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

by Michael A. Stackpole

  In the silence that greeted his words, Akira visualized his father slowly shaking his head. “Chu-sa Brahe, I think you have made an error. Do you mean to suggest that I have pushed the Genyosha across this sandstone and lava-rock desert because I fear Conti will kill Morgan Kell?”

  Akira swallowed against the fear gnawing at his stomach. “I think you have become wrapped up in personal rivalries. You even ignored a priority transmission from the Coordinator himself, directing you to break off this personal vendetta.”

  The strength in Yorinaga’s voice reassured his son that his father had not abandoned reason. “You will learn, Akira, that there are times when your masters do not know what is right and proper in the world. The message from the Coordinator had obviously been garbled in transmission, for he would never deny me this battle with Morgan Kell. As for my haste in reaching the Kell Hounds, it is not based on any fear that the Fifth Sword of Light will rob me of my battle, or out of a desire to kill Palmer Conti. He is insignificant, and his quarrel with me is a war waged on his side alone. Indeed, I hurry us along because I merely wish to save the Dragon the embarrassment of their total destruction at the hands of the Kell Hounds.”

  Anger flared up in Akira. “Why is it you concern yourself with the Coordinator’s honor? He denied you release while you waited in exile, then promised you the Kell Hounds’ destruction as part of the price for your cooperation and leadership in the Genyosha. He has vacillated in his treatment of us, supporting us one moment, then leaving us like orphans to be spat on by units like the Fifth Sword. Even this last message, the one you choose to see as garbled, is meant to deny you vindication. You guard his honor, yet he gives you nothing but shame.”

  The anger in Yorinaga’s voice told Akira he had struck a nerve, but the reply cut off all chance of further discussion. “I guard his honor because he is the Dragon. That is enough. My life, and the life of every person in the Draconis Combine, is his to play with, to use or to warp in any way he sees fit. He is the Dragon, and I live to serve him.”

  Yorinaga’s voice lost some of its intensity. “We will not speak of this again, my son, for some might consider the conversation treasonous. There is no more time. We have arrived and must, once again, become warriors and serve the Way of the Sword.”

  Akira shifted his radio back to the tactical frequency he shared with his company. “Jack, I’m back, but I’ll stay up here. If we get hit, we’ll form up as the left flank. Have Korasu Lance keep their eyes open on our back trail.”

  Seaborg replied quickly and positively as Akira brought his Orion around the last bend in the canyon they had traveled to the heart of Nusakan’s equatorial desert. Opening out away and down from his position, framed by canyon walls that widened out and vanished at the horizon, Akira saw a flat scarlet plain dotted with purplish succulent plants sprouting golden spikes. In the center of the plains rose up one massive mesa, shaped by eons of harsh desert winds. Like lesser acolytes surrounding a precentor, smaller outcroppings of purplish lava rock rose up from the desert floor to surround the centerpiece.

  Dragon’s Blood! It’s incredible! Mechanically, Akira directed his ’Mech forward into the desert valley, seeing but disbelieving everything. Can anything be left, or has my father been cheated after all?

  Beginning at the valley entrance, the shattered bodies of BattleMechs lay scattered about. At first, Akira saw them as toys smashed in anger by a child, but he rejected that analogy. The destruction here is too complete. A child would have been careless in lashing out. This is deliberate.

  ’Mechs from the Fifth Sword of Light lay staring up at Nusakan’s twin suns, the desert heat rising in blurry waves from their shapes. All had gaping rents in their armor. Limbs, broken and maimed beyond recognition, covered the sandy surface chaotically. In several places, one or two legs stood as monuments to the ’Mechs they had carried into battle, though no sign of their torsos remained.

  Mixed among them, but too few in number for Akira’s ease of mind, were ’Mechs with the black legs and red body color scheme favored by the Kell Hounds. Those ’Mechs, though equally as dead as the Draconian machines around them, had not been as savaged in battle. With the exception of two ’Mechs whose heads had been crushed, the Kell Hound war machines were uniformly missing their faceplates. All this carnage, yet the Kell Hound pilots still managed to escape their doomed ’Mechs. They value their lives over their honor and their machines.

  A shiver ran down Akira’s spine. The Coordinator directed us to destroy all the mercenaries on Northwind because he claimed mercenaries had no honor. When I faced Team Banzai on Northwind, I saw mercenaries fighting to save people not even in their company. Here these “dishonorable” Kell Hounds have managed to rip up one of our best units and still save their pilots. I fear we too often die for honor in our ’Mechs rather than fight as best we can and escape to fight again.

  Catching sight of movement in the distance, Akira added magnification to his forward sensor readout and directed his attention to the large mesa. Before it, in an arena-like, bowl-shaped depression, two ’Mechs squared off. At the north side of the arena were several ranks of ’Mechs with their backs to the large mesa. Akira recognized their colors as those of the Kell Hounds. Opposite them, in the black and gold of the Fifth Sword of Light, a half dozen Kurita Mechs also watched the battle in the pit.

  The Kell Hound ’Mech, a humanoid Cyclops, looked tired and battered. Armor hung from it in broken sheets. Its left leg, which had been virtually stripped of armor, had been fused at the knee. Despite its injuries, however, the ’Mech triggered a staggering burst from the autocannon mounted at its right hip, then drove in at its foe.

  The Banshee it faced took the hail of slugs in the chest and rocked backward. Armor, the first it had lost in battle, streaked away in smoking shards. The crater in the armor looked like a raw wound over the Banshee’s heart, but still showed evidence of yet more armor between the hole and the ’Mech’s insides.

  A transmission from one of a half-dozen other Fifth Sword ’Mechs watching the battle from close up crackled through Akira’s neurohelmet. “Praise be to the Dragon! You have come. Now we can complete the destruction of the mercenary dogs. Hurry! When Tai-sho Conti destroys this Bradley, the Kell Hounds will kill him.”

  Yorinaga’s sharp reply came quickly. “Iie. It is an even battle. The mercenaries will respect it.”

  The name “Bradley” rang a bell in Akira’s mind. Bradley… Scott Bradley. He commanded the mercenaries on Northwind. Conti’s Fifth Sword used us to destroy Bradley’s command while Conti ripped up the Davion garrison, the Fifth Deneb Light Cavalry. Bradley wants to avenge the warriors who died there. Akira’s tawny eyes narrowed. How is it that a mercenary whose ’Mech has obviously seen battle can demand satisfaction of the Fifth Sword’s leader and not know honor?

  The Cyclops’s rush forward seemed to surprise the Banshee’s pilot. As the Combine ’Mech twisted to avoid the brunt of the charge, the Cyclops’s balled left fist smashed into the Banshee’s right shoulder. With a sound like a thundercrack, the mechanical fist pulverized ceramic armor plates into dust.

  The Banshee brought its left fist around in a murderous hook, but the Cyclops leaned dangerously to the right, ducking beneath the blow. Bradley pushed off with his good right leg and twisted awkwardly around to slam his Mech’s right fist into the Banshee’s spine. More armor evaporated into dust, opening a hole in the Banshee’s back.

  Unbalanced by the missed punch and sped on by the blow to the Banshee’s spine, the ninety-five-ton ’Mech pitched forward. Conti, reacting quickly, reached out and grabbed the Cyclops’s damaged left leg as he fell. Rolling the Banshee, he snapped the limb clean off, dropping the Cyclops onto its back.

  Gracelessly, Palmer Conti brought his ’Mech to its feet and raised the Cyclops’s leg in both arms like a club. Flat on its back, the Cyclops lifted both arms to protect its head. Conti’s voice, full of victory, filled the radio waves with a wide-beam broadcast. “That, Major B
radley,” he boasted, “is why your people died on Northwind!”

  A gout of red-gold flame erupted from the Cyclops’s autocannon muzzle. The stream of shells it spat out sliced into the Banshee’s right armpit like a chainsaw. Armor parted like tissue paper and rained down confetti-like over the arena. Myomer muscles snapped like rubber bands stressed beyond tolerance and the ferro-titanium ball-and-socket shoulder joint gave way. Still clutching the Cyclops’s leg in its fist, the Banshee’s arm sailed from the arena.

  The impact of the autocannon’s fire spun the Banshee to the right. The Cyclops lashed out with its leg, crushing armor on the Banshee’s left ankle and slamming that leg against the Banshee’s other leg. The Banshee flailed madly against the air in a vain attempt to regain its balance, then toppled slowly and inexorably onto its face.

  The Cyclops flipped itself over onto its stomach, then dragged itself around to the Banshee. Resting its torso against the Banshee’s body to pin it to the ground, the Cyclops reached out with both hands. In one deft, savage motion, the Cyclops ripped the Banshee’s head from its shoulders and victoriously thrust it aloft in its right hand.

  The Banshee’s faceplate exploded outward, dissolving into a blizzard of glittering glass fragments. Conti’s command couch blew through the smoke and fire, then slowed as the gyrojet stabilizers ignited. The MechWarrior floated gently to the desert floor, freed himself from the safety straps, then gesticulated wildly toward the mesa and the mercenaries.

  One of the Fifth Sword’s ’Mechs moved forward, but a jagged bolt of PPC lightning from Yorinaga Kurita’s ’Mech stopped it. “No more. Your fight is done.”

  An excited voice replied over the radio. “But Tai-sho Conti directs us to battle for the glory of the Dragon!”

  “As he has done?” The biting edge in Yorinaga’s voice mocked the warrior’s devotion to Conti. “Stand aside, all of you. If you do not, I will order my Genyosha to destroy you.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, the Fifth Sword’s ’Mechs withdrew, opening a path from Yorinaga to the arena. The Cyclops, refusing aid, had dragged itself free of the pit. Several other Kell Hound ’Mechs moved into the depression and cleared away the Banshee’s headless corpse. Their task complete, they resumed their places among the mercenaries.

  Morgan Kell’s Archer stepped from amid the Kell Hounds and slowly stalked down into the arena. The valley’s red dust covered it except where the flaming exhaust of launched missiles had burned the ’Mech’s shoulders black. Though showing every sign of having engaged in combat, its armor was somehow undented, untouched. The Archer stopped at the north edge of the depression’s floor and waited.

  Akira watched his father’s Warhammer advance like a man welcoming his destiny, but afraid he would fail in attaining it. For thirteen years he has dreamed of this battle. Akira looked over at his targeting crosshairs as he brushed them over both ’Mechs. His computer acknowledged neither of them.

  As his father’s Warhammer entered the arena, Akira suddenly remembered the chilling words once spoken to him by Jaime Wolf, one of the most feared MechWarriors in the Successor States. When Akira had asked Wolf to explain what his father and Morgan Kell had discussed cryptically at Hanse Davion’s wedding, the mercenary had stared at him for a moment with his predator’s eyes before replying.

  “It’s simple, Chu-sa Brahe,” Wolf said. “Morgan Kell and Yorinaga Kurita both know that the next time they meet in combat, they will kill one another.”

  Chapter 49

  SIAN

  SIAN COMMONALITY

  CAPELLAN CONFEDERATION

  24 OCTOBER 3029

  Andrew Redburn adjusted the contrast on his Marauder’s auxiliary monitor. It carried a live feed from the Capellan State Broadcasting Facility’s coverage of Morgan Hasek-Davion’s arrival. A glance at his primary monitor showed him that the DropShip hung five kilometers above the planet’s surface and was descending at a little less than a hundred kilometers per hour. Looking at the seconds tick on the digital display at the corner of the drop chart, Andrew opened a channel to his command. “Mark, three minutes thirty seconds to drop.”

  He heard the acknowledgements of his communication, mentally checking off each voice as it came through his neurohelmet, but his attention centered on the holovid feed from the ground. The camera panned over the reviewing stand and the dignitaries gathered to greet Hanse Davion’s captive heir. Behind the stand, all shiny, tall, and proud, stood the ’Mechs of House Imarra’s two battalions to welcome their esteemed visitor. If Morgan’s spy reports are true, they won’t be much trouble. Fluttering behind the stand were massive gold banners with the Hasek lion crest worked in red. Similarly designed pennants snapped in the breeze atop flagpoles.

  The camera zoomed in as it made a pass across the nobles crowding the reviewing stand. It lingered for a few seconds on each face, waiting just long enough for technicians to display the Capellan pictographs for each person’s name down the right side of the screen. When the image of the last man on the left materialized on the screen, Andrew felt ice water flush through his guts.

  Good, Justin. You’re here. That means the Capellans have been taken by surprise. Andrew ground his teeth together. Had you been on your game, Xiang, you would have been waiting for me in your vaunted Yen-Lo-Wang. I guess that means I will just have to wait for you.

  Justin tugged at his black jacket’s uncomfortably tight collar. “I hate this uniform. It makes me feel like a Jesuit.”

  Candace, standing beside him on the reviewing platform, patted his shoulder reassuringly. “You need only endure it a moment or two longer, my love.” She smoothed out a wrinkle on the sleeve of her smoke-gray silk blouse. “I wish the ship would get down here so my sister will stop preening.”

  Justin glanced over at Romano. The low-cut backless red dress she wore seemed appropriate for the day’s heat, but not the occasion of greeting Hanse Davion’s heir. If she means to catch Morgan’s attention, she should have no problem. Maybe she’s planning to seduce him and use him to lead the Capellan March into some crusade to recover what Hanse Davion has won away in this war? Justin frowned. Of course, that’s what she’s planning—the plan is simple, shallow, and centered around her. Tsen’s not noticed because he’s irritated by his inability to break Alexi and get him to talk.

  Candace pointed toward the sky. “There! It’s coming in on final approach.”

  Maximilian Liao, dressed in a golden silk robe trimmed with black at the hem, neck, and sleeves, smiled and adjusted the black Mandarin cap on his head. “Finally, to have a weapon against Hanse Davion—one that will cripple and kill him.”

  Justin nodded along with the Chancellor. Having Morgan fall into our hands is indeed a blow to the Federated Suns.

  From his position at Liao’s right, Tsen Shang spoke up loudly enough for the holovid microphones to hear. “Your words echo my own thoughts, Celestial Wisdom. This is a great day, indeed.”

  Justin looked up, his left hand shielding his eyes from the glare of the DropShip’s landing rockets. Motion high up on the hull caught his attention, then gave him a jolt. What in hell is going on?

  The DropShip’s missile pods snapped open, freeing a cargo of missiles. They rocketed away on jets of yellow-white flame, arcing down toward the landing zone, but never reached the reviewing stand or the ’Mechs arrayed behind it. They exploded thunderously overhead, filling the air with a thick, blinding, green smoke.

  The explosion’s shockwave tossed Justin back off the reviewing stand. He landed hard on his right hip, but rolled up into a crouch. We’re under attack. That ship has to be crawling with Federated troops…

  The screams of the spectators replaced the explosion-born ringing in his ears, and Justin suddenly realized something was very wrong. Candace! Where is she? He stood and tried to see through the heavy smoke, but all he could make out were splotches of people running madly back and forth.

  “Candace!” he shouted. “Candace! Where are you?”

  The gas b
urned his throat, coating his mouth and tongue with a slick, sour taste. He had to find her. Though Candace’s disappearance pushed him toward panic, years of combat training overrode his emotions. Stop it, Justin. Think clearly. If she’s dead, she’s dead. If she’s alive, she’ll head into the palace. You know that’s where you should be.

  Justin took off in a low sprint for the palace ’Mech bay. He heard the hideous snapping and crackling of PPC discharges. As he dodged the advance of a Liao Locust, he heard the whine of an autocannon. The Locust exploded in an argent plasma ball, producing a shockwave that knocked him rolling to the ’Mech bay’s personnel door. Shaking his head to clear it, Justin stood and opened the hangar door.

  Morgan Hasek-Davion’s voice echoed confidently through the radio speakers. “This is it, people. We drop at fifteen meters. It’ll be confusing out there, so keep your heads on. Don’t crush any civilians. You won’t know the agent until you’re given the countersign. Remember, it’s ‘Sic semper tyrannis.’ That’s old Terra Latin for ‘Thus ever to tyrants.’ You’ve all got it digitized into your computers to check in case you don’t hear it right. It’s more than just the countersign. It’s our motto for this assault. Let’s show this tyrant what the Lions of Davion are made of!”

  The ground feed focused on the descending DropShip, then tightened in as the Overlord-class DropShip’s LRM pods opened and launched scores of missiles. The missiles traveled only a short distance before they exploded, filling the air with a greasy green smoke. The live picture went black as the drop hatch below Andrew’s Marauder opened up.

  The heavy, birdlike ’Mech landed solidly on the ferrocrete. The ringing collision of feet on earth sent a shudder up through the ’Mech, but Andrew balanced himself and his war machine instantly. His right hand punched two buttons on his command console, shifting his sensors over to magscan. That’ll cut through this gas.