The Experiment Continued (BT)

The united States was dying. It had been dying for a long time. There had been a tumor ever since the 1820s, and the death agonies had begun with the birth of the Terran Alliance. Soon, within ten years, the Alliance itself would be done away with, and replaced with a new government. A government not bound to represent those it governed, but would instead enslave them, regiment them, drill them into an obedient mass with but a single mind. Now a handful of Americans looked over the shambles, and prepared. They followed the old ratlines to a secret gathering place under the Appalachians. It had to be hard to reach for the most obvious of reasons: one did not plan treachery in full view of one's enemies.

There were less than a hundred of them altogether. Some were the descendants of the signers of the Declaration of Independence, those Founding Fathers who put the thoughts and desires of thirteen colonies into cold print. Most others were members of the wealthy families of America who had not profited by the ransacking of the country. And yet, most of these men were not especially wealthy, at least, not according to the standards of the day. Make no mistake, their family fortunes were probably older than some of the new trillionaires, but the fact was that they had not that strength which in old days moved heaven and earth.

There were, it is true, exceptions. The O’Neil brothers, heirs to the great shipbuilding concern, were there, and so was Adolphe Mossé, the French banking kingpin, whose fortune ran into the tens of trillions. But all the majority had left were their outdated convictions. So far as the majority of people were concerned, those who knew of them at all, these men and women were simply living in the past, and had failed to change with the times.

It wasn’t John Taylor Adams who was the first to speak, though he had called this meeting, rather it was Ernest Cunningham, the owner of one of the largest shipping companies in the Alliance, for what that was worth.

He asked, “So what do we do?”

“I don’t know,” said Thomas Lee, nursing a glass of gin, “I really don’t.”

“I didn’t think so,” said Cunningham, pulling a manilla file out of his briefcase, “This won’t help, then.”

They all recognized the emblem of the Alliance Navy, and no-one cared to ask how he had gotten their property.

Artie O’Neil was the one to bite at that dangling thread. “What is it?”

“These,” said Cunningham, “are the personnel records of Admiral James McKenna.”

Erik Blair, a man who had gotten rich by not spending any money, asked, “The Navy’s commander? What about him?”

“Because he’s the one,” Cunningham said to the table in general.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he’s the one,” repeated Cunningham, “He’s the man who’s going to be selected to put the Alliance to bed.”

Those seated at the big table, some twenty in number, instantly went silent.

It was Lee who asked, he had never liked dramatics, “How do you know?”

Cunningham said, “Take a look,” and passed him the folder.

The file itself was a bald record of James McKenna’s service in the Alliance Navy. He was from the Yukon territories in Canada, that was the first thing that drew Lee’s attention. Canada meant Britain. He was denied a formal schooling until age 12, and then impressed the Alliance Global Militia enough to give him a scholarship to be sent to study at the Annapolis Naval Academy which the Alliance had taken over.

Although unquestionably intelligent, he was constantly feuding with his teachers, and was nearly thrown out of the academy several times. Nor did his first five years of service indicate a genius for military politics, and he was demoted often for his rambunctious behavior, which included drinking and fraternizing on duty.

Then, something happened to change his life. McKenna was given a year’s worth of paid leave to clear his name and put himself in order. After that, he was rapidly promoted, reaching the rank of Fleet Admiral at the young age of twenty-one. Now at thirty, he was the commander of the only warships in the whole Inner Sphere, even though people decried their expense.

“Oh my God," Lee murmured, slumping back in his chair, “I was so hoping you were wrong."

“What is it?”

From behind his hand, Lee grumbled, “He’s a syndicate man through and through. He’s got all the hallmarks of being one of their guys.”

“You think so?” another, younger man asked.

“Who else would rise to Fleet Admiral at twenty-one? Who else would get the money and materials to build the galaxy’s first fleet of military jumpships? A man with talent but no tact, who does things that would get another man kicked out of Annapolis flat out, who’s constantly demoted when he finally gets command, and then just happens to get a year of paid leave to ‘clear his name’ and when he gets back he suddenly goes rocketing up the ranks until he’s history’s youngest fleet admiral? You don’t get that sort of career without powerful backers, and he’s got the most powerful ones around.”

No-one had an answer to Lee. No-one wanted to have one.

Instead, Artie O’Neil asked another question, “So how do we stop this?”

“We can’t,” said a new voice, “We haven’t got the resources.”

All heads turned to the man at the far end of the table. His name was James Wallace, and he was one of the richest of the nouveau-riche in their camp.

“We aren’t the leaders of our communities the way the Founders were, and we have no allies in the world’s governments. We have no supply lines, no infrastructure, and ever since the militias were suppressed, we haven’t had the military organization.”

“And if you were George Washington, we’d still have British passports,” snapped O’Neil.

“This is a matter of feasibility and you know it. We can’t fight these bastards,” Wallace replied, with just as much heat.

Adams chose this moment to intercede. “Which brings us to why I’ve called this meeting.”

Thomas Lee stole a puff on his pipe and said, “Well, what is your suggestion, now the country’s gone to bits?”
Adams held his response for a beat, looking at each person seated in turn, “I propose we abandon the Earth.”

His declaration sent shockwaves through the gathering as the meaning sank in.

“And go where?” Roger Livingston demanded, “The colonies answered to the Alliance, when they answered at all. There’s nowhere for us to retreat to!”

Now, another hitherto silent voice spoke, “That’s not necessarily the case.”

This was Andrew Jefferson, one of the wealthier members of the assembled company, and certainly the oldest. He was eighty-six years old and he had been a little boy when the Outer Reaches Rebellion destroyed the Alliance’s credibility. He was also the spark for the project that Adams had come to tell them about.

“There is a group of colonies who never bowed to the Alliance in any way, shape or form. We all prepared in our own ways, but my generation prepared for the worst. We found some skilled coders and had them build a bot-run corporation, and put our digital currency into it. With that company we purchased thirteen jumpships, stuffed them to the gills with frozen colonists, and sent them as far beyond settled space as we could.”

Sending a grateful glance towards the old man, Adams picked up the theme. “Those ships arrived in thirteen systems on the edge of an open cluster. The plan has succeeded. Those first thirteen worlds have turned into prosperous colonies, and new ships have called at those worlds for the last fifty years. So gentlemen, it’s decision time. We can stay here on Earth, where we will be packed off to concentration camps the moment it is convenient for the new leadership, or we can leave the old world as our forefathers once did, and seek freedom in the new.”

They all looked at each other, and one by one, they nodded agreement, but a few would have to stay behind, to serve as clandestine informants on the doings of Earth and the power players.

“Then if we are agreed, might I pass the hat? There’s one last convoy that has yet to be assembled, on such a scale that if any one or two of us tried to finance it alone we’d bankrupt ourselves. I intend that we should leave this place in style.”

The meeting broke up, and each man returned home to put his affairs in order. There was money to withdraw, farewells to be said, and families to be told what had happened and where they were going.

Within six months, the convoy was making the run from the asteroid belts of several systems around the Terran Alliance. By the time the Terrans realized what was happening, the fleet was already over the border and into Marik space, not that they mounted much of a pursuit. Their money had gathered more than a hundred and sixty Conestoga transports and their attendant dropshuttles, hoarded, scrounged or purchased for this one mission, with nearly ten million persons aboard, asleep in cryo tubes.

It took the convoy two years to make the crossing. It used to be closer to three, but with recent advances in technology, they were able to shave a considerable amount of time off the tables, although not to the rate later achieved. There they settled into the population, relaxing for the first time in decades as they found themselves once more among a people sovereign. No more twenty-four hour surveillance, no more disappearances, no more terror.

And then, from the O’Neil brothers on Terra, there came the shattering news that the worst case scenario had come to pass: McKenna had launched a coup with the guns of the WarShip Dreadnought and ordered the nations of Earth to disband and transfer their governing functions to the new régime he would soon established. And for those who understood the kinds of forces at work on Earth, it was doubly tragic. More than the sovereign states of Earth had passed into history. Night had fallen on civilization itself.

As the colonies digested the news, a decision was made. The thirteen colonies each sent representatives to the city of New Philadelphia for a special conference. Nearly all of them were men who had grown up in the colonies, but a few were old enough to have come across on the first voyages. The deliberations lasted for a week before they announced the results. Hundreds came to view the proceedings in person, and tens of millions watched on the Tri-vid news.

Andrew Jefferson was at the center of the balcony overlooking the House Chamber, given pride of place by virtue of what his family had done for the colonies. As such he had a good view of the proceedings as Anthony Hawkins pulled a sheet of paper out of his briefcase. What was happening now was primarily a PR move on the part of the new government, to provide a sense of continuity with the old ‘States on Earth, a passing of the torch, meant for the eyes of Americans first. One day the people of the ‘Sphere would learn, one day they would have the chance to take their shot and leave their old worlds behind.

In a voice choked with emotion, Hawkins said, “As Thomas Jefferson declared for America in Philadelphia, five centuries ago, so now do I declare today.”

In style, it was a near-exact duplicate of the Declaration of Independence of the United States. But in substance it was not so much a declaration of independence as a declaration that these colonies represented the legitimate government of the United States. The bill of grievances was both similar and different, for the tyrannies imposed by the Hegemony were of like character to the British Empire of 1776, yet far more ruthlessly imposed, for the Hegemony was established at the point of the Dreadnought’s autocannons, and not by an agreement of monied interests and big business.

There followed the indictment the Terran Alliance, which had deliberately violated the social contract it had established with the nations of Earth and their colonies. Next came the list of works done by those Americans and other peoples who had sought to protect the dignity and rights of mankind, how these works were either ignored or destroyed, and with no other choice but to abandon their inheritance, those persons who had never ceased to consider themselves Americans had fled Terra. Now they lived on worlds far away from their home country, but which were as much as part of the union as were California and New York.

But the truly important issue was reserved for the conclusion of the Declaration. The tension in the room mounted suddenly and spectacularly. They knew what was coming. This was to be their declaration of war on the crime syndicate which had conquered Terra.

"We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare, That these united Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States; that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the illegitimate Government of Terra, and that all political connection between them and the State of Terra, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent States, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace, contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent States may of right do. And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.”

And so, in the year 2316, despite all the propaganda, all the corruption, all the terror, the united States was reborn.

 

Seven hundred years later

The tropical rain fell in drenching sheets, hammering the carved roof of the DropPort terminal, roaring down the gutters and splashing on the ground in a torrent. Benedict scarcely noticed it with his back to the window, and his eyes lidded. A woman sat on the packed lounge beams, a six-year old child at her side. Occasionally he would raise his head, one ear cocked, listening to the departure calls, waiting for his flight to be announced.

Standing there, he looked just like any lower-middle-class sort of fella who had saved up for a bit of an adventure for his family, and when the woman announcing that the Oceana’s Gig 4 was ready for departure, they moved with that slow sort of hurry that any sleep-starved person would recognize. Except that the woman wasn’t his wife, and the child with him wasn’t his daughter, and his name wasn’t even Arnold Benedict. He was a sleeper agent, activated for the express purpose of boarding this gig and being ferried to the waiting JumpShip for passage to the United Systems.

Once there, he would establish a network of informants, and coordinate with fellow agents. He took his seat in the craft and tore away from the surface. The monster JumpShip, even larger than a Monolith, was waiting in geosynchronous orbit. The gig was the size of one of the old 380s, and could seat around nine hundred passengers, and the ship in orbit had four of them.

Six runs by each would bring the ship to capacity, and off they would go. Benedict’s ride up was the last on the roster. When he arrived, he and his wife and child found their cabin, and settled in for the two day journey across the Inner Sphere to the recharge station at the edge of Lyran space.

As the second day on-ship dawned, the Benedicts ate a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs. What none of them had any idea of, was that two out of the three had eaten their last meal. The girl was allowed to go off and play with the other children, and subtly find out who would be best for their purposes, while they returned to their room.

An hour later the child returned, with a list of names committed to memory. Then there was a knock at the door, three brisk strokes, followed by another two after a beat. Arnold Benedict was the one who went to answer the door. The man on the other side moved as soon as he opened it.

An applegate is a knife mostly used by agents of the office of strategic services, since it is easy to conceal and can kill in a single stroke. It’s grip is small enough that it can be held by the first three fingers of a man’s hand, and the blade is the size of the proximal and middle phalanges of a man’s middle finger.

“April Fool, motherfucker."

That is what slashed across Arnold Benedict’s throat in a single sideways stroke. It happened so quickly, Benedict could not reconcile the blood that started to trickle down his front with reality, even as his limbs began to spasm, trying to reach up to strangle the man who had killed him.

The agent kicked Benedict backwards and leveled a commando pistol at the woman. The pistol gave a kickless drone as its cutting beam of blue laser lanced into her chest and scorched the wall behind her. Contrary to popular belief, a shot through the heart does not guarantee an instant death. There are a few seconds before the body dies. Those seconds gave the woman time to choke out a trigger phrase before she expired.

Instantly, the child, who had been staring at all this in wide-eyed shock, lunged at the agent, her hands curled into claws and tried to gouge at his eyes. While they grappled, another agent, who had come in behind the first, seized the child ‘round the waist. The girl hammered at him with her elbows, but nothing was breaking his grip.

The first agent stuck his finger in his ear, seemingly to get at some wax, but in fact to trigger a small transmitter inside his ear canal, “This is Captain McDonough, burned moles have been terminated.”

“And the child?,” the ship’s chief intel officer responded.

“We’ll take her with us. She’s gotta be deprogrammed and reintegrated.”

There was no argument with his decision. An agent of the OSS, of any of the services could do whatever he wanted, so long as it was done for the people of the united States. If it wasn’t… heaven help the man who did it, for so long as he lived in the material universe, he would breath no air that was not expelled in a scream.

The second agent, still wrestling with the child, placed a hand on the back of her head, and pinched her vagus nerve. Immediately, her struggles began to cease, and her eyes began to flutter. Within five seconds, she was asleep. Not quite unconscious, she would awake in a little while, but for now it was enough.

Captain McDonough had already begun to apply stain remover to the carpet around Benedict’s corpse. “Aisquith, take her to the saferoom, and don’t allow her to leave under any circumstances. I’ll stay here and tidy up.”

Aisquith nodded, they would be using this cabin again. No sense in giving the game away.

 

None can argue that in the years following the fall of the Star League, that the Inner Sphere had lost a great deal. But there was one piece of lore that no one in the Inner Sphere quite grasped: the United Systems of America. It made no difference that they still referred to themselves as the united States, the people of the Sphere reserved talk of states for things like the Federated Suns, or the Capellan Confederation.

So far as they knew, the United Systems was just another periphery bandit kingdom with a particular bent for the iconography of another dead nation but still, if they'd had anything special about them it was probably long gone, like so many things had come to be since the Star League's fall. About the only thing really noteworthy about them was they had gotten lucky fighting Amos Forlough in the Unification War, and even an educated sort would recall this much with difficulty.

"The United Systems?" the man in the street would say if you asked him, "Never heard of it."

And if you asked a professor of history, say at the University of New Avalon, he would say something like, "Well, it's an odd sort of country past the Aquila Rift. They say it used to be almost on a level with the Capellans. Some of the records left behind by certain historical figures indicate it was even a large enough place to have its own navy and shipyards, but I shouldn't be surprised if losing their main trade partner when the Star League fell did more than its share of damage."

On many planets you could still find posters advertising this or that shipping company's American line, or a barker at fairs selling tickets for a one-way trip on the Freedom Boat. Most people rolled their eyes at these, seeing them as nothing but scams for the unwise. And yet, there were one or two people each time who were desperate enough to risk being made a fool of, and bought a ticket, especially when they noticed the family discounts. The various governments did nothing to discourage this, seeing the United Systems as a convenient pit into which they could cast their undesirables.

But in truth, the USA was neither a moribund nation, nor a small collection of pirates with delusions of grandeur running a scam. Five hundred lightyears beyond the Aquila Rift lay the American Cluster. Six hundred inhabited planets, all united by an ideal. When the Star League fell to infighting, most Americans had put the old country out of their mind, getting on with their lives and refusing to enter into the wars that raged across the 'Sphere.

But now in the year 3006, an unfamiliar word has begun to be whispered across the Inner Sphere: Peace. The whole war, waged for nearly two centuries, had got stuck into one endless skirmish, and none of the five sides had the force necessary to make a decisive push. And news of these whispers had been brought back by the War Department's Office of Strategic Services to the Congress of the united States. Now they had come to debate in their great Capitol on the planet of Columbia. There was only one item on the docket, a move that would change the course of history.

President Thomas Shinseki had risen from his seat, and began to speak, knowing that the eyes of the nation were upon him.

"Mister Speaker, Mister Vice-President, Members of the Senate, and of the House of Representatives:

"For nearly seven centuries, the united States of America have lain outside the currents of the Inner Sphere and maintained a policy of isolationism, broken only twice before. Once when the League launched her bloody invasion and burned down our capital, and again when we sent our famed expedition to help stop Amaris the Tyrant. This day, I formally submit to the houses of Congress, and to the sovereign persons of America, a resolution to end our isolation and open diplomatic relations with the nations of the Inner Sphere."

And with that galaxy-changing statement, he declared, "This is not a matter I bring before Congress lightly, and I request the full participation of the sovereignty of all the six hundred states in the deliberations which are to proceed."

More than six hundred delegates began to quietly discuss the matter. But as always, there was one man who had to speak up.

This was Matthew Drummond, one of the representatives from the Kansas System. "The Federal Government seeks the opinion of Congress to open relations with the nations of the Inner Sphere, an act Americans have long considered, and numberless polemics have been written for and against: but I'm asking you now, man to man, do we reveal ourselves to the Inner Sphere on your command," he turned to look at the balcony, and the ranks of black-clad business leaders and wealthy families, with an expression of naked mistrust, "Or on their whim?"

As Christ had said, 'The rich we will always have with us,' and America had never been without an aristocracy of sorts. With her isolation, that upper-class had reasserted itself. They had done as they used to, endowing schools and universities, financing entrepreneurs, and helping the government establish the Third Bank of the united States. These aristocrats, if such they could be called, sought to prove themselves as the example for the rest of the Americans. They were mostly honest and honorable men by the standards of the people, and when it came to their code, they lived by it, worked for it, were ready to die for it.

And yet, the rest of the people regarded them with deep suspicion, for they knew that there had been a day when they had not. Swayed by the prospect of enlarging their fortunes to an unbelievable extent, many of the oldest families had abandoned their oaths sworn to the united States and willfully subsidized the destruction of the rights of the American people. The fact that they were enriched by those same freedoms made no difference to those wealthy families. With a narrowness, a prejudice, a blindness which in retrospect seems inconceivable, they hammered away at the foundations of the Republic until, in alliance with the international crime syndicate, they brought it down.

But this was a new age, and the President, duly elected by the people and by the electors of the college, could represent the people's will, because the people elected him to do so. For the people once more ruled. Not some of the people, not the best people or the worst, not the rich people or the poor, but the people. All the people.

And yet there was always the inevitable aberration, the soul born so black and twisted and full of unreasoning hatred that there was no explanation. Such men sought to break the rules, to corrupt the system and make it work only for them. They were invariably executed, hung by the neck until dead when any attempt to cheat the system was detected by the Justice Department's Bureau of Investigation.

And so Shinseki could say with not an ounce of falsehood, "Because we can, Mister Drummond. Because I think that we are finally strong enough that we can resist any attempt to subvert our institutions, and wise enough that we can recognize any who attempt to do so."

Mollified, or at least accepting the President's train of thought as a valid one, Drummond nodded and sat down.

Another man rose, this time one of the senators from the North Dakota system.

"Speaking for my constituents, it makes no difference to us whether the nations of the Inner Sphere piss or go fishing, all we want is not to get dragged into their wars. If we have to fight, it must be for ourselves."

As each man spoke his peace, a consensus was reached.

"Then as President of the united States, I formally declare that with the blessings of Congress and the American people, the Department of State will select ambassadors to the sovereign states of the Inner Sphere."

XxX

The Secretary of State, Robert Randolph, looked at the five men he'd selected for the job of ambassador. In order they were: Charlie Woods, detailed to the Draconis Combine; Rufus Pinckney, who would serve in the court of New Avalon; Alexander Cushing, he would have the worst job, having to go into the Capellan Confederation; Thomas Short, the ambassador to the Free Worlds League; and Hugh Dodd, accredited to Tharkad.

"So, gentlemen, based on what we know of the five successor states, what do you think is their explanation? What makes these people tick?"

Woods went first.

"The name Combine indicates an alliance. The overarching authority of the Coordinator and the overlay of Japanese culture, in spite of the fact that most of the people who live in the Combine are not Japanese, hints to me that these cultures came up with an explanation that in order for them to work together, there would need to be a strong central authority who could be ruthless enough to force the various factions to limit their discontent to complaints. As for their society, it's a virtual copy of the old Imperial Japanese system, very top-down.

"They're also the only faction that openly declares their right to rule all the Inner Sphere."

Randolph rubbed his chin, "Indicating that they equate security with expansion. Something to keep in mind when we engage with them. What about their chief rival, the Federated Suns?"

Pinckney shrugged, "They're a rather different kettle of fish as Intel has it. Their explanation is that there's two layers of order, the Davions allow the people to run the planets with representative government, and the royal house and the nobility run the show at the national level. If each permits the other to do what the other does, there is no trouble. They have a strong business class, though there are more than a few conglomerates."

"Put in that sort of light, they've been very lucky. If any outside forces put a wedge between the two, the dynasty would have to either become democratic, or crack down on the people.

Now it was Cushing's turn.

"The Capellans' explanation is primarily that they require a strong centralized authority and the entirety of their resources at the command of that central authority in order to survive. The Capellans also have a caste system akin to ancient China, and the explanation here is that if you work hard enough, you can accrue privileges commensurate with your achievements."

"A powerful incentive. But differences could arise between the castes, and between the branches of government. What about the League?"

Mr. Short looked cagey when he said, "Among all the powers, they have clung to their roots as a collective security arrangement. The House of Marik holds power more by custom and by trade savviness than a hereditary title. Their explanation seems to be that if there's to be anyone running this circus, then the dukes will at least suffer the Mariks, since they're the richest. But I hasten to add, they are less a nation than they are a power bloc on the style of the old NATO."

"And speaking of the richest, Hugh, what do you know about the Commonwealth?"

Dodd was an eloquent Southerner, and his affable manners were what had convinced Randolph to hire him.

"The Lyran Commonwealth is essentially a constitutional monarchy where the monarch performs the functions of a head of government as well as the head of state. The explanation of the Commonwealth is that a strong Archon and the Estates General cancel out the power of the money barons."

Pinckney had been grumbling under his breath, and now he cut across Dodd to ask a question of his employer.

"With all due respect Mister Dodd, we can't afford to ignore the elephant in the room any longer. What about the men behind the Star League and the Hegemony? Can we be sure that their firebrand has burned out?"

"Funny you should mention that," a jovial voice said from the doorway of the Secretary's office, "That's precisely what my men are going to find out for certain."

A man in a business suit walked in, the very picture of a friendly senior-management type. The fact that he wore a suit was hardly noteworthy, Army generals wore suits in any capacity they appeared in not pertaining directly to the military. But those who knew him, or had seen him in interviews, knew that this man was not only a 4-star General, but that he was the Director of the OSS.

Mr. Randolph rose from his seat and said, "Good to see you Smith," and he crossed the room in ten short steps and firmly shook the General's proffered hand.

Woods leaned back in his chair, putting one leg over the other, and exhaled a long low breath.

"So the Office is in this too?"

General John "Jacky" Smith followed Randolph back to the desk with a grin on his face.

"Well of course we are, this is the best way to coordinate our operation. Once you fellas have hammered out some trade agreements with the Inner Sphere's governments, traffic's going to take off by orders of magnitude."

"And that's how your agents are going to get into the 'Sphere," Dodd said, realizing the plan. "Does this mean we'll have OSS personnel embedded into our embassies?"

"That's the idea. Every embassy will have a station chief who will coordinate all our operations in the country they're detailed to."

"What are you looking for?" Cushing asked.

"Every time a regime falls, there are survivors, and the men behind it hardly ever go down with the ship. There's a remnant organization on Earth calling itself ComStar, that runs the League's old HPG network."

Dodd tried to play the devil's advocate, and found it hard going. "Well of course, someone would pick up the pieces after everything fell apart-"

"And they've been left alone."

That stopped them. In two hundred years, no-one had ever tried to seize control of the HPG network in their territory. Every one of the ambassadors-to-be knew what that meant.

Pinckney asked, "You think the old international crime families are still alive after all this? That they used Amaris to destroy the Star League, and then they transferred their influence to this ComStar group?"

"It makes sense that they would be. And just recently, my agents on the 'Sphere liners have heard about an organization arriving from the deep periphery. A mercenary organization larger than almost any other independent unit, with equipment a cut above the rest. It's all but a certainty that they're descendants of Kerensky's men."

"Then the Defense Force survived too?" Dodd murmured.

"Kerensky's army had enough terraforming equipment that they could start a new civilization. What form that civilization has taken... we don't know. But they're still militarized enough that they could send the equivalent of five armored cavalry regiments across an indeterminately long distance." Smith had completely shed his affable manner, and stared at them, dead serious. "Something terrible is about to happen, and these two groups are obviously at the center of it. Do any of you know that the nations of the Inner Sphere have no navies?"

Pinckney laughed, completely taken aback, "Nonsense! They have warships just like us!"

"Not as we think of them. They have no purpose-built warships, only militarized civilian ships, and those are hardly fit for frontline combat. Technology has not only stagnated there, but it's actually backslid in some places. Someone's been softening them up for quite a while now, and if we're going to find out who, we'll need a much larger net than the one we have in place. The only thing we've been really doing is picking up gossip and stopping the people we can figure out for spies from getting the the 'States. That is where you gentlemen come in.

"We need a pretext to increase our footprint in the Successor States, and your visits will provide us the perfect opportunity. Can we count on you?"

"When do we leave?" Wood asked.

"Within the week."

And indeed they did. Five trans-cluster liners had been laid on for the occasion, each carrying the ambassador, their respective households, and platoons of the new Marine Security Guard Battalion. Six days was all it took to cross the gulf between the two clusters, and another two for the five parties to arrive at their destinations. The ambassadors to the peripheral states had departed two days previous.

 

• Founding Year: 2316
• Capital (City, World): New Washington, Columbia
• National Symbol: Thirteen horizontal stripes, alternating with white, with a blue rectangle in the canton bearing white stars symbolizing the six hundred states.
• Location (Terra relative): Anti-Spinward, five hundred lightyears past the Aquila Rift
• Total (Inhabited) Systems: 600
• Estimated Population (3000): 2,400,000,000,000
• Government: Federal Presidential Constitutional Republic
• Ruler: President
• Dominant Language(s): English (official)
• Dominant Religion(s): Christianity (Protestant, Catholic), Buddhism, Judaism
• Unit of Currency: United States Dollar

Major Aerospace Corporations

• McDonald
• Lockheed
• Barrett Aerospace Technologies
• Consolidation
• US Northridge
• Dreyfus

Major Shipbuilding Corporations

• Kaiser Shipyards
• Electro-Dynamics
• Inglewood Shipbuilding
• Newport Shipyards
• American Shipbuilding

Major Defense Corporations

• Electro-Dynamics
• New Wisconsin Engineering
• Solomons Motor Company
• Calhoun Defense Solutions
• De la Cruz Ballistics
• Saint Paul Technologies
• New Oslo Automation

Please note, these are simply the largest.

 

No one on New Avalon was really prepared for the news that stole around. The first they heard of it was the HPG station on New Avalon receiving a brief message from some JumpShip's captain requesting a meeting with the First Prince, that the United Systems wished to open an embassy on New Avalon, and that he was carrying the Ambassador and his household. In this age of war, such an idea as an ambassador was something of a new concept, and Ian Davion's brother Hanse had thought it might be a joke. But old formalities had to be obeyed, and a reply was sent acknowledging the receipt of the message and would the ambassador present his credentials to the First Prince at his earliest convenience?

Then the huge ship arrived in-system, one of the type seen tooling around the inner sphere as bulk carriers and cruise liners. No one had ever figured out who owned them, and no one ever believed the statements that they were registered out of the United Systems, seeing the claims as a smoke screen. Now here was one of the brutes, launching a shuttle the size of a 747 down towards the Lucien Davion DropPort.

As the shuttle descended, Pinckney stared out of one of the port-side windows, hands folded behind his back. Having seen to his security squad, Sergeant Evans came to join him.

"I request that my men go in with magazines loaded for this… negotiation."

Pinckney turned to regard the man, faint surprise registering in the rise of his eyebrows.

"You don't think marching a fully armed platoon up to their doorstep will be cause for suspicion?," he asked, sourly.

Evans weathered the sarcasm well.

"I will bear that in mind. But I'd still like us to have magazines handy. We're relying on the honesty of dishonest men. Let's not start off taking unreasonable chances."

Pinckney still refused, and the head chauffeur of the motorcade laid on for them was prepared to embark the thirteen marines that came with him.

It must be said that the Davion's protocol was perfect, and that Mister Pinckney was accorded all the formal honors due to a visiting diplomat. There was a military guard of honor at the DropPort, where the Foreign Minister himself greeted the visitors, and slipped his daughter a fine bouquet of roses on behalf of His Highness, the First Prince. At the swank Hotel Royal, where the ambassador's party was put up, there were chocolates for Miss Pinckney.

The ambassadorial party drove north from the DropPort, over the Thames River, and through the city streets, which were swiftly becoming thronged as word spread along the grapevine that some real VIPs were in town. And the New Avalonians, with their instinct for finding a good show, swiftly figured out that the motorcade was bound for the Royal Court.

The impromptu parade wound its way along until it reached the gates of the Palace, where the ambassador received a salute from the Guards Brigade. And some quick-thinking individuals who had heard about the arrival of Jaime Wolf's Dragoons and had put two and two together had even made up placards and banners on which were the legend, "Welcome home Kerensky!"

The man who got out of the car wore an old-style business suit, and carried a briefcase in one hand. With his other, he waved to the crowds, who cheered with increased enthusiasm. He and his guard detail strode into the palace's interior, a building so opulent it would probably shame Versailles on Earth. They walked for up to a quarter of an hour through the sprawl, and finally came to the throne room.

"Your guards must wait outside," one of the men on the doors said, staring at the marines with undisguised suspicion.

Pinckney looked at Sergeant Evans, who was on the verge of telling the guard that he could wait outside, and nodded his assent.

With that brief difficulty taken care of, the doors swung inward. He was announced by a chamberlain, and walked down the avenue made by the Prince's courtiers, who regard him a mix of polite scrutiny, predatory interest and suspicion equal to the guards.

And up there, on the throne, that was Ian Davion himself. Not a body-double or a hologram, but the real McCoy. The man who ruled over more than five hundred systems and claimed, like four others, that he was the rightful First Lord of the Star League. Pinckney had his doubts about that, but for now it was time to be respectful of their host.

And so he bowed, somewhat awkwardly, it was not an action he was used to performing. The gathered nobility chuckled at his poise, some amused, some did so as a put down.

"You're not used to the likes of me, are you?" Ian Davion said.

"I'm not used to any sort of… gentlemen," Mr. Pinckney replied, "I apologize if I was not properly supplemental."

The First Prince shook his head, "Nonsense, you've got nothing to apologize for, you've only just arrived. It makes sense that you'd experience some shock."

He held a beat and then asked, "Speaking of which, where have you arrived from, Mister Pinckney?"

Pinckney took a deep breath. Here was the moment, the crossing of the Rubicon, the moment history went down the road less traveled.

"Your Highness, the Inner Sphere refers to my country as the United Systems, but that is not quite correct. My country is the united States of America, the federation of sovereign states that Admiral McKenna thought he destroyed seven hundred years ago."

He held up a hand to forestall the outburst from the audience, whether laughter or enraged denial. As it turned out, it was both, and it wasn't Pinckney who silenced the hecklers, but the First Prince himself.

"Mister Pinckney, what evidence can you present for this claim?"

Pinckney reached into one of his briefcase and withdrew a sheet of paper.

"This, sire, is my letter of credence. I would humbly request that you read it, and ascertain it's validity."

The letter was quite to the point, stating in the header that it was from Thomas Shinseki, President of the united States of America, to the First Prince of the Federation of Suns. This is what it said:

"Your Royal Highness,

"Wishing to open and further develop good relations between the United States of America and the Federation of Suns, I have decided to accredit to Your Highness, Mr. Rufus Pinckney as Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary.

"The qualities, talents and merits of Mr. Rufus Pinckney are sure guarantors of the zeal he will put into fulfilling the high mission incumbent on him in such a way as to obtain the confidence of Your Highness and thereby deserve my approval.

"It is in this conviction that I beg Your Highness to kindly grant him a benevolent welcome and to add faith and credence to all the communications that he will make to him on my behalf and in the name of the united States of America, especially when he expresses the assurances of my high esteem and my best wishes for his personal happiness and for the prosperity of his country."

And there at the bottom was the signature of the President, the Seal of the united States, and the date on which the letter was written.

What made it more impressive was that the letter was written in French, the language of diplomacy on old Terra. But something in the date of writing threw the First Prince off.

"You're serious, aren't you," he asked the ambassador, in a tremendous departure from standard practice. "You're saying you're an ambassador from a country that's supposed to have been destroyed seven hundred years ago."

"Destroyed on Earth, but the fifty states in North America were not the only states."

He explained it all. How they had taken advantage of the Age of War to soak up millions of refugees, how they had stood off an Star League expeditionary force under Forlough in the Reunification War with heavy losses, and were then forced to help General Kerensky to defeat their common enemy, Stefan Amaris. How the Americans had washed their hands of involvement in the Inner Sphere after they saw how the House Lords had immediately set to tearing each other's planets to pieces in the Succession Wars and gone into political isolation for the last three centuries.

But now they had decided that it was time America looked the galaxy in the eyes and engaged with the successor states as they were.

"And that, sir, is why I am here today, and four of my colleagues have gone to Sian, Tharkad, Atreus and Luthien."

The room exploded into conflicting murmurs.

"So, you say that you have come as a diplomat," Ian said, only a little humor in his voice, "And not as a herald for an invasion?"

"Your Highness, if that is all you have gleaned from my words, you have gravely misjudged my countrymen. We hate war. Somehow or other, the belief has come to us that if the nations applied themselves to peace as they do to transportation, communication and aviation, then war would be as old-fashioned as the horse and buggy."

"Then perhaps you might elucidate this state of affairs," the First Prince asked, no longer amused, "How large is the American army?"

"Each state maintains its own militia, but the United States Army is a hundred and thirty seven million strong."

Ian Davion blinked. "That's it? That's including all infantry, tank crews, artillery, supporting arms? The Star League Defense Force at its height numbered in the tens of billions! Good God, Luthien's militia alone would probably equal that!"

"I told you, we don't have a big army because we're not at war."

"How many Battlemechs do you have?" the First Prince asked, feeling increasingly lost at sea. "Tell me you at least have those."

Pinckney looked somewhat confused, and he asked the First Prince what he meant.

"You know, battlemechs, humanoid machines, the weapons that have dominated warfare for the last five hundred years?"

Pinckney brightened and said, "Ah, you mean combat walkers. Those make up the armored reconnaissance squadrons in the army's combat divisions. They're useful, but they hardly dominate warfare. If anything dominates, it's the navy, and even they only have a shadow of the tens of thousands of ships they used to have."

Hanse Davion, standing at Ian's side, gave a start and asked, "Pardon me, but did you say navy? You have WarShips?"

"We'd be fools not to. I expect you have thousands."

The whole room had gone silent.

"There hasn't been a warship seen in the Inner Sphere since the First Succession War," Ian Davion said, "How many do you have?"

Pinckney was starting to feel confused. What sort of place had he walked into?

"We have twelve fleets, so I suppose that would be…" he did a quick calculation, "Three thousand ships. It used to be a lot more, but what with the Star League going to bits, we were able to reduce the size of our military considerably."

XxX

For a while now, Natasha had been eyeing the soldiers. Jaime Wolf had been on New Avalon for negotiations with the First Prince when the shuttle had put in bearing diplomats from a country none of the dragoons had ever heard of. Whoever they were, they were certainly professional enough when the ambassador had presented himself, forming an honor guard around the man until they reached the Prince's court.

Then the diplomat, and he was a diplomat, declared he was an ambassador sent on behalf of the united States of America. There had been some laughter from the gathered nobility, but Jaime Wolf didn't join in, and nor did Natasha. He'd never seen anything like their equipment before, and harbored suspicions that there might be something more to these people.

"Follow them," he had told Natasha, "Find out whatever you can."

She had gone with her Widows to a bar the soldiers had found and sat down at a table near to them. The strangers were all at the bar, each nursing a drink.

They all wore green shirts and pants, she noticed that at once, and each man had a cap on the counter next to his drink. What's more, those caps all had the same insignia, an eagle clutching an anchor superimposed over a globe, which could only be Terra.

She had stared at these men for some time, before she decided she would try talking to one of them. She chose one of the men with a red stripe running down his legs, assuming this was a mark of an officer in this army.

So she ordered a beer and sat down next to him, and after a bit of smalltalk, she gave her name.

"Nice to meetcha, Cap'n Kerensky. I'm Corporal Larsen." the man said, in an accent she had not heard before. Of course the Human Sphere was a big place, and it was wholly possible that there was some planet where they spoke exactly like this man. But something made her uneasy.

"A corporal? A corporal in what?" she asked

"In the United States Marine Corps, the best Corps there is. I'm with the Security detail for Mister Pinckney, the Ambassador."

"You're not from around here, are you?" she said, letting an edge of sensuality into her voice, just a hint, to make him wonder if it had been there.

"Noticed the accent, I see," he chuckled and said, "I'm from New Oslo in Minnesota, we named it after the old state."

She noticed the book he was reading, a book on physics. Not the sort a corporal would be likely to read. Larsen followed her gaze and said, "My family's been scientists for a long time. So was I, after I rotated out of the regular army into the state militia, but the news of the diplomatic expedition came through, and I requested to transfer to the Corps so I could go with the diplomats."

She nodded, and wondered where she'd heard something like this before. But Larsen was still talking, about something else.

"You know I gotta say, I'm jealous of the Michigan guys. I mean I'm proud of the Twin Cities, but it's kinda weird to be cheering for the Gophers at every big game. I prefer the Wolverines, now that's something to shout."

Natasha's brain skidded to a halt.

"What did you say?" she asked, with the sort of calm you get from a person who's two seconds away from committing assault with a deadly weapon

Larsen had gotten past his first beer, and missed her tone, "Sorry, forgot you're not from the 'States. I mean the University of Michigan Wolverines. They're named after the old U of M's football team. I cheer for them at the big games 'cause I like their name and their colors."

Natasha relaxed, if only a hair.

"So what's home like for you?" she asked, trying to keep the harmonics of murder out of her voice.

Larsen was able to talk her ears off about his home state in the hour they sat together, before the Sergeant got up, and called his boys together.

"Say, you guys wanna join the run? We gotta keep in shape."

Natasha looked at her fellow Widows, and decided that yes, it would be best if they went. No matter that she was probably more in shape than any of them.

That was an hour ago, and even so she was able to keep pace with them, if only just. It amazed her how long the Marines were able to run for. But at least they had something to run to.

"Stefan Amaris was a sunofabitch!"

"Stefan Amaris was a sunofabitch!"

"Had the blue balls, crabs and the seven-year itch!"

"Had the blue balls, crabs and the seven-year itch!"

Even Natasha could belt that one out. But the fun was over after another hour when the Sergeant got a call from the Ambassador, telling him that they were returning to the Hotel Royal until a more permanent embassy could be arranged.

Kerensky and her company had to be somewhere else too, and Jaime wanted to know everything she had learned about the soldiers, and whether or not that ambassador was telling the truth.

"They are telling the truth," she said to him, "They are from a new United States as far as they are concerned."

Jaime Wolf rubbed his beard and murmured, "Amazing that they have survived this long."

Natasha and Jaime stood side by side, watching the Americans. An idle thought made Natasha wonder, "Who do you think would win? Us or them?"

There was no need for her to say who she meant by 'us'.

Jaime scoffed, "Us of course, there is simply no contest. Man for man, I expect it would be a walkover. But I have no doubt they would put up a decent fight, if these marines are any indication."

"And what about their warships? Assuming they are not bluffing."

"You heard the Ambassador. The United States has not been to war for centuries. We have been fighting non-stop. We would need to buildup the fleets, but we could beat them. It would take some time is all."

There were others who did not think so. And privately, Jaime wondered why the Clans did not mention the United States in their history.

XxX

"You should've seen their faces," Pinckney said, leaning back on the couch, still chuckling softly, "First they think we're a bunch of banditos, now they know we're probably stronger than the FedSuns and the Lyrans put together."

"They won't dismiss us now," laughed Colonel Bartleby, his military attache.

"So, we've shown our strength, now it's time we start making deals. It's a good thing I studied economics at the university," sobering up, Pinckney looked at his attache and said, "We've got a lot of work to do in front of us."

 

"Is the Taratupa running silent?"

"She is, sir."

Charlie Woods adjusted his suit for the fifth and last time.

"And Luthien has received the HPG message?"

"They have. They received the trans-cluster message six days ago. They've been waiting for us ever since."

"Either to welcome us or ambush us. You know what these Draconians are supposed to be like."

Woods stole one last puff of his cigarette, a chain-smoker, he had a feeling that he would not be allowed to smoke in the Coordinator's presence.

"Let's get ready Captain."

The two men, Woods and his attaché Captain Ernest Halsey, settled in for the long ride down to the Imperial City's DropPort, wondering what their reception would be like.

As it turned out, they were received with a sort of icy politeness. A civil servant, in what Woods couldn't help noticing was a traditional Japanese suit, was waiting for them at their terminal gate.

He had said, "Welcome, emissary of the United Systems. We have been expecting you," and gestured down the hallway.

A security team drawn from the Internal Security Force was waiting for them with the cars, and they drove to the Palace of Unity in silence.

Finally the quiet got too much for the ambassador, and he asked, "Is there any reason for the chilly reception?"

The man looked contrite, "Sir, I must apologize that we are unable to render you a proper greeting, but the Coordinator has had several attempts on his life. Many in the Palace wondered whether or not the United Systems would bother sending an envoy at all in light of recent events."

"It's that bad, is it?"

The servant nodded, "The present Coordinator only came to the throne two years ago, and many things are as yet uncertain."

Woods and Halsey exchanged an understanding glance. They would have to tread carefully.

The whole city seemed to exude a spirit of wariness, wondering what the next hour would bring. And this close to Unity Palace, the feeling was even more concentrated. Even the average man or woman had been affected. Those who watched the convoy driving to the palace watched with wide-eyed attentiveness. How many of them were members of the ISF or some plot or other, none could say.

Finally, after what felt like hours, the Ambassador felt the car slow to a stop.

"We have arrived at the Honorable Gate," their interlocutor said in answer to his questioning glance. "The Otomo must make certain of our passport."

A group of these men, the Coordinator's palace guards as Woods later learned, had moved to the driver's window and were examining the group's papers. They looked at the visitors with undisguised contempt, before the sergeant nodded and waved them through.

The cars drove into a large courtyard, where they alighted, and were conducted to the Throne Room, which was impressive to say the least, all red and black with gold accents. The Coordinator was waiting for them on the seat from which all the Draconis Combine was ruled, with all the strength that could be desired in a young ruler. At least, that was how a Draconian would probably think of him. To Woods's eye, the Coordinator sat rigid with suspicion, and from his point of view understandably so.

Looking at him now, Woods wondered if this was what Commodore Perry felt when meeting the old Tokugawa Shogun, since this man was no divine Emperor.

"You are the American ambassador," he said.

"Yes, lord Coordinator, we are. I am Charles Woods, and this is my military attaché, Captain Halsey."

The Coordinator looked at them for a second longer than was comfortable, before nodding his head very slightly.

Immediately his herald declared, "You stand now in the presence of the Coordinator and Unifier of Worlds, the Duke of Luthien, Kurita Takashi."

Thanks to Woods' unfettered understanding of American history, and in particular the factors that drove the World Wars, he bowed graciously. "The United States greets you warmly, Coordinator."

The Coordinator raised one delicate eyebrow. "More warmly than your predecessors greeted the Shoguns, at any rate."

"That is so, Your Highness. We are not the same country that greeted Japan with warships and threats. We are no longer governed by the same forces, nor will we act in the same way as the America of Roosevelt's time."

"And how will I interpret that," he asked, calm as the blackness between galaxies.

"If it is clarification you desire, then I will say this; Japan was sold up the river once, and the big men of America were part of the deal. A great many ordinary Americans and Japanese were ruined by the war."

The Coordinator sneered, "I fail to see how that is the case. American cities were not reduced to ashes in that war, and her people were not reduced to poverty."

"Not in that war, no. Our turn would come later. But we were hoodwinked just as much as the Japanese were, and the Germans, and the French, and the British. And thanks to that war, many people were conned out of a future.

"The new united States is not enslaved to those forces any longer. There are no more staged elections and the people are educated enough that they can stand on their own two feet."

"Spare me the schoolboy lecture," snapped Takashi Kurita, "And tell me why you are here. Why should the United Systems end her isolation?"

At that moment the doors exploded inwards and a pack of soldiers charged into the throne room. Two shots, and the Otomo guards went down.

"What is the meaning of this?" the Coordinator demanded, beginning to stand, only to be dissuaded when he found himself staring down the barrels of a dozen laser rifles.

The apparent leader of these men, Woods had little familiarity with the ranks of the Combine Army, walked forwards, leveling a pistol at the Coordinator.

"Please, no sudden moves, Takashi," the man said, grinning as he came on. Then he turned to address the room in general, and what Charlie could now see were security cameras, "As of now, the rightful Coordinator is once more on the throne."

"Have I missed something?" Charlie wondered, from shock perhaps. Shock and the sheer abruptness of what had happened.

"Silence dog," the man shouted, firing a beam that hummed past his ear. "What is the meaning, is this is a very good day for the Combine! A very good day indeed, considering I have managed to halt an unholy alliance between the usurper and the outsider."

Charlie stuck a finger in one ear and wiggled it around.

"Care to run that by me again?" he asked, "I'm not here to conclude an alliance, only to serve as the united States' envoy to the Combine."

"Lies will serve you not at this hour, jingai."

"There's no need to be insulting, sir."

Charlie knew his one chance at life was to keep the conversation going, and keep the man engaged, whoever he was.

"Why have you done this," he asked, "What crime has the Coordinator committed?"

"Aside from murdering his own father?" the man asked sarcastically, and he seemed to enjoy the way the Coordinator paled, either from fury or fear, Charlie couldn't tell.

"Indeed," he said, "An awful crime, if it's true. How do you know?"

"Because it was one of his men that did the deed. Everyone said that he was part of the Tyr Resistance afterwards, but he was still part of the Otomo, which Takashi Kurita was the commander of. He also had the man immediately disposed of after the deed was done, and anyone who dared question his legitimacy."

The man listed this all with a sort of gloating malice, and his eyes never left the Coordinator's who stared dirks and daggers right back.

"And so you are going to kill him?" Charlie asked, rubbing his chin, "And who's going to be the next Coordinator? You seem to have a candidate in mind."

"The blood of a traitor can never sit the Chrysanthemum Throne. Thank the gods, the departed Lord Hohiro had another son, Miyamoto. And thank the gods that before he died, he had a son, Isoroku Kurita."

"So, if His Highness is illegitimate because he assassinated his father, then the second son's firstborn will be the new Coordinator?" Charlie wondered out loud. "And what will happen to His Highness's own children, given that his union has borne fruit."

Come on, he was thinking, Just a little further, and I've got the son of a bitch.

"We shall deprive the usurper's lackeys a symbol they can rally around. And we shall show the United Systems what it means to consort with traitors."

"And by deprive, you mean kill?"

"Precisely. Perhaps we shall make Takashi Kurita do it himself, as expiation for his crime."

Now, the Coordinator stood up.

"Touch my son, Shōshō Tanaka" he said, and every syllable thrummed with power and rage, "And your life will be short and your death will be slow."

"That, Takashi-san, is what is coming for the both of you."

From outside an explosion like the crash of thunder sounded, followed by the sound of enormous engines at full power. Seconds later, and Charlie Woods' phone began to ring.

"What's that?" The man demanded, looking at Charlie's pocket.

"My cellular phone," Charlie responded, "Excuse me, but I think I'd better take this."

Tanaka was feeling unbalanced, it can be the only reason he made the mistake of bowing slightly and saying, "Of course, of course."

Charlie fished his phone out of his pocket and answered it, listened for a moment, and then held it out for the officer, "It's for you."

The officer, Tanaka, the Coordinator had called him, cautiously took the strange phone and said, "Konnichiwa?"

The voice on the other end demanded, "Is this the man who made the moronic decision to launch a coup d'état while the united States ambassador was in the same system?"

"Who the hell is this?" Tanaka snarled.

"This is Commander Quinton Parker, commanding the USS Taratupa and the chauffeur of a whole battalion of angry marines. More to the point, I also happen to have an even dozen tactical ballistic missiles onboard. And the only thing stopping me from using every one of them is the fact that not a hair on our ambassador's head has so far been touched. If you touch that hair, my boss, Lieutenant Colonel Engel, will come charging down like the wrath of god to get him out. And if you kill him, I will launch every one of these missiles, and one of these warheads will be coming down right on top of this palace.

"So, what's it going to be? Will you release the ambassador who has approached your Coordinator without a thought of malice and let them talk to one another like civilized people? Or am I going to turn this whole city into a field of green glass?"

"Where are you anyway?" Tanaka snapped, listening with one ear for the clink of boots on marble.

"Currently, I'm a few miles above the Imperial City. Would you like to have a look?"

Tanaka paled, and ordered his men to bring the Coordinator and the Ambassador with him. Parker was as good as his word. The front of the palace was a battleground, with mechs of the Otomo and the rebels heavily engaged, while overhead there was a swarm of small craft of no pattern he recognized firing upon the rebellious mechs. Further out, the various garrisons had lit up with action as formations more loyal to the Coordinator began to mobilize But what truly chilled him was the ship hovering ten miles further up. It was so large he wondered how it could be holding steady in the atmosphere. Through his rangefinders, it appeared to be some three hundred and eighty meters long, and bristled with cannon, lasers and rockets. More than a dozen smaller craft swarmed around the alpha-predator, each one training their own batteries of rockets on Unity Palace.

Tanaka looked from Kurita to Woods, there was absolutely no mercy there. Finally, he reached a reluctant conclusion after staring at the warship a moment longer.

He took out a radio and said, "Men, lay down your arms, and release His Highness," as they began to protest, he turned his eyes to the Coordinator. "These men acted on my orders alone."

Then he drew his Nakajima laser pistol and brought it up to his chin in one smooth motion. Before another word could be said, he pulled the trigger. The beam burned up and out of his cranium, and he collapsed in a lifeless heap on the ground in front of them.

Takashi Kurita stared down at the corpse for a moment before he said, "Filthy traitor," and gave it a good kick.

By now a squad of the Otomo had arrived from further within the Palace. Charlie noticed that several were streaked with blood, and at least one had scorch marks on his jacket.

"We were attacked, Tonno," one of them said, panting and out of breath, "We've been rallying a counterattack against the traitors. When the dropship came down, and we couldn't find you in the Throne Room, we feared the worst."

The Coordinator adjusted his clothes, and suddenly it looked as though he'd never lost control.

"I am still alive, Chūi." The words 'no thanks to you' went unsaid. "Is my son unhurt?"

"He is," the Lieutenant hastened to assure his lord, "A section of the rebels sought to seize the life of the migi and the midaidokoro, but we managed to kill them. All that's left to do is mop up."

"Will you be taking prisoners?" Woods asked, "I'd like to know who was behind this, myself."

"As would I," the Coordinator growled, "This wasn't just an assassination attempt, it was practically a full-scale assault. But first, make sure of my nephew. If Tanaka intended to install him on the throne, undoubtedly he would have meant him to be a puppet while he served as Regent, and he likely intended to have him as a hostage had his rebellion failed."

The Lieutenant saluted, before he said, in complete sincerity, "We are prepared to lay down our lives for this failure, Tonno."

"Is that necessary?" Captain Halsey wondered, more than slightly unnerved at the statement.

The Coordinator stared at the soldier, before nodding his head in the negative.

"Not yet. You have tasks left to accomplish."

The Lieutenant clicked his heels, bowed, and turned to depart.

Woods was unable to stop himself from asking the Coordinator, now they were alone, "Why did they offer to commit suicide? What had they failed at?"

Takashi Kurita leaned back on the balcony, and suddenly he looked as human as any other man. "Because as warriors of the Otomo, their sole purpose is to defend the Coordinator. Were it not for your intervention, it is very possible that they would have failed."

The Coordinator seemed to realize this all of a sudden, since he turned to the dropship that had begun to travel towards the Imperial City's DropPort.

"Your men saved my life," he murmured.

Charlie mirrored the Coordinator's posture, following the progress of the Taratupa. "Even so, that's worth something. For what it's worth, I didn't see the meeting going like this at all. I just thought I'd be delivering a greeting and observing the formalities."

Takashi scoffed and said, "Do your greetings normally include the threat of nuclear force?"

"Not usually. Not to be insulting, Coordinator, but considering the Combine's history, we were afraid that if negotiations went south, we'd have to shoot our way out. The only other ambassador who's getting a similar treatment is the man headed for Sian."

The Coordinator gave a genuine smile, "I would see this city incinerate in nuclear fire before I yielded it to the grasping hands of rebels. I can't imagine your man will have an easy time of it with The Diablo."

"He's actually called that?"

"He enjoys it."

Charlie's laugh was a gunshot in the sudden quiet. "God save us from Capellan Chancellors."

"Now those are words to live by."

XxX

After the dust had settled, the American ambassador and his entourage were properly greeted with a tea ceremony hosted by the Coordinator. Then there was a ceremony broadcast across the Combine for Commander Parker, who was awarded the Guardian of the Lair in a shocking departure from tradition. After all, no one from outside the Draconis Combine had hitherto been awarded any medals from the Combine, since no one had hitherto had the opportunity to render such a service.

The events of Woods' first day on the job would quickly enter internet mythology in the united States, and make him something of a celebrity in the Inner Sphere. And Woods, much to his relief, had a far more uneventful stay in Combine space. At least, compared to some of his successors.