I'll be the Red Ranger [Progression, LitRPG] [Book 4 Returns 09/01]

[Mordred PoV]

Mordred swirled the drink in his glass, watching the discussion happening in the small meeting room.

On the mansion's second floor, there were several meeting rooms, and this was one of them. However, they were not formal rooms, far from it. They were cozy, designed to disarm and entertain—a place made for negotiations and discussions.

A liquor cabinet gleamed with bottles whose labels carried names from far systems. Close to it, six deep armchairs circled a table of dark wood marked by the bottoms of too many glasses. The walls wore sound-dampening fabric in sober tones.

Two of the chairs held Mordred's closest allies. Sacras of Arctos on one side and Dawn of Hyperion on the other. They were the only Great Houses to throw in with the Republic and, like the Lots, had been banished and persecuted by the Empire.

Across from them sat Cicero, the Reformist envoy, metal limbs glinting where the cuffs of his coat rode high, and Triz for the Militarists, who brought the temperature of the room down a degree just by being in it.

Triz cultivated a unique cold beauty. Square lenses over sharp eyes, a fine-boned face that could been made of porcelain, black curls settling on one shoulder and trailing like question marks across the collar of her uniform.

Alan and Orton had taken upon themselves to be bartenders. Alan, impeccable in a high officer's uniform was inventoring the bar's contents. Orton, for his part, was preparing the drinks, pouring each liquid with millimetric precision according to what was requested by the Heirs.

"You know any arrangement with the Orks won't hold forever," Triz said, cold as ice. "They're using you, to advance their technology. Half of what they do seems more like magic."

"Magic?" Mordred tipped an eyebrow. "No. That's a word we use when we haven't caught up. Since the Empire chose to make enemies of us, we've had more contact with the Orks than most. There's nothing supernatural about their work. It's unfamiliar. That's all."

His tone stayed mild. It had a negotiator's cadence, but he angled the words at the seam he wanted to pry open. Mordred wish to peel the Militarists away from the Emperor's myth of inevitable war under a single throne.

Triz watched him over the square rims of her glasses. "However, you didn't deny it's temporary," she retorted.

"Never claimed it was eternal," Mordred replied, untroubled. "They use me, and I use them."

"And when one side decides it's finished using the other?" Triz set the question between them like a blade.

"By then," Mordred said, "I expect to have resolved my problems with the other Great Houses. Or, better yet, made it unnecessary to face them at all."

He didn't expose how much of the Grand Game he understood. What kind of machinery turned beneath the Empire. He had no intention of spreading that particular information here.

"You Republicans and Reformists are naive," Triz said, a flash of heat breaking through the porcelain poise. She set her glass down hard; the whiskey leapt, kissed the rim, and settled. "Maybe you know something we don't. But do you think this war will end like that? Suppose, somehow, they get what they're after and stop needing to attack us. You think all that animosity evaporates overnight?"

She leaned in, and the smoke from her cigarette left a trail past her face. "Get real. Even if you wring a peace out of this, it's a temporary cease-fire. Something else will spark it again. Especially with a species as belligerent as theirs."

The room breathed around the argument. Cicero's servos ticked once in his wrist as he lifted his drink; Dawn's scar caught the bar's backlight when he tilted his head; Sacras exhaled through his nose like a furnace. At the small counter, Alan dabbed the spilled whiskey with a cloth before it could stain the wood; Orton was pouring another whiskey to replace the one Triz had spilled.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Mordred lifted his glass. The drink's sweet bite rose into his nose; the alcohol slid down his throat throwing off a measured burn. He acknowledged her point with a small nod. "Fair enough."

Truth be told, the scenario had paced through his thoughts more than once. Even with the Sovereign toppled, the Orks might remain a problem the galaxy couldn't get away. The cessation of one motive rarely ended a war; it simply unclenched a fist to find another grip.

Mordred weighed the liquor in his glass and, with it, a private calculus. 'Human technology was iterating faster now,' he reasoned, 'we are improving in a cadence even the Orks would struggle to match.' Give engineers the mandate and the time, and what looked like sorcery today would be a standard-issue tomorrow.

"Without centralization, or an Emperor, would all the Houses even support the war effort?" Triz asked, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. Judgment sat cleanly behind them.

"You talk as if they support it now," Mordred answered with a dry laugh. "They don't. And somehow the Empire still manages to keep the Orks off."

The others listened, but Cicero drank the words. He sat forward with the aid of his cane, metal limbs aligning with tiny corrections even when he tried to be still.

Tired of playing target practice for Triz's criticisms, Mordred shifted the aim. "We have a Reformist at the table," he said, turning slightly. "Your opinion, Cicero. Are we being naive?"

'What cards do you hold? Do you know about the Sovereigns, or not?' Mordred wandered.

Cicero's gaze slid from the rim of his glass to Mordred. "Are you asking me," he said, voice low and plain, "or my faction?" A beat. "If it's just me: yes. Naive. Too innocent." He tipped his chin toward the limb that wasn't flesh. "You can see what I've lost to Orks. But we won't beat them with Lucius."

He didn't lower his voice even with the possibility of microphones hidden in the room.

Triz's eyebrow climbed a notch at Cicero's sincerity, interest sharpening behind square lenses.

"We've lived under his leadership for fifteen years," Cicero said, voice steady as a ledger line. "His will is to keep things as they are. Whatever the reasons, he wants to expand our borders and push the Orks back. And he's used artifices to remain in that chair, blocking the election of a new Emperor. That, to me, is worse. A cancer in the Empire's deepest organs."

"And we disagree on how to cut it out," Mordred said, easing his glass back onto the table and aligning himself with Cicero's point. "You want him to step aside. That is the naivety. He's been seduced by power. He won't leave of his own accord."

"Remove the position," Mordred continued. "End the office. Then, perhaps, the Senate can finally be what it was built to be."

"Maybe, or maybe it will be our end. Do you think he would leave without attacking everyone on his way? Worse, with everything he's got? Especially if you force him?" Cicero asked.

The group fell silent. They had reached a deadlock; none of them seemed to know how to continue the conversation.

"And the newcomer?" Triz asked, showing a hint of curiosity. "What does he bring to this discussion?"

"He's interesting," Mordred allowed, flicking a glance at his general and his admiral. Alan and Orton traded a look, understanding the weight of the word. "He commands fewer troops than the other Great Houses, but he could be an excellent acquisition."

"Acquisition?" Cicero echoed, metal fingers making a slight, precise tap on his cane's handle.

"Of course. He'll need to join a real faction, not sit in a chair he dragged into the room and pretend it has bargaining power," Mordred said, letting a laugh thin the statement into something more palatable.

"You don't think he can build a fifth faction?" Cicero asked, intrigued.

"With a thousand Rangers? No." Mordred's tone stayed even, almost instructional. "Power is the only arithmetic that counts in here. We're in a deadlock because our weights are roughly equal. Someone that far below is not a kingmaker; he's a meal."

"And if he refuses to ally?" Triz pressed.

"Orton's always been good with words," Mordred said, lifting his drink in the admiral's direction. Orton answered with a small, precise salute and an ironic half-smile. "He'll find a way to persuade Atlas Blackwell toward the Republic. Especially given how far Aquarius floats from the Empire's core."

"And if persuasion fails?" Triz's voice cooled another degree.

"Then we'll still come to terms," Mordred said, the certainty in his voice ringing against the soft walls. "Particularly after we bring our mechas down. He'll have to accept."