just dumped another shift on the man just before he was due to head home.
An invitation from the young 'Mech-lord of Laoricia, as well as a small sum to settle any business or debts he had, and Casey had taken his surcoat and thrown it unto his sergeant's desk, glad to be quitting another fruitless job.
"House Bedivere," You call, your voice reaching the crowd as they scrambled to see this sixth 'Mech walk down the road alone, "Is revived from the grave! Their mighty Excalibur will stand with the lords of Freirehalt again, and bring death to our world's foes as it did before! This is our time to rise, to become more than we have been, and to see if the stars themselves are out of our reach!"
> With the defeat of the pirates, you have time to consider things you ignored before. You have questions for your Father.
Later that week, the Gawain keep.
When the parade and ceremony was concluded, a great many soldiers left a fair bit prouder, a few knights richer, and you with time on your hands.
So it was that you started to review some of the short reports that had crossed your desk in the lead up to the pirate landings, among them one from a team of surveyors. Their leader reported they'd been unable to reach their objective, let alone begin studying the region, before a recall order was sent by a runner atop a dirt-bike, signed by Lord Gawain.
It was one of a handful of things you wondered, and with time to spare for the moment, you rose from your desk. It took you no time at all to navigate the familiar paths of your family home, and soon you found yourself in your father's study.
The man was sat at his desk, a pair of reading glasses on his face, and you don't miss the small smile that pulls at his lips as he calls you in after your knock.
"What do you need, Elric?"
"I received an odd report on my desk a few weeks ago, right before the whole business with the pirates. One of the survey teams?" You see the twinkle of recognition in his eyes. "I'm going to assume you didn't just recall them for their own safety, right?"
"No, the thought crossed my mind, but I didn't want them to waste their time up in those craggy hills and mountains."
"I might agree if they'd been looking for somewhere to build a settlement, but they were geologists and mine-men. I know our mountains produce fine stone from our quarries, a good amount of metal here and there, but to cut off a third of a chain seems absurd."
Your father smiles a bit more at your pressing, before he rolls his shoulders, leaning back in his chair. "You were always like those dogs you liked to chase. Could never let go of a bone. I could tell you that I surveyed those mountains years ago, found nothing, and tell you to take your Lord's word. I'm sure you'd press me for a report in one of my cabinets."
He gestures to the many fine wooden cabinets that do in fact run beneath the bookcases. "And I'm also sure that I could find one close enough to the site to ward you off for a while." He looks down at that, a chuckle rumbling in his chest. "Or, knowing my son, you would go for a walk, and go look for yourself."
You nod at his words, knowing them to be true. "So, what was the real reason?"
"I went looking in those mountains years ago, and I know what's there." The man works his fingers along his jaw, his reading glasses gently tapping in his hand. When he looks up, he looks a little less like the imperious lord and more the exasperated father.
"You were a year old, my father was over a year dead, and our house was on the verge of ruin. I headed into those mountains after one more week of fruitless searching, money flowing out and nothing in. Gladwell had just taken a patch of land to the north of the keep in a forfeited duel. I was not in a great place, and so I went out for a month, your mother sat in my place with a story that I was ill and recovering."
"I don't know what I expected to find in those mountains, a miracle, a quick exit, or just stones. But I went looking, and I found what I was looking for. It took a few more years, and by chance a JumpShip came into the system, beat to hell, shot at, looking for resupply and food stuffs.
As you might imagine, that JumpShip was the Artemis, and it and its crew had just suffered a massive misjump that landed them 200 light-years away from where they wanted to be. I saw my chance, and I met with the then captain of the Quiver, who would carry what supplies they could buy back to the Artemis. I convinced the man to come with me to see my find, and with his testimony, I made the deal that saved our house. More money than I could ever expect to spend in my lifetime on Freirehalt, and I invested it quickly.
I sent Thaddeus with the Artemis once they got pointed in the right direction, and he made my case to banks, companies, and everyone I thought might be interested. They sent surveyors, lawyers, miners, and in return I bought out the stakeholders in the Artemis, the Quiver, a few small agriculture companies in the Lyran Commonwealth."
"Just what did you find out there that would be worth a JumpShip?" The story added up, and you watched as your father rose from his desk, a sight that still surprises you, and walked to a small painting. Pulling it from the wall, he revealed a small safe. From inside, he pulled a lumpy shape, covered with a silken cloth.
When he pulled it aside, it revealed a glittery rock, some kind of ore.
"I found a seam of Germanium."
~
"Germanium, like what Jumpships use for fuel?" Your father nods at your simplistic answer, grasping that you don't quite understand.
"Germanium is an odd mineral, because it is very conductive, beyond that of gold or almost any other pure element, but also not a true metal. On Terra, nine or ten centuries ago, they first discovered the uses of it in superconductors, and then later when the first star-ships were being imagined, slower than light generation ships, a scientist created the first jump drive, alloying the mineral with titanium to create a ball of superconductive-heat resistant metal that could handle the energy needed to warp space and move a Jumpship -at the time- a handful of lightyears away from where it started. It took them a month to jump back because the star they'd landed around was, well… the first go around they picked a bad star to say the least. They managed to jump home, and really the rest is history."
"So, you sold this seam of Germanium to companies in the Inner Sphere for a ridiculous sum of money, and bought out the JumpShip and DropShip?"
"Yes."
You really can't contain your disbelief. "They gave you I don't know-"
"650 Million C-bills."
"- 650 million C-bills, and you…" You really can't put it into words, and half the trouble is you don't even know what you'd spend 650 MILLION C-bills on. You doubt that the whole lords of Frierehalt, let alone the people could pull together more than a hundred. "Just why? How, even?"
"Because Freirehalt was dying, Elric. We were cut off for 40 years from the Inner Sphere. We lost a source of income, of parts, and of resources we simply didn't make on the planet. We were very alone, Elric, and when you're alone and desperate you start to get violent.
Those 40 years were the bloodiest between the lords we've ever seen Elric. You wonder how the Sanmon-Armmore feud got so bad, those 40 years played a big part in it. Medicine we'd taken for granted? Stopped coming. Rough materials we needed? Stopped coming. Income to pay our people, our staffs and armies? Stopped coming. The other houses, with their 'Mechs, turned on one another for petty scraps hoping they'd manage to land in the black come year's end.
Your Grandfather fought five times in a year for a stretch of four, if I remember right. He won every battle, but they'd just come again, taking farmland, beachfront property, something that would give them an edge.
I almost hate myself for thinking it, but I wonder if losing the Black Knight didn't save everyone because it pushed me to that mountain range."
You can hear the mourning in the man's voice when he talks about the Black Knight and your Grandfather, but he recovers quickly, taking his seat as he leaves the Germanium to sit on your side of his desk.
"I hope that satisfies you, Elric. I don't like to think about those days, as I'm sure Lord Sanmon, say, would agree with me. He's old enough he saw before them, when we were at our peak."
You nod, your eyes taking in your father once more. "It explains a lot, and I understand why you didn't want word of mouth spreading. Miners like their drink, and if they found a seam of something worth more than some planets, well…"
He nodded, before looking up from the expensive rock. "Was there anything else, Elric?"
"I had a few ideas, and some questions." You say to him, and you pull out some of the sheets of paper you've been doing math on, a small map you've drawn out as a demonstration of your railway idea.
You walk him through your numbers, the major stops, the areas it would travel over, the concern as it passes through the mountains to reach Knightway's side of Laoricia. When you are finished, he speaks up.
"Your projected costs are likely low, but the utility of it can't be understated. To move from having to caravan or ship raw materials by sea and instead be able to get them overland where they need to go far quicker, that'd be an improvement. With mobility comes expansion, there's a customer base that wants their products faster than they can travel over land, and they'd pay to use our railway to cut the journey by as much as 2/3rds over Laoricia. Still, that's thousands of miles of steel we'll need."
"As for building our own trains, we have the math, we know we have the materials, and the fuel. The trick is building a trainyard that actually builds them properly with the staff to do it safely. We'd need cranes and other machines. Let me look into that, I think I can get some more numbers together, could even just purchase some out from the dockyards."
>Your Father approves of your idea to build a Laoricia Rail Network. He does suggest budgeting for around 25m for it all said, over the course of five years. If you are under budget, nothing is lost, and if you overshoot your original budget, then you are still covered.
The topic strays to politics as you discuss the impact that a train network, even one isolated to a single shared-region, would have on trade and power projection.
"Lord Ruxhall has been making me think he's, I don't want to exaggerate, unhappy with his partnership with Lord Summeremere and Lord Gladwell."
Your father gives you a nod, understanding what you mean. "He was always considered the junior partner in their little clique, but with Gladwell's bloody nose and Summermere's unpleasant behavior, I too get the feeling that their aims are starting to stray apart."
"Any idea on how to drive that wedge without-"
"Provoking our prickly neighbor or pissing off the bull?" Your father cuts you off, finishing your question. "The man has a daughter or two old enough to wed, at least one unmarried before. Marriage would serve to bind us together, but I know you're not one for that kind of talk." He pauses to think for a few moments.
"Ruxhall's main need is clay, but not for clay's sake. His farmland is limited, and that restricts the amount of people he can actually support and tax. Speeding his sowing and reaping would be quite a boon, and let him try to expand his farms to less populated areas. We could offer him a few of our combines, I know that we've got some ten or so ready for use or sale."
You move on from the topic of Ruxhall, thoughts shifting to the new addition to your retinue. "I can't imagine that everyone is happy about what I've been up to. Summermere's grandfather ousted the Bedivere, beggared them from the shadows."
"You're learning." He says as he looks over another piece of paper. "You've revived a name that a handful still remember, and you have such a sterling reputation that you could have grabbed anyone off the street, proclaimed them a lord of the Round Table, and only been questioned by the people that already dislike you." He glances over his glasses. "We cannot vassalize him, but we can offer him aid until he gets his feet under him. It's one thing to restore what was lost, another to claim dominion over that sacred thing."
"I'm aware, father. I just don't know how to help him without taking him under our shield. If I could, I'd give him a keep, enough money for a year, and wish him good luck, but that would only set him on a slow fall."
"So don't." Your brows scrunch at that answer, and your father elaborates at his own pace. "Bedivere is a young man, who needs to learn his limits. You can be the safety net that will keep him from death or dispossessed, but don't let him know that. He'll make his own problems, and he'll solve many of them. I raised one young man that way, and I imagine he'll turn out alright if you do the same."
Well, that's one tact you could take with it.
Your father looks back up at you from another report he pulls out detailing the factory's output to date. "I saw that look when I said 'wed'. Speak Elric, I've been married to your mother for 23 years, and with any luck I'll be married another decade or more when this finally catches up to me."
You can't help but lean forward, elbows on your knees, resting your chin on your hands. "I've been giving my marriage some thought. I have a handful of candidates I may want to… court."
"Well, Godsfield's girl was pretty enough from what I recall, and she got along with your sister.
Lady Armmore perhaps? Troublesome as it might be, I won't tell you not to. The heart wants what it wants.
Lord Sanmon sent me a letter about your correspondence with his grandaughter. I couldn't tell if he was chiding me for letting you, or congratulating me about you helping his girl find her spine."
You shrug at the names he mentions. "Lady Armmore is a friend, not something I expected after I all but insulted her when we first met. I suppose she started this whole mess when she mentioned legacy. Mine is set in stone already, or some trash."
Your father smiles as he reads another paragraph, speaking up without looking up. "Isn't it? What did you say 'to see if the stars are beyond our reach?' You have something beyond the stories I told you of knights in shining armor and honorable conduct. You are the flagbearer now, and the world waits to see what comes." He gives a singular shake of head as he thinks about it. "I think just about every young man expects it'll be him, and so few are right."
"I suppose Lady Sanmon is not a poor choice," you grant to your father. "But she's so much younger than me. I wouldn't want to press a suit unwanted."
"She's six years your younger, but in twenty, it won't make much difference. She could, or perhaps not, be the heir, but regardless she's the apple of her Grandfather's eye from what little I've seen of the pair. The man doesn't dislike you, a rare thing for his old-" Your father coughs to the side as he avoids giving a rant about the elder lord.
You speak up with your own thoughts once more. "But both of them are across the continent. Any children I have would either be in line, or close enough in either case."
"So be it. You can't control that any more than I can make the sun come out and dry out the flooded fields, or conjure clouds to shade and water the drought lands. Pick one, son, and don't regret your choice."
With that heavy topic shelved, and man-to-man wisdom dispensed, you spend a few more minutes talking with your father, enjoying the atmosphere as you trade points about drills, business practices, and finally local music.
You don't say that it is terribly rustic, but the man clearly hears it in your voice as he points out that if you want something closer to the electric music of the Inner Sphere, you can set up a whole infrastructure to supply those amps with power.
He suggests creating dams that will use water to turn wheels to spin a turbine for it.
When you finish your half-hearted debate, you give the man a squeeze on the shoulder and go about your business, a bit surer in your step, fewer questions on your mind.
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