<410-0801> Prince Victor Steiner-Davion commanding. Unacceptable.

* * *

It was one of the smallest briefing rooms aboard the DropShip Black Hammer. Enough space between the gray-painted metal bulkheads for a small table surrounded by half a dozen chairs, three of the seats currently occupied. A duct in the ceiling blew down tepid air tasting of the tang left by atmosphere scrubbers. It tugged at the trailing edges of the Star League ensign which hung over one wall: the silver eight-pointed “Cameron” star against a black field. The room’s one concession to tactical briefings was the flat-D screen opposite the flag, connected via spiraling cable to the keyboard cradled over the left arm of Lieutenant Connor Sinclair.

Lieutenant Sinclair stood next to his own seat typing one-handed, his gray eyes studying the blank screen with a frown of concentration. The young lance leader kept his dark brown hair cut at the edge of military regulation length. Though his uniform was cut along the original Star League Defense Force lines, he’d added the regimental patch from his old unit, the Davion Heavy Guards. All MechWarriors^® assigned to one of the Damocles Commando lances had done the same. In his lance he counted one from the Kestrel Grenadiers and two from the First Aragon Borderers -- warriors he had never served with before.

Finally the screen glowed to life and, against the backdrop of a star-studded spacescape, a world grew to fill the frame. Dark blue oceans covered a majority of the planet’s surface, with two large land masses standing out in brown-green relief.