Justin studied Candace silently, then let a respectful grin onto his lips. “Believe it or not, I relived that battle on a fairly recurrent basis as well. I never knew you were the Vindicator’s pilot, but now it fits. You never gave up. I thought I’d shot the hell out of your ’Mech. I knew you were running hot, but whenever I’d get too close, you’d fire your damned PPC at me. In my nightmare, I’d come across your Vindicator all rusted and overgrown with vines and creepers. I’d raise the Blackjack’s arms to blast your machine into scrap, and it would trigger one last PPC blast. It’d hit the cockpit, and I’d wake up in a cold sweat.”
Justin grimaced. “I saw you eject after the gyros went. I hoped you got away in one piece, but I saw the canopy afterward.” He stepped closer to her and reached out his right hand toward her shoulder. “Ejecting is always nasty when the canopy doesn’t blow away cleanly. That safety glass can turn into a mouthful of razor teeth.”
Candace flinched as his hand touched her bared shoulder. Justin brushed his fingers lightly over her skin as though he could smooth away the twisted scars. He stroked her shoulder gently and breathed in deeply, enjoying the warmth and smoothness of her skin. Her perfume replaced that of the garden.
Justin’s fingers touched the silk of her robe and the chill in it shocked him. His hand recoiled as from fire, and he took a step back. “Forgive me, Duchess, I did not mean to…”
Candace pressed her left hand to his lips and stilled his protests. “No offense taken, Citizen.” She smiled and slipped her arm back into the robe’s left sleeve. “Doctors rebuilt the deltoid and triceps with myomer fibers, but the initial job was done in the field, and so wasn’t very good. Acupuncture keeps the pain under control, but I have a restricted range of motion.” She held her left arm straight out from her side, but could barely elevate it above shoulder height.
Her words took a few moments to register as Justin’s mind raced. He felt the same icy tingling in his guts as when he saw her for the first time. Despite those feelings of doom, he hungered for the woman who caused it. Dammit, Justin. Smarten up! You’re tired. It’s late. You’re not thinking clearly. You’re the one who caused her injury. That’s more than enough reason for her to hate you.
Justin narrowed his eyes. “You never underwent physical therapy for that injury, did you?”
“Ha!” Candace scoffed. “I was surrounded by nurses who wanted to help me, but the sycophants could not bring themselves to make me work. At the first sign of fatigue or discomfort, they’d scatter for fear they’d anger me…”
Justin raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure you didn’t make it easy for them. But you should have had the discipline to do it yourself, for yourself.”
The moonlight skittered blue through her hair as she shook her head. “Weights and moving my arm in circles bored me to death. Then I was summoned back to Sian and given my present duties as the Treasury’s Regulator.”
Justin chuckled lightly. “Tai chi could restore that mobility, and it’s not boring. It’s both meditative, and when speeded up, a formidable martial arts discipline.”
Candace brought her head up and stared into Justin’s brown eyes. “You will teach me.”
Justin hesitated. “Duchess, I am certain there are far better teachers here on Sian than I.”
Her eyes flashed argent. “I do not wish servitors who will be afraid to tell me when I’m not working hard enough. You will teach me, Justin, and you will call me Candace. I get enough of titles from those who are not sincere. I’ll not have it from a MechWarrior worthy of my respect.”
“Very well, Candace,” Justin said with a slight bow of the head. “When would you like to begin?”
Candace smiled. “Here. Now.”
Justin returned her smile. “Fine. We begin with breathing.” So I can control mine as well as show you how to control yours. Face it, Justin. You’re lost. You knew the job was dangerous when you took it, but now you’ve gone looking for trouble and found it in spades…
PART TWO: RECOVERY
Chapter 12
NEW SYRTIS
CAPELLAN MARCH
FEDERATED SUNS
27 DECEMBER 3027
Duke Michael Hasek-Davion nibbled absentmindedly at the synthetic thumbnail on his lifeless left hand. Staring at his office’s wooden door, he willed it to open, then snorted derisively when it failed to do so. Just as well. If I found a way to channel my fury into some undiscovered telekinetic ability, I’d probably tear the door apart. He narrowed his eyes. That is a display I’d prefer to save for His Grace, the ambassador.
Michael’s hair, worn unbraided for the formal ceremonies during the holidays, hooded his face until he impatiently thrust its darkness back over his shoulders. How could Liao do that? How could he order an attack on my people? What sort of a fool does he think I am?
Michael again glanced at the Ministry of Intelligence, Information, and Operations preliminary report on the Shaoshan terrorist attack on Kittery. It is well the attack failed utterly, or I would be forced to punish Liao’s presumptiveness.
Suddenly Michael stiffened. Could it be that the Maskirovka launched the attack without authorization? Does someone suspect I’m sending inaccurate information to Sian, and this is their not-so-subtle way to check up on me?
A knocking at his office door snapped Michael out of his worries. For a half moment he considered standing to greet his visitor, but decided against it. No. Let’s break the rules of diplomacy so he’ll know how furious I really am. Michael set his face, then said, “Come. The door is unlocked.”
The smile on the tall man’s face died a slow death as he came through the arched doorway. Sweat almost immediately began to glisten on his bald pate, but his brown eyes showed neither fear nor deceit. Reading Michael’s mood with uncanny accuracy, he spoke but did not approach the duke. “You summoned me, Duke Michael?”
Muscles bunched at Michael’s jaws. “Indeed I did, Ambassador Korigyn. I wish to know, with no prevarication or obfuscation on your part, just what the void Maximilian Liao was thinking about when he ordered the attack on Kittery?”
The ambassador brought his stocky body to its full height. “I do not know the Chancellor’s mind, Highness.” Korigyn let some of his anger at being addressed so sharply bleed most undiplomatically into his voice. “I do know, however, that the orders did not originate with Maximilian Liao.”
Michael heard the tone in Korigyn’s voice, but hid the feelings of superiority it aroused in him. Good, Korigyn. You detest me. You think of me as a traitor—a puppet who dances when your master pulls the strings. Excellent. You’ll reflect those sentiments in your dispatches and Maximilian will share your beliefs. Then, when I turn on him, he will have had no warning and will find no way to escape…
“How can I accept this as the truth?” Michael pointed to the map on his wall. “I told your master of the Prince’s impending wedding and urged him to strike before the union was consummated, but he said his allies demurred. Whenever no action is taken, or an action is taken, Maximilian Liao never seems to be responsible. Who runs the Capellan Confederation anyway?”
Korigyn stiffened. “Maximilian Liao is the sole ruler of the Capellan Confederation, Duke Michael. He has assured me that had he been aware of it, that attack would never have taken place.”
The duke bowed his head condescendingly. “Pray, tell me more. Who did order the attack?”
Korigyn’s nostrils flared as he writhed beneath Michael’s patronizing tone. “The orders went out through Maskirovka channels, yet they appear to have originated with Lady Romano. It is suspected that she hoped to create an incident that would prompt Hanse Davion or you to strike at the St. Ives Commonality—a holding that belongs, almost exclusively, to her sister.”
Korigyn’s tone communicated his full belief in this official version of the attack, and bled away some of Michael’s tension. So it was not an attack to verify my troop estimates. I am, as yet, undiscovered by either of the forces that I play off against one
another. Splendid. Michael narrowed his eyes. “Cannot your master control his whelps?”
The ambassador grinned cruelly. “As well as you control your son, my lord.”
“You bastard! How dare you speak to me like that!”
Korigyn held up his hands and composed his face with a look of contrition. “I meant no offense, Duke Michael. I merely meant to point out what every parent of an adult comes to realize: children cannot always be controlled. Takashi Kurita is at odds with his son Theodore, and Maximilian has sent his son Tormana away.” The Tikonov national smiled. “We can but hope Hanse Davion will live long enough to feel the sting of ungrateful children.”
Michael ignored the pulse pounding a heavy rhythm at his temples, and forced a light tone into his voice. “Well put, Ambassador, though I think Maximilian and I would prefer to save Hanse Davion that pain. Even though I find your thesis valid, you will agree with me that Romano Liao can be, at best, unpredictable.”
The ambassador nodded solemnly. “She has great heart but does not always fully think through her actions.”
Michael smiled. The apple does not fall far from the tree. “Whether or not this attack was merely an impetuous act does me no good with my people. They have been bloodied—in a manner of speaking—and they will want revenge.”
By Korigyn’s quick yet calm reply, Michael saw that the man had anticipated his line of questioning. “Of course, Duke Michael. As an apology, the Chancellor has engineered the delivery of gift to you. I believe you will find your special account has recently swollen with an influx of C-bills.”
Michael allowed himself a quiet laugh. “What your master considers swollen, I consider a mild enlargement, but the gesture is appreciated.”
Korigyn nodded solicitously. “I might suggest that you could use this attack as yet another reason to reproach the Prince with the laxity of security.”
“Don’t try to manipulate me, Ambassador! I don’t intend to see the Maskirovka capitalize on an error they should never have allowed to happen. I had people calling for blood when the reports first came through. I trusted Liao enough to believe this was all some kind of mistake. I demanded Hanse Davion send his precious Assault Guards from Kittery to pound Taga. Because of the way I worded and sent the message, I knew he would refuse. I realized I could milk that exchange long before you knew the attack had taken place.”
Korigyn bowed from the waist. “Forgive me, my lord. I would not presume to direct you. I merely meant to offer an option that would profit all.”
“Yes, of course, Serge. I see that now.” Michael allowed himself a smile. “Please let the Chancellor know I take no offense at this attack, and that it will be useful against my Prince.” And then I will use the resentment it creates against both the Prince of the Federated Suns and Maximilian Liao to elevate myself to the rank I truly deserve.
Chapter 13
THARKAD
DISTRICT OF DONEGAL
LYRAN COMMONWEALTH
31 DECEMBER 3027
Daniel Allard followed Morgan Kell’s cloaked form through the crush of people lining the streets in front of the Triad. When Morgan reached the throng’s front row, he hopped over the white rope holding the others back. He waited patiently for Dan, smiling calmly despite the commotion his action sparked in the crowd that had come to watch celebrities attending the Archon’s New Year’s Eve celebration.
Dan cleared the rope, then stiffened as he saw a Lyran Intelligence Corps security detail close in on them. When Morgan laid one hand on his shoulder, Dan felt himself taking on some of the other man’s nonchalance.
“Who the hell are they?” someone cried out from the crowd.
“Doesn’t matter,” came the reply. “The LIC’s got them now.”
Two young men in somber suits stepped in to halt Morgan and Dan’s advance, and another pair fell in behind them. “Let’s not have any trouble, shall we?” said one of the LIC agents, a lanky, fair-haired young man wearing mirrored sunglasses despite the fact that night had fallen.
Morgan’s rich voice replied without threat. “No trouble. My companion and I are going to see the Archon.”
The LIC agent’s eyebrows dipped below his glasses in a frown. “Have you an invitation?”
Morgan shrugged. “I don’t need one. I’m Morgan Kell.”
Here it comes, Dan thought, cringing inwardly.
The agent puffed out his chest. “I don’t care if you’re Aleksandr Kerensky come back with the Star League army. No invitation, no admittance.”
Morgan smiled. “You do not understand, but I forgive you that. I’ve not made myself clear.” He slipped one white-gloved hand from beneath his scarlet woolen cloak. In it, he held a folded piece of paper so old that it had yellowed and curled at the edges. “I have this.”
The agent snatched at the document and sneered, “This better be good, old man, or you’re greeting the New Year from inside a cell.” He unfolded the paper, glanced at it quickly, then shuddered. His glasses slipped halfway down his nose and his flesh acquired an unhealthy ashen hue. He looked closely at Morgan, then handed the paper back to him. “Prove it.”
Morgan accepted the sheet, and without a word, removed his glove and pressed his right thumb to a rainbow hued patch woven into the paper itself. The LIC agent nervously snatched the sheet again, then stared at the patch. His pallor became more corpselike by the minute.
Dan, unable to read the words written above the patch, felt a pang of pity for the agent. God! Look at that paper tremble. What in hell is it?
The agent looked horrified. “I’m sorry, sir. I ah, um, I have to call this in…” He reached up to activate the radio hidden behind the lapel of his jacket, but Morgan’s hand gently restrained him.
“No,” the Kell Hound colonel said, with an easy smile. “I’m afraid you don’t need to call it in.”
The LIC agent’s lower lip quivered violently as he glanced again at the note. With a voice full of reluctance, he capitulated. “I guess I don’t need to call it in, if you say so, sir…”
Morgan inclined his head to indicate Dan. “Thank you. My companion and I will be going now.” He plucked the paper from the agent’s long fingers and smiled conspiratorially at him. “This is a surprise.”
The agent nodded furiously and stepped aside. “Yes, sir—Mister…?”
“Colonel.”
“Yes, Colonel Kell, a surprise.” He raised his right hand and waved at the men stationed across the street by the front gate. “These two go in—on my clearance!”
“Thank you, again,” Morgan said. He headed off toward the gate and waved Dan forward. Both Kell Hounds bowed their heads to the guards at the gate, then proceeded down the brilliantly lit promenade toward the Commonwealth Palace.
“Now I see why you didn’t think it necessary for me to hit up the Federated Suns Embassy for invitations to this soiree,” Dan said. “But what’s in that note?” He glanced back over his shoulder at the LIC operatives in the street. “We got past them easier than would a battalion of assault ’Mechs.”
Morgan passed the note to Dan. The younger MechWarrior unfolded the missive and felt his mouth go dry. Blake’s Blood! The note, signed with an unforgeable holographic seal, was short and succinct:
Deny this man, Morgan Kell, nothing.
Katrina Steiner, Archon
22 July 3007.
Beneath it was a holographic touch strip that held the image of a thumbprint. The golden tracery of Morgan’s thumbprint, verifying a match with the one in the holograph, was already fading.
“No wonder that agent almost died in the street back there,” Dan said, handing the sheet back to Morgan. “July 3007, that’s when she took power. This must have been one of her first acts as Archon.”
Morgan accepted the note, refolded it, and slipped it back inside his cloak. “Her second. Her first act was to write out one of these for her future husband, my cousin, Arthur Luvon.”
In silence, the two mercenaries completed the rest of th
eir walk to the massive, broad granite steps leading into the Archon’s Palace. Just inside the doors, which had been thrown open to welcome revelers, two servants met them to take both Morgan’s cloak and Dan’s overcoat. Beyond, other servants stood ready in several discreet locations to help the guests straighten their attire.
Dan crossed to one of the mirrored alcoves and surveyed his uniform. A servant knelt and buffed some street dust from Dan’s boots and quickly wiped down the rowel-less spurs with a damp rag. Dan looked down and smiled. Yes, I am from the Federated Suns. You Lyrans might consider it vanity, but we MechWarriors proudly wear the spurs that recall our cavalry beginnings.
Looking in the mirror, he adjusted the sleeves of his red dress jacket so that they touched the tops of the white gloves he’d pulled on, then tugged at the hem of the waist-length coat. The servant, rising up behind him, plucked a bit of lint from Dan’s right shoulder, then studied the warrior’s reflection with a smile.
The jacket’s double-breast was fashioned from black cloth and cut in the form of the Kell Hound wolf’s-head crest. The furious red of the wolf’s eyes matched the coat perfectly. The wolf’s ears rose up at the jacket’s shoulders, and the muzzle just barely reached Dan’s waist. The left ear, after Kell Hound custom, was decorated with a ribbon indicating the unit’s latest commendation.
Dan fingered the green, black, and white strip of cloth. It’s odd. The Dragonslayer’s Ribbon is a unit citation for those who have distinguished themselves against Draconian foes. I feel pride at wearing it, but it also summons up all those feeling of loss and anger because of the battle in which the Kell Hounds won it. Though he continued to regard his image in the glass, he was, for the moment, somewhere else, far away. Others can have the glory. I’d just like to have my comrades back.
Warrior: Riposte (The Warrior Trilogy, Book Two): BattleTech Legends, #58 Page 10
