LianChang Military Reserve

Qinghai Province, Liao

24 July 3134

His name was Daniel Peterson.

He was born October 7, 3089 in the Chang-an suburb of SuiCha to proud citizens Michael and Celia Peterson. His entire life, Daniel studied the confusion around him as Capellan residents and Republic citizens struggled with who they were—and to whom the world of Liao truly belonged—with either side rarely at peace. It was a question with no answer, or so Daniel thought then.

He attended the Conservatory for his academy years, courting a local girl during his senior year, though they decided not to marry before graduation. His appointment as a lieutenant serving the Liao militia kept him home and gave them a chance to proceed slowly.

Then an alumni of his alma mater, Conservatory Class of 3097, approached him on “a delicate matter.” And going slowly was no longer an option.

Now Daniel Peterson had returned to the LianChang Military Reserve—still in his guise as Major Ritter Michaelson—to watch history repeat itself. Legate Ruskoff had appointed him a senior aide for the intelligence he’d volunteered on the Bannson Universal vessel and for his supposed experience as a major in the Hastati Sentinels.

A nervous cup of coffee held in a trembling hand, Daniel sipped the hot beverage without tasting it as he followed in the Legate’s wake. Ruskoff was always moving, always checking and rechecking what workstation computers and on-duty personnel told him. The Planetary Defense Center was located two levels underground beneath a low, bunker-style building of gray ferrocrete. Daniel doubted the PDC, normally manned with a skeleton crew. had seen anything less than full duty schedules over the past month.

Tonight was even worse as Ruskoff ordered backups to stand ready and admitted several political liaisons, most of whom crowded the back wall and tried to stay out of the way. Lady Eve Kincaid waited among them, present for her own purposes as well as to represent Lord Governor Hidic at his direct request.

There was also Gerald Tsung, always ready with another question. “The Astral Prize. It is still off course and refusing communication?”

Daniel shuffled aside as the Legate’s junior aide, Lieutenant Nguyen, brought Ruskoff a noteputer with the latest reports from the Lianyungang DropPort Authority. The Legate looked a question at his aide, who shook his head. “Nothing,” the lieutenant said. “No expected arrival. No JumpShip passage.”

“Tracking?” Ruskoff growled.

“Sir.” A captain at a nearby console. “The Astral Prize is still over the western oceans at six kilometers elevation. They will be over Beilù in five minutes on final approach, passing directly over Chang-an and then the Reserve fifteen minutes later. It looks like they’re heading for the eastern DropPort of Hussan, and that will still take a serious course correction.”

“There is your answer, Mr. Tsung. Chang-an is restricted airspace and we do not allow civilian flights over LianChang either. All indications are that this is an attack run.”

“From six kilometers up?”

Lady Kincaid volunteered that answer. “If you are launching aerospace fighters and BattleMechs in drop packs, yes.”

A different approach this time. Daniel Peterson thought back to 3111, when the Overlord had landed. One DropShip. That was what the cabal had promised. Look the other way for five minutes. Daniel had envisioned a single battalion landing to honorably challenge the standing militia. The citizens and Capellan residents would finally know to whom Liao belonged.

But the Capellans had double berthed—maybe even triple berthed—the vessel. Confederation troops came marching out, rank upon rank, forming up into organized death squads and moving on Chang-an. So many… There would be no even matching of forces, no cathartic moment for Liao. The Confederation brought more than enough to smash the local militia. Then everything fell apart as the fires spread and the death toll rose.

The cabal had been “most pleased” with Daniel Peterson. They had paid him a bonus of one Republic bill for every dead citizen.

“One DropShip,” Daniel whispered aloud. “That is where it starts.”

He hadn’t meant to be overheard, but Lady Kincaid caught it. “And you are certain that this is the one?”

Daniel nodded vacantly, his eyes on a nearby panel that showed the incoming DropShip as a small, green blip on the screen. “Bannson Universal. January Twenty-fourth. Astral Prize.” He recited the data mechanically.

“But how do you know?” Tsung asked.

Careful. “Because the Second McCarron’s Armored Cavalry knows, the Ijori Dè Guāng knows, and the student militia at the Conservatory knows. They are expecting the Dynasty Guard to support the Confederation’s drive to take Liao.” That much was true. He turned the ruined side of his face toward Tsung. “This is the vessel I was warned about.” Also true, if from another source.

A comms technician interrupted with a stuttering, “Sir… sir! Our pilots are about to make another high-speed pass.”

Aerospace fighters. TR-10 Transits. Ruskoff had dispatched a full wing of the fighters—Beilù’s full contingent. Their first pass moments before had been at supersonic speeds, shaking the DropShip with their sonic wake. No response.

“Tell them to proceed,” Ruskoff ordered, voice tight.

Another technician waved Lieutenant Nguyen over, quickly handing him a headset. Daniel watched with growing apprehension, waiting for the chaos always certain in a military operation to erupt. Nguyen turned to Ruskoff. “DropShip Astral Prize is contacting Lianyungang! Civilian frequencies. Sporadic contact. They report minor electronics failure due to damage, and say they are being chased by Confederation fighter craft.”

“Our fighters,” Daniel voiced first. “They are talking about our fighters. Trying to buy time.”

Ruskoff wasn’t playing. “Find that frequency and order them back into orbit, and prepare to be boarded for inspection. Or get them on our channels. Partial comms failure, my ass.”

“They are ignoring our calls,” a tech reported seconds later, “or cannot receive them.”

“If they can reach Lianyungang, they can hear us.” Ruskoff glanced over at Daniel. “Major. Is all this keeping with what you expected?”

Play by play, so similar to the night of the Massacre. The Night of Screams. “Only the beginning,” Daniel said, just as the Tracking Station reported that the DropShip was now off the ocean and over Beilù’s coastal range. Elevation, four kilometers. Time to Chang-an, fifteen minutes.

Tsung still looked unconvinced. “This is one of the vessels on the list of those lent to MedCross activities on Gan Singh.”

Ruskoff backed up his new aide. “Then it should be on Gan Singh, not sneaking into the Liao system from a nonstandard jump point under communications blackout. The Astral Prize is a merchant-converted Fortress. Six thousand tons, and originally capable of transporting a mixed-arms battalion. I will not allow that vessel to overfly Chang-an or LianChang.”

“God help you if you’re wrong,” Tsung argued back.

The Governor’s Aide almost did not get to finish his statement, though, as several workstations erupted in a buzz of excited conversation. “Legate. Aerospace fighters report taking fire from the DropShip. Astral Prize has opened up with weapons.”