Warrior: Coupé (The Warrior Trilogy, Book Three): BattleTech Legends, #59

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Banzai’s nod of resignation, and the grim expression on his aide Tommy Lester’s face, brought back to Hanse the last moments of the battle. Less than a dozen ’Mechs stood tattered and half-broken over a cratered hellzone. His own BattleMaster, missing its right arm and standing on an armorless left leg with its knee joint fused, was one of the more operational ’Mechs in that group. Hundreds of little fires burned in the hulks of dead and destroyed ’Mechs. A few pilots—all of them mercenaries—limped between the shattered bodies and debris that marked all that remained of the invading force. It was bad…

  None of the Liao pilots even attempted to escape their machines. They fought to the end, even when we’d blown off their legs and destroyed all their weapons. They made us kill them, each and every one. I’ve never faced such fierce and tough opposition.

  Hanse turned to Tommy. “How are your people?”

  The blond MechWarrior let his expression lighten just a bit. “Those who got out are in good shape. Sprains and cuts mostly. Reno’s got compound fractures of both legs, but I’ve been told he’ll recover without any problems. Rawhide will probably lose a lung, but his prognosis is good, too.” He looked back up the hallway. “We’re waiting for him to come out of surgery now.”

  Hanse nodded. “Let me know if you need anything, anything at all. And let me know how Rawhide does.” After shaking the hands of both men, he slipped past them and fell into step with Quintus Allard. “How’s your daughter?”

  The elder Allard smiled slightly. “Fine, really. She’s angry at being held for observation. They only convinced her to stay by promising to notify her the second Kym woke up.”

  A pang of regret shot through Hanse. “How is she?”

  Quintus’s smile faded slightly. “Still unconscious, but all the signs are good.” The Minister of Intelligence, Information, and Operations glanced back over his shoulder at Dr. Banzai. “When Banzai came in off the battlefield, they wouldn’t let him work on his own people because the doctors thought he’d be too emotionally attached to function objectively. He immediately took charge of Kym’s care, and she’s already begun to respond to treatment. She won’t remember the events that put her out, but she should be fine.”

  Before they could reach the doors and the waiting press of reporters, Hanse reached out and stopped Quintus. Turning his back to the throng, the Prince spoke in a low, urgent tone. “What happened? How the hell did that ship have the proper clearance codes to get a landing vector at the NAIS?”

  Quintus shook his head. “I haven’t tracked that down yet, but I would guess we had some sloppy security in the occupied territories. Most of the worlds we’ve captured are taking to pacification, but there are still Liao loyalists operating on them. If they heard something…”

  “Were we wrong, Quintus? Did the message refer to this strike at the NAIS as opposed to a strike at Kathil?”

  Shielded by the Prince’s body from the cameras’ prying eyes, Quintus shrugged. “I don’t believe so. We got a faxed message this morning from Morgan reporting that a contingent of Liao DropShips had arrived in-system and were burning toward Kathil. We won’t know for a couple of days yet what happened, but the tone of the message was confident.”

  Hanse drew in a deep breath. “At least we know he didn’t have to face Death Commandos.”

  “But that’s a minor consolation, I think.”

  Hanse nodded agreement. We stopped you here, Maximilian Liao, and I know Morgan stopped you on Kathil. That’s it…that was your last gasp. Within three months, you and your mad recklessness will be behind us forever.

  Composing his expression, Hanse Davion turned to face the questions and the cameras of the media.

  Chapter 43

  DROMINI VI

  KESSEL PREFECTURE

  DIERON MILITARY DISTRICT

  DRACONIS COMBINE

  15 SEPTEMBER 3029

  Duke Frederick Steiner winced in pain as the Draconian guard grabbed a handful of white hair and forced his head up. On his knees, with his hands and wrists bound together in a peculiar, cross-shaped set of shackles, Steiner stared up at his captor, but his blue eyes did not admit defeat. You have me in body, but never in soul.

  Clad in a gray shitagi and traditional black zubon, Theodore Kurita frowned at the guard. He shook his head as he rested his right hand on the pistol holstered at his right hip. “Iie. Do not treat the duke so. His surrender brings no dishonor on him.”

  The guard released the duke’s hair, and Frederick slumped back down onto his haunches. “Thank you, Prince Theodore.” Frederick’s head rose slowly, as did the emotion in his voice. “I would not have imagined that your code of bushido would see anything but gross cowardice in my action.”

  Theodore did not answer Frederick directly. Addressing the guard, he ordered Frederick’s right hand freed, then dismissed the soldier. Theodore turned from the duke. Staring out the plate-glass wall at the city of Kanashimi, he granted the other man a moment of privacy to stretch and unknot the muscles of that arm. “We have most of the fires under control now.”

  Frederick took some comfort in that, though he kept his face blank of any emotion. Six hours after the fight is over and the fires still burn. Good. That means this mission may actually have accomplished something positive. “You will forgive me if I take little joy in that news. I would much prefer to hear that the fires are utterly out of control.”

  The younger MechWarrior turned from the window, his expression bemused. “I would expect no less from you, Duke Frederick. I would probably feel the same way in your position because we seem to be much alike. I always imagined that we would face off with one another, but that the circumstances and timing would be far different.”

  The note of regret in Theodore’s voice confused Frederick. “You and I are both MechWarriors, Prince Theodore, but there the similarity ends. With our vocations, was this not the only sort of meeting we could have? Perhaps we could have fought on the battlefield, but I see no other conflict being waged between us.”

  Theodore crossed to the sideboard and splashed some sake into a pair of small bowls. “Well, Frederick, as we are both MechWarriors, there should be no titles between us.” The tall, slender Prince brought one bowl of the rice liquor toward Frederick, but set it on the floor where the Lyran captive would have to shuffle forward to get it. Then he drew back beyond Frederick’s possible striking range.

  Frederick bowed his head in Theodore’s direction. He appreciated the gesture indicating he might be dangerous despite being hobbled. Frederick worked his way forward and lifted the bowl. “How did you see us battling, Theodore?”

  The Coordinator’s heir smiled emotionlessly. “I had imagined you and I waging war as the heads of our respective nations.” His eyes half shut. “I had expected by now for you to have supplanted that woman…”

  Frederick spat to the side in disgust. “As I have lately discovered, I would have been a puppet controlled by Aldo Lestrade were I on the throne. I feel no honor in making such an admission, but this is not the time for self-deception. Only through Aldo would I have outsmarted Katrina Steiner, but the sword that cleared my path to the throne would have become the dagger pressed to my throat.”

  Theodore sipped his sake. “Of this I am aware.” He smiled, but his eyes focused distantly. “I had standing orders with some of the Nekekami to kill Lestrade as soon as he had succeeded in his plan to make you Archon.”

  The sharp-tasting liquid burned a path through Frederick’s chest and warmed his stomach. “A puppet with no puppetmaster would not be difficult to deal with.”

  Theodore set his bowl down on the sideboard to free his hands. “You grossly undervalue your abilities as a military leader. With you on the throne, the Lyran Commonwealth and the Draconis Combine could have joined in a glorious war. You would have learned that I had ordered Lestrade’s death, and you would have sent the forces of Skye against me. It would have been spectacular…a straight contest of military power—the ultimate fulfillment of
bushido for all involved.”

  Frederick laughed derisively. “Easy for you to wish for such a battle with me in chains and you the victor.”

  Theodore turned, waving a hand at the window wall and the thin trails of gray smoke rising from half a dozen locations. “In some ways, this actually increases my estimation of you. You brought a crack regiment in to destroy the supplies for an invasion, knowing you would be facing at least three times your number in defenders.”

  Theodore turned, his eyes ablaze. “Through your leadership, your MechWarriors sublimated their own dreams of personal glory. They fought as whole units—almost like hive minds—in their relentless drive to reach their targets. When one fell, another moved to take its place in line. Those who were damaged fought on beyond all reason, forcing my people to destroy them before they could pursue the bulk of your strike force. Many of the companies actually reached their targets and caused great destruction before we stopped them. It was magnificent.”

  Frederick narrowed his eyes. “But then I spoiled it by surrendering?”

  Theodore waved away Frederick’s inquiry. “No, not at all. You exacted a promise from the Archon to leave one JumpShip behind to carry away the survivors, but you assured her that you would not be among them. You negotiated a deal with me to let some of your people live, trading yourself for them. You must recall that bushido demands not only perfection in the arts of war, but perfection in the art of being a warrior. Compassion and concern for your people is very much a part of that, and as such, does you no dishonor.”

  Frederick kept his face impassive. Were you in my shoes, you would ask to commit seppuku to cleanse your family’s name of shame. This mission was my act of atonement. Now, having survived this long, I do not wish to be dead. Does this invalidate what I tried to do? “My people are being sent off-world?”

  “Yes. About two hours ago, your JumpShip moved from the pirate point and began heading in for a rendezvous. The DropShip left an hour ago and should link up in a day or two.” Theodore frowned slightly. “I hate to tell you that your assault, brave as it was, did not succeed in destroying enough supplies to stop my plan. With the JumpShips already in system, I have enough transport to bring in the supplies needed for the invasion. Conti and the Fifth Sword arrive next week, and with them come more supplies. You have cost me, at best, a week. I am sorry.”

  Frederick shook his head. “Not as sorry as I am.”

  “Spoken like a warrior.” Theodore retrieved and raised his bowl in Frederick’s direction. “A toast, Frederick. To what could have been—a return to the honorable ways of the warrior.”

  As the Lyran JumpShip Tyr moved from its position amid the seven Combine JumpShips still recharging at a pirate jump point off Dromini VI, it jettisoned all the refuse produced during its wait. Waste water crystallized instantly into glittering ice fangs, while more solid garbage and scraps spun away from the ship and slowly fell toward the Kurita fleet and the planet rotating below them.

  Hidden in silvery bags emblazoned with the yellow and black tags used to denote biohazards, fourteen Lyran Intelligence Corps Loki operatives floated toward the enemy JumpShips. Each agent gently guided his bag toward his target ship using specially modified jump-infantry flight packs to accomplish the job. Though sent in pairs to the target ships, their assignments had been drawn by lot and created by a computer program that randomized among the optimal assaults needed to cripple a JumpShip. Neither agent knew who else was being sent to the same ship. That meant they could not give their compatriot away in the highly unlikely event they were taken alive.

  Raised from birth to be a Loki agent, James felt his heart pounding as the Monolith-class JumpShip Samayou Hito filled the tiny viewport of his EVA bag. Long and silver, the twin-domed sensor pods at the head of the craft looked like giant, composite eyes, accentuating the vessel’s wasp-like appearance. Mobile arms attached to the trio of docking collars evenly spaced along the body of the ship were locked down in their stowed position, but James angled his amoeboid craft toward the arm directly amidships, nonetheless. Splayed out in absolute rainbow brilliance, the doughnut-shaped solar collector hung from the ship’s stern, soaking in the energy needed to recharge the JumpShip’s fragile Kearny-Fuchida drives.

  After an hour of casual movement through space, James reached the JumpShip’s central docking arms. From afar, they had looked much like the mechanical arms used by mining robots in hostile atmospheres. Up close, the Loki agent saw their true size. Each of the twin fingers was a cylinder six meters in diameter that ended in a docking collar. By extending the arms, the JumpShip could link up with six DropShips. In addition, the three docking collars on the JumpShip’s hull meant it could accommodate a total of nine DropShips. This capacity left no doubt in James’s mind about why the Monolith-class JumpShip was most highly prized in the Successor States, and why the successful completion of his mission was of the utmost importance.

  He guided his bag into the gaping maw of one finger, then sliced the bag’s silvery flesh open with a vibroblade. Stepping free, he wadded up its thin skin and stuffed it into a thigh pocket of the gray fatigues he wore over the skintight vacuum suit. For a moment, it pleased him that the Draconis Combine saw fit to give their astechs such utilitarian garb, but he shut away that tiny emotion as he had been taught. Like a mantra, he murmured, “Reason is the engine that drives us, and passion for success is the only fuel we feed it. Clear mind, clean victory.”

  He worked his way through the shaft by feel. A hundred meters into it, he reached the large, iris-type hatchway, shut now to keep the ship’s atmosphere inside. Off to the left, he found the slender doorway that admitted the astechs who traveled out to monitor docking operations. The mission had gone well so far, but he felt a pang of regret. Because one Kurita JumpShip had moved off toward a rendezvous of its own and out of range of the operation, the Loki teams’ mission could not be 100 percent successful.

  James shook off his disappointment and set to work. From his left thigh pocket, he pulled a thin packet of Mylar fabric. He unfolded it into an oval just slightly larger than the astech hatchway, then carefully pulled away a protective strip from around the adhesive-treated edge and pressed the canopy against the hull. He checked the seal, carefully twisting himself around to keep from rupturing the membrane that trapped him between it and the hatchway.

  Confident he’d gotten a good seal, James opened an oxygen canister on his belt. The hissing sound grew as released gas filled the cocoon. When the digital readout on his bracer reported one atmosphere worth of pressure, he shut off the oxygen and turned his attention to the hatch’s lock mechanism.

  The Loki agent pulled a silver cylinder from his breast pocket and shoved it into the round keyhole. He pressed a button on it and watched a red light pulse as the skeleton key played out one digital combination of codes after another. Finally, a green light shone on the key and was quickly mirrored by the atmospheric pressure sensor on the lockplate. Satisfied that pressure had been equalized on both sides of the hatch, he opened it with a click.

  James slipped through the hatchway quickly and shut it behind him. He doffed the jetpack and mirrored helmet he’d worn during his trip over. In the muted yellow glow of the docking arm’s safety lights, he caught a reflection of his own face. His right hand rose involuntarily to touch the corner of his eye. Despite having worn this surgically altered face for a month, he was still not used to the almond eyes, black hair, and bronzed skin.

  It never occurred to him that he would have preferred to die wearing his own face. As an orphan raised by and for Loki, his conception of self had been inexorably linked with the fate of the Lyran Commonwealth. He thought of himself as nothing more than a white blood cell whose mission was to do whatever was necessary to protect the health of the state. His success—and he harbored no doubts of it—would save the Commonwealth. That he would have to die to succeed meant nothing because the Commonwealth had given him everything. How could he refuse to return to it all that he
was?

  Stripping off his gloves and discarding them, James pushed off the hull and floated through the arm toward the second atmospheric bulkhead. Reaching it, he again used his key to open the small hatch built into the giant airlock’s bulkhead. Slipping through that hatch, James closed it, then straightened up. He made sure his uniform hung right, then surveyed the interior of the ship’s drive section.

  Like a long, slender balloon twisted into sausage-like segments, seven helium tanks surrounded the length of the Kearny-Fuchida drive. This discovery caused James a moment of annoyance because intelligence had reported that the Samayou Hito had not been refitted with sequenced tanks but still had one long, all-encompassing helium system. As his mission called for him to blow the helium tanks—crippling the JumpShip without destroying the irreplaceable K-F drive—refitting made things difficult.

  Operating on the principle that people do not question those who know what they are doing, he kicked off the hull and floated directly toward and under the nearest helium tank. He located the welded seam running the length of the tank and pulled a lump of gray explosive from the tool pouch on his belt. Into the center of it, he pressed a titanium shoe. Taking special care that the hollowed bottom of the shoe was filled with plastique, he molded the whole packet of explosive to the tank’s steel flesh. Then he drew a small digital triggering device from his left breast pocket and pressed it into the gray lump. He set the timer for an hour and locked it so it could only be overridden by the control module built into his belt buckle.

  James completed the same operation with three more tanks before they found him. A guard demanded that he come out from beneath the tank and present his identification papers. In reply, James set the timer on the lump of explosive in his hand to eight seconds, wadded it all up into a ball, and bounced it off the hull toward the guard.