TEXT: BattleCorps
  FALL FROM GRACE
  Chris Hartford
  Part Three
  
  BattleCorps
  Fall From Grace • Page 
  ~6~
  “Grandpa Albert bribed the Confederation into joining the Star 
  League. Perhaps it wasn’t the best footing to begin an era of peace 
  and cooperation, but for the most part it worked. The problem was 
  some people—on both sides—thought the deal over Andurien was 
  part of some elaborate shell game, that no one would hand over 
  such a hotly contested set of worlds even to win a long-lasting 
  peace. Every denial from Sian and Atreus seemed to reinforce 
  their delusions that only they knew the truth. Unfortunately the 
  Freebooter’s War was only the most visible aspect of this strug-
  gle.”
  —Private Journal
  Weston 
  Wisconsin 
  Duchy of Andurien, Free Worlds League 
  19 March 2588
  “Damn it!” Rhean swore as the impact threw her to one side, the 
  seat restraints digging into her flesh. Her head whipped sideways 
  as well, but the padded collar stopped it before the encumbering 
  headgear could whiplash her neck. “Where the hell did that come 
  from?”
  Catching a movement in her peripheral vision, she kicked the 
  pedals hard. The feet of her lumbering Guillotine turned slowly 
  to the right in response to her foot pressure, but the waist servos 
  reacted more quickly to her wrist twist on the left-hand joystick. 
  Even as that brought the torso in line with the movement—an in-
  fantry squad she saw, one figure desperately attempting to reload 
  the man-pack rocket launcher held by another—she used the right 
  joystick to drop the targeting cursor onto the cluster of figures. 
  She pulled the main trigger and parallel beams lashed out from 
  the twin Medium Lasers mounted in the ’Mech’s right arm. She 
  grimaced as charred bodies flew away from the impact point.
  
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  “Sheng has the right flank.” someone replied on the FWLM chan-
  nel, rather than the Star League one she’d used in her broadcast. 
  Rhean toggled the frequency shift.
  “He’s supposed to have the right flank.” She growled. “But he’s 
  nowhere to be seen and a bunch of ‘Booters just took a potshot at 
  me.” Shepperton’s Freebooters, rogue Capellan troops who’d de-
  cided to continue the age-old war against the Duchy of Andurien. 
  That Albert Marik had gifted most of the contended district to the 
  Confederation as part of the incentives for the Liaos to join the 
  Star League was conveniently forgotten. The Freebooters claimed 
  Andurien would be handed back after a plebiscite on Shiro III had 
  shown overwhelming support for such a move. They’d refused to 
  heed the Chancellor’s calls to stand down for four years now, and 
  with Marion Mark threatening to abandon the mop-up operations 
  in Canopus—taking the war to Sian if that was what was needed 
  to stop the attacks on the Free Worlds—the Star League had inter-
  vened. The Slicks, the Star League Intelligence Corps, had passed 
  intercepts to the Capellan intelligence agency, the Maskirovka, 
  who confirmed the raiders were operating from Wisconsin, a new-
  ly settled world between the remains of the Duchy of Andurien 
  and the Principality of Regulus. Sian announced that forces of the 
  Capellan Confederation Armed Forces would “deal” with the reb-
  els, but Ian Marik refused to sanction a CCAF operation on League 
  soil. Instead, it would be a joint operation, FWLM and CCAF work-
  ing alongside each other. The First Free Worlds Guards, including 
  newly commissioned lieutenant Rhean Marik, would fight along-
  side Sheng’s Chasseurs. That was the idea, at least.
  “Well, Intel said there was no one there and this’d be a clean 
  sweep through the complex.”
  Rhean snorted. “That’s spooks for you.” She toggled back to 
  the command frequency, realigned her ’Mech, and continued the 
  advance through the industrial complex to the rendezvous point. 
  The rest of her lance were already there, the other three ’Mechs 
  painted the same deep purple as her Guillotine. Ordinarily they’d 
  have opted for something a little more like camouflage, but with 
  forces from two militaries on site and no SLDF command struc-
  ture, despite the presence of the intelligence agents, they wanted 
  to be damn sure friend-and-foe identification wasn’t going to be 
  a problem.
  “Okay, let’s go. Tactical advance to point Epsilon.” That was the 
  western edge of the industrial complex, en-route to the main set-
  tlement. “Connor, point, Sebastian, rearguard.”
  
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  Alain Connor’s Hunchback lumbered forward, seeming to 
  waddle under the weight of its huge, shoulder-mounted cannon. 
  Rhean advanced the throttle of her own Guillotine, following thir-
  ty meters behind the lighter ’Mech, Michelle Chen’s Thunderbolt 
  falling into stride alongside her. Joachim Sebastian in his Griffin 
  held his ground at the rendezvous point for several moments, his 
  head-like sensor assembly sweeping back and forth on the look-
  out for hostile troops then, seven-ton PPC cradled in both hands 
  like an infantryman with a rifle, he too began to cautiously follow 
  the team.
  “Too much junk to get a clear mag-rez,” Connor reported. 
  Magnetic resistivity sensors were often key to spotting enemy ve-
  hicles on the modern battlefield where a combination of ground 
  clutter and stealth systems made radar and its ilk largely ineffec-
  tive. Unfortunately, mag-rez couldn’t tell the difference between 
  the iron girders of a crane and the ferro-titanium skeleton of a 
  ’Mech. Connor’s display would be a sea of red contacts.
  “Keep your eyes open.” She didn’t need to say it, they knew the 
  drill, but Rhean felt like she had to say something. “We’re not out 
  of the woods ye—”
  The front of the warehouse Connor was passing exploded, 
  showering him with debris before engulfing him in an expanding 
  fireball. The heavy machine staggered, but didn’t fall. “Bastards,” 
  he yelled, swinging his arms toward the shattered ruins of the 
  building and playing his twin medium lasers across the wreckage. 
  “I’m a little toasty, but otherwise fine.” He reported in response 
  to Rhean’s barked query. “Probably agrochemicals, rigged with a 
  proximity fuse.”
  Or a command-detonated device, in which case they’re watching us.
  As if in response to her thought, a hail of machinegun fire lanced 
  out from her left, ineffectually peppering the war machines. The 
  missiles and large-caliber shells that followed were certainly not 
  ineffectual.
  A Lancelot rose through the roof of one warehouse, it’s dual 
  large-bore lasers and single Particle Projection Cannon stabbing 
  into the FWLM ’Mechs. Sebastian’s Griffin bore the brunt of the 
  assault and rocked back under the fusillade. He returned fire, light-
  ning coruscating across the chest of the Lancelot, then triggered 
  his jets, leaping up and over the heavier machine. It tracked him, 
  firing as he flew, and armor shards flew off the fifty-five ton ’Mech. 
  The Griffin wobbled in flight but Sebastian maintained control, 
  
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  twisting the machine as he brought it in for a heavy landing. Dust 
  flew as it hit the ground and even Rhean felt her machine struggle 
  for balance. The Lancelot attempted to turn, but hampered by the 
  ruins, it was too slow. Sebastian fired his PPC into its weak back. 
  The Lancelot convulsed as its innards were shredded, then made 
  one last valiant attempt to stand. The Griffin fired again, and his 
  target seemed to go rigid then toppled forward, its power plant 
  crippled. The Griffin ducked behind cover, then when it became 
  clear the ‘dead’ machine wasn’t going to suffer a catastrophic am-
  munition explosion, stood up once more and fired into the flank of 
  an enemy Crusader.
  That machine, accompanied by a lighter Dervish, hammered at 
  Rhean’s machine as if sensing that was the commander’s ’Mech. 
  Rhean returned fire, giving as she got but backing away slowly to 
  open the range to her opponents. Though they’d gain an advan-
  tage with the maneuver too – both needed time for their missile 
  guidance systems to direct the small projectiles to their targets – 
  the Guillotine didn’t suffer such restrictions. To her, the maneuver 
  was purely tactical. Both opponents sported Short-Range Missile 
  launchers and lasers as well as the LRMs, but they were, to all in-
  tents, handicapped in close-quarters combat.
  With the rangefinder reading ninety meters, Rhean leveled 
  both arms at the Dervish. Her machine outweighed it by fifteen 
  tons, but that was no reason for overconfidence. She fired both 
  weapons, a wave of heat washing over the cockpit as three lasers 
  burned into the target. The Freebooter ’Mech staggered back, its 
  chest glacis in tatters, but remained upright. Rhean pulled the sec-
  ondary trigger and missiles and more laser beams stabbed out at 
  the damaged machine. “Yes!” she yelled as she saw the distinc-
  tive puff of black smoke as part of the artificial musculature was 
  consumed. Still it remained upright a testament to the pilots skill. 
  Clearly struggling – the pilot was probably fighting a damaged gy-
  roscope – it raised one arm toward Rhean in a gesture of defiance, 
  the covers of its missile tubes popping open.
  The shells from Connor’s Hunchback decapitated the blocky ma-
  chine. Almost in slow motion, it tipped over onto its back and lay 
  still, smoking.
  Despite Chen’s distraction, the Crusader launched volley after 
  volley at Rhean. Again, she brought her weapons into line with 
  the enemy but refrained from pulling the trigger. She needed to 
  allow her ’Mech to cool a little, and she could weather the storm 
  for a few more seconds, particularly with Connor and Chen there 
  
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  to apply pressure. Centered on its chest, her crosshairs blinked 
  readiness but rather than firing them into the torso, home to the 
  vital sensors and power plant, but also the most heavily armored 
  part of the machine, she allowed the crosshairs to drop. Centering 
  on the joint between its bulky shin armor and the thigh plating, 
  Rhean fired and at ninety meters found it almost impossible to 
  miss. Laser-fire burned into the weak knee joint, which imme-
  diately froze. The Crusader, caught in the act of backing away, 
  stumbled and nearly fell, only remaining upright when the pilot 
  grabbed at the side of a warehouse that bowed ominously under 
  the weight. She aimed at the other knee then, on impulse, trigged 
  a small round stud on her control stick.
  “Freebooter, surrender and place yourself in the custody of the 
  Free Worlds League. Continue to fight and you will be destroyed. 
  You have ten seconds … mark.”
  The armor panels of her own ’Mech popped as they cooled, a fa-
  miliar sound to MechWarriors but the only one that permeated her 
  cockpit above the distant thrum of the Guillotine’s fusion power 
  plant. Her lancemates held their fire too, wondering if the enemy 
  pilot would choose to fight to the last or acknowledge he was out-
  numbered four-to-one.
  The radio cracked. “I will be held by the Free Worlds, not the 
  Capellan Confederation?”
  “Yes, you have my word.”
  The only answer was a sudden gust of steam from the Crusader’s 
  radiators, then the machine sagged to the ground and lay still. 
  Keeping her weapons in line with the downed machine, Rhean 
  reached up and toggled a viewscreen overlay. Judging by his elec-
  tronic emissions, the Freebooter had shutdown his fusion reactor. 
  He wasn’t going anywhere.
  “Connor, Chen. Secure the prisoners and check the other two.” 
  There was little chance the Dervish pilot was still alive, but the 
  Rifleman’s one might well be. Two more for the stockade at 
  Caulfield Island on Atreus.
  She scanned her systems and checked her armor and weapon 
  status. Listening to Sebastian calling in an infantry squad to take 
  custody of the captives, Rhean mused on the Crusader pilot’s 
  words. Was he that fearful of being repatriated to Sian? She’d have 
  to ask him when they got back to base, but for now she needed to 
  remain on her guard in case other Freebooters joined the fray.
  
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  ~7~
  “There are some things that imprint themselves on your mind 
  like indelible ink: your first love, the first person you kill. For me, I’d 
  add the first time I ‘worked’ on the international diplomatic stage. 
  Coming just days after I’d killed several people, the efforts to save 
  the very same group from further harm was something of a turn 
  up for the books. That the deal eventually seemed to snatch defeat 
  from the jaws of victory was a bitter lesson in the reality of foreign 
  relations.”
  —Private Journal
  Madison 
  Wisconsin 
  Duchy of Andurien, Free Worlds League 
  21 March 2588
  Dressed in olive-green overalls unzipped to her waist to reveal 
  the cooling vest beneath, Rhean felt distinctly underdressed in 
  Madison’s town hall. She stood away from the large table, com-
  mandeered by the Guards’ commander for all his maps, lounging 
  against a heavy wooden sideboard, a sachet of juice in her left 
  hand. Save for a handful of adjutants and NCOs, she was the most 
  junior person present, and wouldn’t ordinarily have been here. 
  Appleton, the Guards commander, had insisted, her presence a 
  two-fold break on their expected guests.
  She sipped her juice, hoping the tangy liquid would settle her 
  stomach, and toyed with the tail of her waist-length braid. Her old 
  friends the elephants were back again, using her stomach as a 
  trampoline while she contemplated her first piece of foreign di-
  plomacy.
  The prisoner debriefing after Weston had gone pretty much as 
  expected, as had the Freebooter’s explanations of why he didn’t 
  want to surrender to the CCAF troops; Under Capellan law there 
  was only one crime for convicted deserters. They weren’t talk-
  
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  ing a private hanging or firing squad either. Public beheading was 
  what they expected, an example to others. It was barbaric to her 
  Free Worlds sensibilities, but the Star League did grant member-
  states the right to their own legal traditions. And there was the rub. 
  Jurisdiction.
  “They’re here,” the communications tech announced, looking up 
  from his data-slate. Around the room, officers drew themselves 
  up to their full heights and made sure they seemed to be busy 
  with their tasks. Rhean sipped her naranji—there wasn’t much 
  else for her to do.
  Precise, rhythmic footfalls on the stone floor announced the arrival 
  of the Capellans. Two officers entered, one in his fifties, the other 
  probably in his early thirties, both dressed in dark green livery with 
  black chest plates and boots. Each carried a black helmet tucked in 
  the crook of their left arm. Their look was disparaging and they acted 
  as if they’d entered a hovel. Arrogant. The older one bore the trian-
  gular insignia of a colonel, the younger the yellow band and twin 
  triangles of a major. The colonel walked straight over to Appleton 
  and gave a curt bow of his head. The major hung back, eyeing the 
  other occupants of the room carefully. His gaze drifted past Rhean, 
  then darted back. He looked her in the eyes as his own brows lifted 
  slightly. He stepped up to the Colonel, Sheng she presumed, though 
  she’d never met him or seen pictures, and whispered something in 
  his ear. The older figure dismissed him with a gesture. The younger 
  man stepped back, a faint frown furrowing his brow.
  “Welcome Colonel. Can I offer you refreshments?”
  “Most kind, Colonel Appleton. Mint tea would be most refresh-
  ing.” Pushy too, Rhean mused. Appleton motioned to an orderly, 
  who poured two cups, offering the first to the guest and the sec-
  ond to the Guards’ commander. Both took a sip, then set down the 
  cups. “You are well prepared, Colonel.”
  “It helps to plan ahead. Surprises can be so inconvenient.”
  “That they can.” Sheng glanced over at his aide. Probably an 
  agent of the Maskirovka, the Capellan intelligence agency. “You 
  wished to discuss the repatriation of our citizens, yes?”
  “Correct, sir.” Appleton drew himself up to his full height, tow-
  ering over his Capellan peer. “I must respectfully decline your 
  request that all the prisoners be sent back to Sian for trial.” He 
  stressed the last word, knowing full well the Freebooters had been 
  tried and convicted in absentia.
  
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  “Sir, you cannot. These are Capellan citizens who must be re-
  turned to our homeland to face justice. Your Free Worlds has no 
  authority to detain them.”
  “That,” Appleton’s voice was chill, “is not true, Colonel. They 
  have committed crimes of piracy and assault against Andurien—”
  “Andurien is a Capellan world, Colonel.”
  Appleton inclined his head slightly, but his eyes narrowed. 
  “Against the Free Worlds Duchy of Andurien, and furthermore 
  were apprehended on a planet within the Free Worlds. Under the 
  Star League charter, as the victims of their crimes—which the 
  Capellan state allowed to continue for four years—and the lords 
  of the worlds where they were apprehended, our jurisprudence 
  takes precedence.”
  “Then, Colonel Appleton, we will call for their extradition.”
  “As is your right. However, I believe you will not find matters as 
  clear as you think.” He turned to Rhean, a thin smile crossing his 
  lips. “Lieutenant, you are well schooled in Star League and Free 
  Worlds law. What is your opinion on how this will play out?”
  Rhean took a deep breath. “The prisoners fear for their lives—”
  Sheng made a dismissive gesture with his free hand. “They fear 
  legal punishment, and seek your gentler legal system. We will 
  extradite them.” He made no effort to keep the disdain from his 
  voice.
  “You can try, Colonel, though I don’t think the courts will cooper-
  ate. As for our “gentler” system—this is a capital case, sir, and the 
  Free Worlds does have the death penalty. However, we also have 
  a tradition of free trials and human rights.”
  “Wēnshén. Do not lecture me, mèimei. This is the will of the Celestial 
  Wisdom.”
  Rhean’s eyebrows rose, and a smile tugged at one corner of her 
  mouth. “I’m sure Ursula would wish to avoid a diplomatic inci-
  dent.” At her familiar use of the Chancellor’s name, dark blotches 
  appeared on Sheng’s face.
  “Do not speak of the Celestial Wisdom like you are an intimate.” 
  He spluttered.
  Rhean’s eyebrows rose in mock surprise. “You mean your 
  Maskirovka associate didn’t brief you? I am an intimate of your 
  
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  Chancellor. I’ve known her since I was three years old.” He eyes 
  widened in mock innocence. “Would you like me to describe her 
  apartments in Unity City? They really are quite magnificent.”
  “Chòu sānb.” Sheng was incandescent with fury.
  Rhean met his gaze levelly. “Something else your associate 
  should have told you.” She nodded at the major. “I’m fluent in six 
  languages, including Mandarin, so I am aware when you’re call-
  ing me a bitch or a little girl.” Color drained from Sheng’s face as 
  he caught sight of the name ribbon sewn onto the breast of her 
  jumpsuit at last, and glared at his companion. “So if you continue, 
  I’ll have to conclude you’re nǐ shì shénme dōngxi and tell Auntie 
  Ursula.”
  Sheng’s jaw clenched and he muttered something under 
  his breath that sounded like “qu di yu” before turning back to 
  Appleton. She stifled a grin. It was hardly elegant, but it had thrown 
  the Capellan off balance. With a League noble here, and one who 
  would probably rule the Free Worlds one day at that, he wouldn’t 
  press his luck. Too far, at least.
  “Your officers have an interesting interpretation of respect for 
  their seniors, Colonel.” Sheng murmured coldly.
  “They have perfectly good respect for their superiors, Colonel, 
  and the orders they are given. Thank you lieutenant, you may go. 
  More tea, Colonel? Then we can discuss the disposition of the 
  prisoners at length.” Rhean came to attention and saluted her 
  commanding officer, then made a deliberate show of saluting 
  Colonel Sheng before turning on her heels and marching out of 
  the chamber.
  * * *
  Perched on the left shoulder of her Guillotine, spray gun in her 
  free hand and a respirator mask across her nose and mouth, Rhean 
  watched the Capellan officers stalk from the hall and climb into 
  a light utility car before weaving their way out past the security 
  barriers. The League troopers raised the barrier and saluted. The 
  Capellan officers did not return the gesture. Standing at the head 
  of the broad steps, Colonel Appleton watched them go. Even from 
  her high vantage point, she saw the displeased look on his face.
  Hooking the gas gun onto her harness, Rhean gingerly worked 
  her way over to the chain-link ladder hanging from the cockpit, tak-
  
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  ing care not to tread on the yellow-and-black no-step panels that 
  marked access hatches and heat-sink vents. The presence of such 
  markings on a machine weighing dozens of tons and designed to 
  withstand a firestorm of enemy projectiles and laser beams al-
  ways struck her as incongruous, but she had no desire to damage 
  valuable components nor to melt the soles of her boots to the ar-
  mored behemoth. Not that the sun isn’t going a good enough job 
  of heating the armor surface, she mused.
  Reaching the ladder, she unclipped her safety tether and de-
  scended quickly. At the bottom, she pulled off the bulky respirator 
  and shrugged out of the harness, laying both on the ’Mech’s broad 
  foot along with the spray gun and its spare canisters. A strand of 
  hair fell across her face and she instructively brushed it back. She 
  swore as she realized what she’d done; patches of purple paint 
  dotted her hands, and probably her hair and face now. Cursing, 
  she walked over to the entry hall, where Appleton regarded her 
  levelly.
  “Maintenance work,” she apologized, saluting the colonel very 
  carefully so as to avoid further paint accidents. “Sorry, sir.”
  The colonel returned the gesture curtly, then stood with his hands 
  interlocked at the small of his back. “My first reaction, lieutenant, 
  would be to write you up for failing to maintain your uniform in 
  good order.” His eyes regarded the paint blotches on her uniform 
  then examined her face and hair. He hesitated. “But not enough 
  MechWarriors chip in with the humdrum work.”
  “Noted, sir.” She took a deep breath. “I was wondering, sir.”
  “Yes?” He arched one eyebrow.
  She swallowed. “How the meeting went after I departed. Sheng 
  wasn’t happy.”
  “Colonel Sheng—” Rhean felt her cheeks color “—is never happy. 
  You’ll learn that, in time.” He glanced over at the gate through 
  which the visitors had left. “As for the meeting…my junior offi-
  cers know that ordinarily I don’t discuss operational matters with 
  them.”
  “I’m sorry sir, I wasn’t asking for preferential treatment in the 
  matter.”
  “Weren’t you?” A wry grin crept onto his lips. “My hearing must 
  be playing tricks then.” A look of puzzlement crossed Rhean’s 
  face, and Appleton barked a laugh. “I used who and what you 
  
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  are against the Colonel, so I should really explain. Besides, there 
  aren’t many teenagers in the unit who I know will outrank me one 
  day.”
  “I plan to earn my rank, sir.” And I’m only a teenager for another 
  nineteen days.
  “You do that.” He said wryly. “But for now, listen and understand. 
  The agreement is to share jurisdiction. The Free Worlds will deal 
  with the prisoners it holds, the Confederation with those already 
  in Sheng’s custody. Both sides get what they want and no one 
  loses face.”
  “Apart from the Freebooters who lose their heads.” She failed 
  miserably to keep the dismay from her voice.
  “As with the battlefield, the political arena rarely sees clear-cut 
  results. It’s all shades of gray, pacts with the devil and all.”
  “But—”
  “But what, lieutenant?” The friendly tone of a few moments ear-
  lier vanished, replaced by icy steel. Rhean seethed but held her 
  tongue. “Its not the deal I wanted, but short of sending troops 
  into the Capellan cantonment or orders from Sian or Atreus, there 
  was no way we were getting the rest of the prisoners. Your great-
  grandmother may be willing to risk a war with Ursula Liao, but 
  she’d have my head if I started one. He gestured back at the half-
  repainted Guillotine. “Take what victories you can and don’t let 
  the ‘might have been’ distract you.”
  “Sir,” Rhean replied coldly, saluting crisply before she stalking 
  back to the waiting machine.
  
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  ~8~
  “Life and death, the yin and yang of existence. With such a large 
  and sprawling family, my early life saw a constant series of births 
  and deaths though the latter seemed to dominate. Both of Grams’ 
  siblings died in the Reunification War, and Grandpa Ian fell victim 
  to a heart attack in the same year I finished my first tour with the 
  Guards. The loss of the oldest of my twin brothers, Arthur, in a 
  stupid fall while hunting hit much closer to home, as did Therese’s 
  fate. All were perfectly mundane, unforeseeable happenings. Of 
  course they were…”
  —Private Journal
  Cascade Square 
  Court of the Star League, Terra 
  Terran Hegemony 
  22 August 2591
  The small, pink, wriggly thing in her hands belched, and tried 
  to roll out of her grip. Rhean clutched it fearfully, neither wan-
  tingto drop it nor to damage it by applying too much pressure. 
  She felt sweat bead on her brow and adjusted her hands, fighting 
  back the terror. Twin blue eyes met Rhean’s own hazel gaze, seem-
  ing both innocent and demanding. The eyes narrowed and the 
  nose wrinkled. Saliva dripped from a toothless maw onto Rhean’s 
  dress slacks and she adjusted her position. The little thing object-
  ed, mouth opening wide as an ear-splitting wail rent the piazza. 
  “You’d better have him back,” she muttered.
  Madeleine grinned and plucked her son from Rhean’s arms. 
  Almost immediately the crying stopped and young Andrew gur-
  gled contentedly. “You’ll get the hang of it eventually, Fred. In fact, 
  it probably won’t be long until you have your own family to look 
  out for.”
  Rhean rolled her eyes as she dabbed at the sodden patch on her 
  uniform with a napkin. “Not much chance of that.” Abandoning 
  
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  her efforts, she dropped the napkin into her lap. “Athena will be 
  my only baby for a while.” At the mention of her name, the young 
  cream-colored dog looked up from where she was worrying a nap-
  kin, her eyes full of expectation. Rhean scratched the Labrador’s 
  ears.
  “Why not? Surely not lack of opportunity or motivation.” The 
  blonde woman’s eyes glinted mischievously. “Far flung military 
  outposts, not much nightlife…”
  “None of your beeswax, Maddy.” Her tone was icy, but the faint 
  grin tugging at her lips put the lie to her annoyance. “I’m not the 
  issue here, anyway. How’d your papa take the news?”
  “Well, I thought he wouldn’t be too thrilled at the idea of me get-
  ting knocked up almost as soon as I’d graduated the academy—all 
  that time and money invested—but he was actually quite happy.”
  “I suppose grandchildren will do that.”
  “That and that fact I’m not off getting shot at in the Periphery.” 
  She glanced over at her husband who was walking back from the 
  vendor with a tray of coffees, watched over by members of Rhean’s 
  security detail. Colin was slated to head out to Canopus on his 
  next tour of duty, like so many of the FWLM’s soldiers. Duty there 
  wasn’t as arduous or dangerous as the other SLDF deployments, 
  but despite the end of major combat operations five years earlier 
  it remained a war zone with bombings and sniper attacks a regular 
  occurrence. Free Worlds administrator Melissa Humphreys was 
  working diligently to calm matters, but no one relished the idea of 
  going there. “Daddy’s quite happy that the succession is secured. 
  He says I can go off and get my ‘damn-fool self shot at’ in the 
  Peripheries to my heart’s content now, so long as I leave Andrew 
  at home.”
  Colin distributed the cups, then sat next to his wife, tickling his 
  son’s chin. The boy cooed.
  “So it’s just as well you’re assigned to Terra for now,” he mut-
  tered.
  “Your work?” Maddy asked, looking at Rhean.
  The taller woman shook her head. “Nope. I wish I could claim 
  credit, but I guess you fit the liaison officer profile and this way 
  they can make use of your skills without interfering with your 
  parenting.” The Free Worlds had always been egalitarian in its 
  treatment of its armed forces, with both maternity and paternity 
  
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  leave, but for all its considerate treatment of families, the FWLM 
  always expected its investment to be repaid. 
  “Are you here long?” Colin asked.
  Rhean shrugged. “Not sure. I’m done with the guards for now 
  and I suspect Grams wants me here for a while, to help with the 
  autumn council session, for sure, and possibly longer. ‘To get a 
  feel for what makes the Star League tick,’ she said. Assuming the 
  session happens—I gather Leonard Kurita is celebrating his acces-
  sion with a debauched rampage across the Combine.”
  Madeleine’s eyebrows twitched. “You can’t escape the fact that 
  one day you will have to make decisions that impact everyone’s 
  lives, so knowing how this place ticks is pretty important.”
  “When I succeed, sure. In ten or twenty years, perhaps. Not now. 
  If I’m going to head up the Free Worlds, and the FWLM in particu-
  lar, I need to show I can do the job. After six years of hiding who I 
  was at Princefield, I’m damned if I’m going to be coddled now.”
  “I’m sure the Captain-General has no intention of coddling you. 
  From what I gather, its every bit as much of a battlefield here as it 
  is out there.” She made a sweeping gesture toward the sky. “Only 
  here the battles are fought with words and ideas. They’re every bit 
  as dangerous, though.”
  “Sounds just like home.” Rhean sipped her coffee as she ordered 
  her thoughts, the bitter taste drawing her back from an angry re-
  tort. It’d been almost ten years since she’d been sucked into the 
  succession, but sometimes her friends forgot she’d lived in the 
  highly politicized atmosphere of the Free Worlds capital since she 
  was an infant.
  “Forget the dubious pleasures of Parliamentary debate. The 
  political sharks on Atreus are minnows compared to those here. 
  Davions seeking to one-up Kuritas who seek to blind-side Lyrans 
  who—”
  “I already have some inclination, thank you.” No sooner had 
  newly-promoted Captain Rhean Marik arrived in the Star League 
  capital than she’d been besieged with new “friends” seeking her 
  support on one matter or another, or inviting her to some soiree or 
  event so they could say they’d had a future Captain-General as a 
  guest. She’d been relieved when news of Maddy’s assignment had 
  come though, even if Colin was being shipped out after the end of 
  his leave in January. There’d be at least one friendly face here be-
  
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  yond her detail. Athena wasn’t much of a conversationalist. She’d 
  been glad to see Evie again—the security detail didn’t accompany 
  her on FWLM assignments—but that she needed such protection 
  here, in the heart of “civilized” human space, was ironic.
  She glanced over at her bodyguard who was, as ever, dressed 
  smartly but practically. Her hair was somewhat longer since 
  Princefield, now cascading over her shoulders in ebon waves that 
  mimicked Rhean’s own style. Evangeline’s left hand covered her 
  ear, but Rhean couldn’t tell if she was speaking into the micro-
  phone she knew nestled at her wrist or cupping her ear to better 
  hear some message over the background noise of the square. 
  Whichever it was, Evie was intent, a frown creasing her brow. 
  Rhean’s eyes met her bodyguards, but the older woman looked 
  away after a moment. A problem? Rhean wondered. Surely not, 
  else Evie’d bundle me away to a secure location. Regardless, she 
  kept an eye on the security operative.
  “I suspect I’ll be inducted into Grams’ unofficial High Council del-
  egation, though she may use me as a wild-card. I’m not sure it’s 
  the ‘done thing’ to use future council members in the bill-vetting 
  process.” Each rulers’ advisors vetted every piece of legislation 
  before it reached the High Council itself. Just like Parliament back 
  home, she thought wryly, it’s the bureaucracy that shapes policy.
  “And don’t forget the parties.” Madeline grinned mischievously. 
  “Lady Shandra may have retired from the military, but she throws 
  an excellent ball.”
  “There speaks the voice of experience.” Her husband dead-
  panned, receiving a punch on his shoulder for his interjection. 
  “The First Lord and Lady are a little old to be partying all night, 
  but they arrange matters so us youngsters can work hard and play 
  harder.” Maddy continued. Colin rolled his eyes. “I don’t recall you 
  complaining before…” she countered, rocking little Andrew as 
  she did.
  Rhean held up her hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, I’ll make 
  time for some fun too, if Evie will let me out.” The bodyguard had 
  finished her conversation and her face had returned to its impas-
  sive mask. Almost. As Rhean glanced in her direction, the agent 
  made a quick two-fingered sign with her left hand, one of dozens 
  they’d shared over the years. We must talk. Rhean’s eyes widened. 
  She ran her right thumb along her jaw line. Now? Evangeline nod-
  ded, almost imperceptibly. “One moment,” she told her friends. 
  She rose and strode the half-dozen meters to where there guard 
  
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  maintained her vigil. Athena leapt to her feet and attempted to fol-
  low but was brought up by the lead looped around the table leg. 
  The puppy turned and began to worry the leather tether. 
  “Problems?” Rhean pitched her voice low, resting her left hand on 
  the low coffee table where Evangeline had rested her dataslate. 
  “News you should be aware of before making social plans.” Evie’s 
  voice was cool.
  “Do we need to alert the advanced teams?”
  “No that’s taken care of, it’s family business.”
  Rhean felt her heart leap into her throat. “Grams?” She’d already 
  lost her brother Arthur this year and grandpa Ian was gravely ill af-
  ter a heart attack. Had Marion died too? She was in her nineties.
  Evie shook her head. “The Captain-General is well. It’s your aunt 
  Therese. I’m so sorry.”
  Instinctively Rhean lifted a hand to cover her mouth as shock 
  crossed her face. “How?”
  “A vehicular accident coming back over the Cascades from 
  Darrington. Her car went off the road. The suspicion is a guide-
  wire failure or a glitch in the car’s autopilot.” 
  “And the baby?” Therese had been pregnant again, the first time 
  since little Marie a decade ago. Evie shook her head, and Rhean 
  punched the table. “Damn it!” Colin and Maddy turned to look 
  at her and she raised a placating hand. “Does William know?” 
  Evangeline nodded. “I should go see him.”
  “I’ll tell the others.” Evie said, setting the rest of the security de-
  tail in motion. She only ever saw Evie or one or two of the others, 
  but there were dozens more out in the crowd or monitoring elec-
  tronics. 
  Rhean crossed back to her friends. “Sorry, I have to go. Family 
  matters.”
  “Serious, Fred?” Colin asked. She explained briefly.
  “I’m so sorry. Pass on our condolences to your uncle.” They’d 
  met him and Therese not long after Rhean’s identity had been 
  revealed to them.
  
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  * * *
  Rhean was lost in contemplation when the door to her apart-
  ment opened. Her eyes were fixed on the drip-drip of the coffee 
  maker. She preferred to make her own snacks and drinks where 
  possible—life as a junior officer in the field meant you mucked in 
  with everything—though it scandalized the staff to no end. She 
  didn’t look up. “What do you have, Evie?”
  A deep chuckle brought Rhean back to the world, her head snap-
  ping up. “Miss Sukhanov has no message.”
  “I’m sorry, Grams. Please.” She gestured to a high backed stool 
  at the breakfast bar.
  Captain-General Marion Marik gingerly lowered herself into the 
  chair, then propped her cane against the table. She was dressed 
  formally, the tight coils of silver hair atop her head a stark contrast 
  to the cascade of unbound auburn hair that fell to Rhean’s waist. 
  Athena trotted over and sniffed the old woman’s maroon slacks, 
  then licked the Captain-General’s hand.
  “You saw William Liao?” There wasn’t much pity in Rhean’s voice. 
  “How was he?”
  “As well as can be expected for a man who lost his wife and child 
  on the same day.” Marion grunted. “He’s hanging together, for 
  now at least.”
  Athena closed her eyes in doggy bliss as Marion scratched her 
  between the ears, her eyes never leaving Rhean. “A tragedy. All 
  our technology and planning and my granddaughter dies because 
  of a computer glitch.”
  “She would’ve had a girl. Another great-granddaughter for you.”
  Marion’s eyes narrowed. “Indeed. I should talk to Ursula Liao. 
  The child was kin to her too.” And a prospective heir was the un-
  spoken codicil. The Capellan chancellor had no children, nor an 
  official heir. Distant cousins like William were in the running to 
  succeed as leader of the Confederation when Ursula died or stood 
  down, though there were suggestions the Celestial Throne might 
  pass to someone outside the Liao dynasty.
  “William was talking about funeral arrangements. About wheth-
  er to bury Therese back on Marik or Atreus or here. I think she 
  would’ve liked to be laid to rest here, up at Snoqualmie, perhaps.”
  
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  Her great-grandmother nodded. “Liaise with William and the 
  Master of Protocols to make the necessary arrangements.” She 
  levered herself up and steadied herself with the cane. “I’ll see you 
  in the morning.”
  “Good night Grams.” Rhean said distractedly. Something rattled 
  around inside her brain, her subconscious hammering for atten-
  tion. 
  Therese had often driven up to the beauty spot to go hiking in 
  the woods. Rhean remembered a trip to Mount St. Helens with her 
  aunt and uncle, particularly Therese’s refusal of a chauffer and the 
  slim woman fighting the steering on every switchback, the petro-
  chemical engine letting out a throaty roar as it drove the heavy 
  four-by-four upward.
  Therese fighting every switchback.
  Not using the guide-wires and dog-brain AI she distrusted.
  Driving on manual.
  
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  Fall From Grace • Page 0
  Part 2
  Tipping Point
  “I’d grown, I’d learnt and I’d fought a war. The first two decades 
  of my life were a constant learning experience, but if I thought 
  things’d slacken off in my twenties and thirties I was wrong. Very 
  nearly dead wrong.”
  - Private Journal
  
  BattleCorps
  Fall From Grace • Page 1
  ~9~
  “Growing up with five brothers and then attending military col-
  lege, I was never a particularly feminine young lady. For the most 
  part I was always “one of the lads,” and joined in whatever was 
  going on. Some people took exception, however, offended that I 
  didn’t conform to their preconceived archetypes, starting all kinds 
  of rumors. Others saw me as a challenge, precisely for those rea-
  sons.”
  —Private Journal
  Delphi 
  Canopus IV 
  Magistracy of Canopus 
  3 October 2593
  Rhean stifled a yawn as the briefer droned on about produc-
  tion figures and economic projections. It wasn’t the most thrilling 
  of subjects, but his monotone and delivery would put anyone to 
  sleep. She glanced across at Melissa Humphreys, the Star League 
  governor of the occupied territories and a fellow Free Worlds 
  duchess. The iron-haired woman was intent on the presentation, 
  but even after only six weeks on-world Rhean recognized the little 
  signs that indicated even the formidable duchess Humphreys was 
  losing patience with the presenter.
  All in all, Canopus wasn’t what Rhean had expected. Yes, it was 
  an occupied territory, but Delphi was a fortified compound, its 
  inhabitants isolated from the day-to-day existence on Canopus. 
  Isolated from the reality of war and its consequences. After so 
  many years of fighting, it wasn’t surprising that some parts of 
  Canopian society hated the occupiers and fought against them. 
  What did surprise Rhean, however, was how many of the natives 
  accepted the occupation, showing every willingness to cooper-
  ate with the Star League troops and bring about integration as 
  part of a greater humanity. That was mostly Humphreys’ doing, 
  the duchess persuading the League authorities to make a mas-
  
  BattleCorps
  Fall From Grace • Page 
  sive investment in the war-ravaged realm. Though the benefits of 
  this influx of cash weren’t yet obvious save in the macroeconomic 
  yawn-fests like this briefing, it seemed likely that Canopus would 
  emerge from the occupation with an economic infrastructure to 
  rival—or perhaps exceed—that of the Inner Sphere.
  “Thank you, Chigusa.” Humphreys’ deep voice carried a note 
  of dismissal and the stocky DCMS-uniformed officer bowed and 
  retreated to his chair. “I think a short recess is in order.” The gov-
  ernor placed the stylus atop her dataslate and rose.
  Rhean flexed her shoulders experimentally as the other at-
  tendees moved to get fresh drinks or else to visit the bathroom. 
  Humphreys walked to a sideboard and poured a fresh glass of iced 
  naranji juice then moved to stand by one of the tall patio windows. 
  She beckoned Rhean to follow, which she did after grabbing her 
  own glass of juice. Two others joined them, lean Huw Ragnarsson, 
  Humphreys’ chief economist, and Martin Demianchuk, the repre-
  sentative of Magestrix-Emeritus Crystalla Centrella.
  Demianchuk had led the official Canopian welcoming commit-
  tee for Rhean’s arrival—though technically an FWL-SLDF staff 
  officer for the occupation, she was still a Free Worlds duchess 
  and thus received in the pomp and ceremony her rank dictated—
  and had helped Rhean and a severely space-sick Athena settle in. 
  The Labrador had been miserable on the flight, tormented by the 
  zero-g-adapted ship’s cats even as she struggled futilely to com-
  prehend weightlessness and its impact on her digestive system. A 
  détente had eventually been reached between cats and dog, but 
  the sickness persisted and the animal had sulked for days, even 
  after landfall. 
  To be honest, Rhean hadn’t faired much better. Not the space-
  sickness—infancy traveling between worlds had inured her to 
  such matters—but she’d been bored nearly out of her mind. She’d 
  spent some time mulling over her Aunt Therese’s accident, dis-
  satisfied with the official ruling of accidental death, but there was 
  only so many times she could go over that material. Evangeline 
  had been there for company as well as security, but she could only 
  be distracted by books, vids, zero-g sports in the hold and dinners 
  with the ship’s officers for so long, and after nine weeks in space 
  she would’ve happily chatted with Lambert Allison to break the 
  tedium. She’d turned down the advances of the dashing first of-
  ficer, but she’d lost Evie for the latter part of the trip when she’d 
  taken up with a Hegemony lieutenant also bound for the capital. 
  Demianchuk had smoothed their integration into Canopian soci-
  
  BattleCorps
  Fall From Grace • Page 
  ety and had grown to become a good friend over the last month 
  and a half.
  “Someone ought to beat some brevity into that boy.” Her eyes 
  tracked Chigusa’s reflection in the window, though at forty-odd he 
  was only a ‘boy’ in relative terms. 
  “I’m sure Leonard has tried.” Ragnarsson muttered. Though born 
  in the Combine, his Rasalhague roots left him little love for the rul-
  ing family. “Assuming he was sober long enough.”
  Melissa chuckled. “You’ve met him, Rhean? Would you agree 
  the Coordinator is a drunken sot?” Demianchuk’s eyes widened at 
  the character assassination of a house lord.
  Rhean’s eyes narrowed. “He—” She paused as the memory of 
  a chance encounter in Unity City came to mind, an encounter in 
  which she was very glad Evie had been present. “—Enjoys life.”
  The governor burst into laughter and patted Rhean on the shoul-
  der fondly. “We’ll make a diplomat of you yet, Duchess.” Almost 
  as quickly as the laughter came, her face was serious again. “He’s 
  dangerous though. Self-centered. Unpredictable. That’s the big 
  difference about what we’re doing here—rebuilding and thinking 
  to the future. Leonard doesn’t think much beyond his—”
  “Wine glass,” Ragnarsson interjected quickly, drawing a smile 
  from the governor.
  “Just so. Ursula Liao, on the other hand, thinks of the broader 
  picture, but is disillusioned with the League already.”
  “Hence the ‘cattle tax’.” Demianchuk added. The Liao chancellor 
  had levied a tax on SLDF vessels traveling though Capellan space, 
  prompting the re-routing of vessels through the Free Worlds or 
  Federated Suns. Tensions were simmering, threatening the oc-
  cupation of Canopus and the ongoing war effort in the Taurian 
  Concordat.
  “And the others?” Ragnarsson asked.
  Melissa raised her left hand and extended her index finger. 
  “Archon Steiner-Dineson is too busy clearing house and dealing 
  with her own guilt.” The Commonwealth had teetered on the 
  brink of civil war the previous year as Archon and Estates General 
  vied for power. She extended the second finger. “And Alexander 
  Davion is still rebuilding the Suns’ economy.” 
  
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  Fall From Grace • Page 
  “Which leaves the Free Worlds and Terran Hegemony as the 
  focuses of altruistic endeavors in the Star League.” Demianchuk 
  concluded wryly.
  Humphreys’ eyes narrow a little at the veiled barb. “We’re pur-
  suing League policy, but we are doing our best to minimize the 
  impact on your people, and to more than make up for the dam-
  age caused. Given the investment in your industry and economy, 
  you’ll be giving us a run for our money in short order.” She turned 
  her gaze on Rhean. “Something your great-grandmother and her 
  people will have to bear in mind. I’m sure Brion will make the situ-
  ation clear.”
  “I’m sure my father will make the Captain-General aware of the 
  economic situation and encourage inward investment as well as 
  aiding our new friends. We have nothing to fear from bringing the 
  wonders of the Star League to the periphery.”
  “Even though we are not wanting such assistance, yes?” The 
  new voice was treacle-smooth and matched the speaker perfectly. 
  Short, lithe and draped in a diaphanous gown that did little to hide 
  her figure or her obvious pregnancy. Her skin was a lustrous gold 
  that appeared to glint as she moved and her hair cascaded in dark 
  ringlets down her back. No one so distinctive had been at the con-
  ference. Her hand came up to Rhean’s cheek and touched it softly. 
  Rhean jerked away. “Such a pretty thing, not like her grandfather. 
  I miss him though.”
  Ian Marik had died several months earlier after eighteen months 
  in a coma. Shannon Marik, Marion’s youngest sister had died in 
  the fighting on Port Fallon too. Yet more butcher’s bill from the 
  Reunification War.
  “Play nice, Rinalla,” Melissa growled, though her face showed 
  amusement.
  The girl’s eyes grew large and round with feigned innocence. 
  “But you are bringing me a new toy. Mother enjoyed the grand-
  father, so why shouldn’t I enjoy the new pretty?” Rhean recoiled 
  further, but found the young woman’s grip a sudden vice on her 
  wrist. “We might’ve been sisters. We still could be, if you want-
  ed…” She let the words hang as her fingers traced delicate lines 
  on Rhean’s trapped wrist.
  The governor stepped forward and gently prized the young wom-
  an’s hand away. “You’re a wicked child.” Amusement still marked 
  her voice, but a note of warning seeped in around the edges.
  
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  Fall From Grace • Page 
  “I know, it’s a burden. But someone has to make you all feel 
  virtuous.” She turned her eyes back to Rhean and gave her an ap-
  praising look before running the tip of her tongue around her lips. 
  Rhean blushed furiously and the girl shrugged her shoulders and 
  turned back to Melissa. “Bored now. She’s too easy to tease.”
  “You’re the Magestrix-designate.” Rhean blurted. Rinalla Centrella. 
  She chided herself for missing the obvious. Crystalla, the mother, 
  was the Magestrix-Dowager while Melissa Humphreys ruled, and 
  she’d as good as said she’d never take the throne again, making 
  her eldest daughter her presumptive successor when the Star 
  League returned the nation to self-rule.
  The girl-woman tilted her head in a mocking bow. “Guilty as 
  charged. Probably more so, actually. There was this DCMS of-
  ficer…she’s blushing again.” Rhean felt heart radiating from her 
  cheeks. “Which looks so cute.” The heat intensified.
  “The Duchess isn’t a play-thing, Rinalla.” Melissa Humphreys in-
  jected. “You know better than to treat your guests in such a way. 
  The manners of Canopus are alien to many outsiders.”
  “I beg leave to differ. People know exactly what they’re getting 
  with Canopians, unlike you Spheroids. The stereotype of the he-
  donistic Canopian and our pleasure circuses is known throughout 
  human space, and while exaggerated as all such things are, that 
  image has proved lucrative. Very lucrative. We’re no Free Worlds 
  League, but you’ll find our gross domestic product exceeds most 
  League provinces, and in the service sector we’re way ahead of 
  you.” Her eyes narrowed and regarded Rhean carefully. Gone 
  was the coquette who moments earlier looked set on having her 
  wicked way with the young Free Worlds officer, replaced with 
  a flinty-eyed businesswoman. Rhean realized that the girl was 
  probably older than she by a few years, though it was hard to 
  judge precisely. “If you’d like, I can give you the figures by specific 
  product areas, including the birth/death ratios of key sectors. The 
  former more than makes up for the latter, I assure you.” A hand 
  reached down and caressed her swollen belly. “And in my opinion 
  is much more fun.”
  “And the Star League seeks to further enhance your economy 
  and standard of living.” Duchess Humphreys added with an ease 
  that suggested that this debate had raged several times before. 
  “You are weak in heavy industry and microelectronics.”
  “Which brings us full circle. Perhaps we aren’t wanting to be 
  strengthened in such areas and to give up our traditional occu-
  
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  Fall From Grace • Page 
  pations. The gist of mother’s refusal of the Pollux Proclamation: 
  What can you give us that we don’t already have or can’t buy with 
  our wealth?”
  Humphreys snorted. “We have work to do Rinalla. You can 
  play your games later. You’re welcome to sit through the rest of 
  Chigusa-san’s economics presentation …”
  “Bleh!” Rinalla pulled a face. “I think there are some Fedrat of-
  ficers I’ve not been introduced to yet. I’d better go and see if any 
  of them look dashing in their spurs. What kind do you like, little 
  duchess? Not to worry, I’ll leave some of them for you.” She stood 
  on tip-toes and kissed Melissa Humphreys on each cheek. “I’ll see 
  you at dinner, ‘auntie’ Mel?”
  She kissed Demianchuk and Ragnarsson in rapid succession, 
  threatening to turn the chaste kiss with the DCMS economist into 
  a smooch, then turned to face Rhean, who immediately took a 
  step backward only to find her path blocked by the patio windows. 
  Rinalla reached up with one hand and stood on tip-toes, pulling 
  Rhean down into a chaste kiss on each cheek. Her other hand, slip-
  ping round Rhean’s waist, was anything but chaste. Rhean reached 
  back and pulled the wandering hand away, but Rinalla maintained 
  the grip on the taller woman’s neck. “Don’t judge a book by its 
  cover, prissy miss ice-veins.”
  She departed, chuckling, as Ragnarsson and Demianchuk both 
  tugged at their collars, avoiding Rhean’s embarrassed gaze.
  “Don’t worry girl, Rin was fairly well behaved today. You ought to 
  see what she and her sisters get up to at parties.”
  Rhean wished she could run away.
  
SOURCE: textdata/thevault/BattleTech [multi]/EXTRA/Novels/Battlecorps Novels/Fall from Grace Pt 03 (2011).pdf