Lethal heritage

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Fear boiled up from Phelan's gut. "Jack, don't. Get the hell out of here." He started running the Wolfhound forward. Move it, Jack! They're up to something!

  "Get back here, Phelan! That's an order!" Anger rippled through Tang's voice. "Dammit, follow my orders just for once!"

  "And let you die? No way. Move it, Jack! Jump out of there!"

  The two 'Mechs that had dusted the Rifleman locked their weapons down on the Blackjack in the plain below them. As they triggered their bursts, the Rifleman shot at both of them with its torso-mounted medium lasers. At the same time, Tang hit his jump jets, sending his 'Mech into the thin atmosphere on silvery ion jets.

  The Rifleman's attacks caught the mystery 'Mechs by surprise, spoiling their aim somewhat. Still, despite the distraction, the range, and Tang's jump, one of the pilots managed to hit with both autocannon shots. The depleted-uranium slugs zipped up the back of the Blackjack's left leg. Its armor peeled off and fell away as if it were diaphanous silk instead of tons of ceramic armor. A silver spray of ions shot out at the back of the Blackjack's thigh, starting the 'Mech into a slow spin.

  "Feather the right jet, Jack! This rock's light gravity and thin air mean you can go further. Get clear!" He'll make it if that other 'Mech doesn't take a shot at him! Bursting into the open, Phelan turned toward the first gray 'Mech he had seen. He brought the Wolfhound's large laser up and triggered a shot, but being beyond his maximum effective range, the shot did nothing.

  The first gray 'Mech launched two flights of LRMs at the slowly spinning Blackjack. Moving at ten times the damaged 'Mech's speed, the lethal rockets slammed into it mercilessly. Explosions wreathed both legs in golden-red flame, then a silver corona ripped the fireball in half. As the brilliant light of uncontrolled jump jets vanished, taking the Blackjack's legs with it, the airborne 'Mech's arms flailed helplessly to counter the backward somersault the missiles had given it.

  Phelan tried to turn away as Jack's 'Mech tumbled to the ground, but he could not tear his eyes from the display. The 'Mech's leg stumps slammed into the ground first, scoring deep furrows in the planet's surface. The sudden stop reversed the 'Mech's rotation and smashed it face-first against a rusty hillock. Armor flew whirling in uneven clumps, then the Blackjack's domed head sheared off. It bounced halfway up the hill as the torso flipped and twisted awkwardly. The Blackjack's body ripped itself apart as the autocannon ammo nestled in its breast detonated.

  Hot, salty tears poured down Phelan's cheeks as he cut his 'Mech to the right. The first 'Mech's twin lasers burned parallel tracks through where he had just been, reducing iron ore to glowing slag. There, dammit, you missed! You're not invincible.

  Something inside his head screamed at him that what he was doing was suicidal, but another part of him didn't care. Yet his awareness of the hideous threat posed by these unidentifiable 'Mechs made him key a dump of his battle recorder's data and create a simultaneous battle-feed to a widebeam broadcast. He pumped extra power into the broadcast, draining it away from the Wolfhound's rear-arc medium laser. "Trey, Kat, anybody. I hope like hell this makes it out. Get clear. This data is more important than getting killed to avenge either one of us."

  Phelan dipped the Wolfhound's left shoulder as if preparing to cut back that way, then broke even more sharply to the right. The 'Mech he faced again sent two laser blasts sizzling through the space he should have occupied.

  "Your average is falling, friend, and your heat has to be building up." Phelan glanced at his own heat levels and found them hovering on the edge of the yellow cautionary zone. "You can dish it out with all those weapons, but that means you can't be carrying much armor. Now let's see if you can take as good as you give!"

  The computer's range indicator put Phelan at 350 meters and closing fast. Phelan planted the Wolfhound's right foot and cut to the left, then only two steps later, planted the left and dashed straight in at his target. The other pilot, determined not to miss a third time, had spread his 'Mech's arms apart to have one weapon available no matter where Phelan moved—as long as it wasn't straight up the middle.

  Laughing triumphantly as the enemy's large lasers flashed past on either side, Phelan dropped his targeting sight straight on the 'Mech's jutting beak. He stabbed his thumb down on the large laser's firing stud and tightened his fingers on the buttons for the medium lasers. Got you!

  The large laser hammered into the enemy 'Mech's left side. It peeled back armor, and for a moment, Phelan hoped against hope it had pierced the 'Mech's armored hide. As his medium lasers stitched the 'Mech's left arm and leg with stinging ruby bolts, his heart began to sink. All I'm getting is armor! But that's impossible ... Any 'Mech hauling that much of an arsenal should have paper-thin armor. It's crazy.

  The gray 'Mech's two gunnery-pods converged and focused on the Wolfhound. The dual large lasers vaporized all the armor on the Wolfhound's broad chest the second they touched it. Phelan's computer barely had time to update the diagnostic display on the secondary monitor when four medium lasers, two mounted beneath the larger lasers on the arms and one each on the sides of the 'Mech's chest, impaled the Kell Hound 'Mech. ,

  Searing waves of heat swirled up through the Wolfhound's cockpit as the lasers destroyed the magnetic shields controlling the 'Mech's fusion-reaction power plant. A rainbow of warning lights ignited the command console and a warning siren began to sail. "Reactor detonation inescapable," shouted the computer. "Eject, eject!"

  Phelan slapped his right hand on a large square button. He heard two explosions beneath him and felt them jolt up through his command couch and pound his insides into aching jelly. An invisible hand jammed him down into the couch and snapped his helmeted head back against the padded headrest. A roar filled the cockpit, drowning out the warning siren's screams, and the Wolfhound's escape module lifted free of the 'Mech's doomed torso.

  Phelan jammed his right foot down against the pedals at the foot of his command couch. That boosted thrust through the control jet on the right side of the Wolfhound's head, hurling the escape pod up and to the left. He pushed the burn for three seconds, then poured on the left thrust to get as much altitude as he could.

  Below, on the asteroid's surface, the headless Wolfhound lumbered forward. The fires burning in its chest silhouetted the 'Mech's skeleton. Then a roiling ball of argent plasma freed itself from the engine casings and engulfed the Wolfhound's torso. In a flash of blinding silver fire, it consumed the 'Mech from the knees up and let the lower legs trip and pinwheel across the ochre plain.

  Phelan fought against the Shockwave of the fusion engine's explosion, but it shook the Wolfhound's head furiously and upended the muzzle. It also caused the escape pod to prematurely deploy its parafoil, which failed to expand properly in the thin atmosphere and became fouled as the pod slowly flipped up and over in a lazy imitation of the dying Blackjack.

  Phelan pulled his feet off the thrusters and snapped the gyrostabilizers on line with the press of a button. The asteroid's inhospitable surface filled his viewports as a massive spark arced across the command console. Controls flickered and monitors died in a puff of acrid white smoke. As thick as it was, the smoke could not obscure the vision of the asteroid as it grew larger and larger.

  Stabbing both feet down on the thrusters, Phelan threw his head back and braced for a collision. Hope it's just the monitors that shorted out, not the jets themselves. This better work!

  Phelan Kell never found out if his effort did succeed, for the escape pod's third bounce across the surface tossed him against his restraining belts and one of them parted. Slewed half out of the command couch, he could do nothing to help himself as the fourth bounce smashed his neurohelmet against the command console and blackness stole his sight.

  BOOK II

  Claws of the Beast

  9

  ComStar First Circuit Compound, Hilton Head

  Island North America, Terra

  15 September 3049

  Myndo Waterly, Primus of ComStar, extended a hand to her vi
sitor. "The Peace of Blake be with you, Precentor Martial."

  The tall man genuflected with the same crisp motion he might have used to salute another warrior. Then he took her hand, allowing her fingers to curl over his index finger, and raised her hand to his lips. "Thank you, Primus," he said, straightening up. "And with you as well."

  The rarnrod-straightness of his stance made her marvel at his body's power despite age and the traumas inflicted in a long career. The black thong of his eye patch circled his head, holding his flowing white hair in check and covering the empty socket of his right eye. The crow's feet radiating from his left eye might have hinted at his age, but the sense of inner peace Myndo read in his stance contradicted it.

  I fear my time as Primus has not allowed me to age as well as you. A soul-sucking weariness seemed to fill her bones with lead and make her feel as though each breath were drawn from a vacuum. Your calm is your power. Is this something the years in that Combine monastery granted you, or did you pick it up during your training in the ways of ComStar?

  Myndo forced herself to smile as she slipped her right hand into her left sleeve. "Before we begin, I wish to congratulate you."

  The Precentor Martial looked confused. "Congratulate me?"

  'Today you are 78 years old. That is quite an achievement, Anastasius Focht."

  Focht folded his arms across his chest as though warding off a chill. "I suppose it is. My birthday, that is. That is so much a part of my old life, though, that I hardly consider it. Really, I mark my life as starting with my conversion." A smile caught at the corners of his mouth. "That makes me less than a quarter of my chronological age."

  Hiding her envy behind a mask of friendly pleasure, the Primus said, "Then you are truly blessed with the Peace of Blake."

  The Precentor Martial acknowledged her kind words with a courteous bow, but his grin faded. "I came as soon as my staff and I had completed our preliminary study of the material you sent. The suborbital plane had to change its reentry vector to get around some bad weather in the gulf or I would have been here sooner."

  "Did you find the material as disturbing as I did?"

  "Yes, Primus. Perhaps even more so. I found the reports of fighting in the Periphery curious."

  Myndo arched a brow. "Obviously. If I had not found the messages entrusted to our center at Verthandi unusual, I would not have sent copies down to you and then summoned you away from the training exercises in Azania. My concern was due to the Kell Hounds spending so much of their own money to transmit a message to their home base."

  Focht opened his hands. "Battling in the Periphery, especially in the area of the Oberon Confederation, is not at all remarkable. The warring bands of pirates out there generally let people know when they've stomped on a rival or sent a mercenary unit home with a bloodied nose. Granted, their reports seldom check out in terms of casualties or 'Mechs lost for either side, but the outcome of the battle is seldom in error because the losers cannot afford to advertise their weakness."

  The Precentor Martial began to pace, his white robe gathering and clutching at his long legs as he moved back and forth. "In this case, we've not heard from Kenny Ryan, which means he did not win this contest with the Kell Hounds. Nothing short of his death would prevent him from bragging about a victory. The Kell Hounds themselves have acknowledged defeat, but deny it came at the hands of Ryan's band. That rings true, despite the fact that the Hounds only sent out a company to chase the pirates. Even without Morgan Kell, his nephew Christian, Dan Allard, or Akira Brahe leading them, the Hounds would have been more than a match for that lot of bandits."

  Myndo found herself becoming irritated. "Your analysis eliminates some of the more obvious answers to the mystery, Precentor. Could it be that Captain Wilson lied in her report to cover Phelan Kell's death? Certainly, the death of his son would make Morgan Kell very angry."

  Focht's left eye narrowed as if summoning up an ancient memory. "That is true, and an angry Morgan Kell is not someone I would want to deal with, no matter what the circumstances. I would accept your explanation had the battlerecorder data not been appended to the message they asked us to send."

  Myndo shook her head, then hooked a lock of hair back behind her left ear. "Not being a Mech Warrior, perhaps I don't understand the significance you attach to that information."

  Focht smiled indulgently. "Aside from the data being unique, the fact that it was broadcast is remarkable. Each 'Mech has a battle recorder that keeps track of everything from sensor inputs to a complete diagnostics record for the 'Mech. After a battle, providing the recorder remains intact, the action may be reviewed. When plugged into a simulator, for example, pilots can see exactly what happened in the battle, including all their monitors and instruments."

  The Precentor Martial pressed his hands together. "Kell's broadcast was a desperate move, because sending the data out on such a widebeam meant his enemies as well as his friends could get it. Granted the transmission quality was bad, but that is more due to the electromagnetic properties of Sisyphus's Lament than any problem with the equipment at that point."

  Something dreadful tugged at the corners of her consciousness, but the Primus could not identify it. "So, Morgan Kell's whelp does not have his father's nerves of steel and panicked ..."

  Focht raised a hand to stop her. "Phelan may not be his fattier, but that battle tape shows no lack of nerve. He identified the forces he faced as unusual in the extreme, and realized he would not escape that encounter. His broadcast was a message from the dead—a warning to those who survived."

  The Precentor Martial clapped his hands once. "Computer, project the holographic reconstruction of the primary BattleMech from the Kell tape, clarified and at one-tenth scale."

  In silent compliance, the computer materialized a holographic image of the Catapult/Marauder bastard that had broken the Locust and destroyed Phelan Kell's Wolfhound. Even at only a meter in height, the machine's image retained all its menace. It feels so malevolent. A shiver ran down Myndo's spine and she fought to keep revulsion from her face.

  The Precentor Martial, however, was not looking in her direction. He slowly circled the projection like a wolf stalking prey, his gaze flicking from point to point seeking out flaws in the design. When he found none, a smile crept onto his lips and he nodded with admiration and respect.

  "Primus, I have taken to calling this model the Mad Cat. As with the Catapult 'Mech, the machine boasts two longrange missile pods, one on each side of the forward-thrust torso. It walks on bird's legs, which gives it a hopping-bobbing gait, though this pilot seems to have been able to conquer that tendency. Quite an achievement, with the low gravity on the asteroid. In addition to the standard Catapult features, two Marauder-type weapons pods have been added. They have large lasers over medium lasers. Two more medium lasers, one on each side of the torso and two machine guns mounted in the center torso, round out the weapons selection. Yes, a most impressive machine."

  Indeed. With an army of such 'Mechs, we could make Blake's dream of a united humanity a reality in short order. Myndo stared through the image at Focht. "I shall order our armorers to modify our existing Catapults to this configuration."

  Anger creased the Precentor Martial's brow for an instant, then disappeared as if banished by the force of his will. "I am afraid that is not possible, Primus. As you saw in the battletape, Phelan Kell attacked the machine but failed to damage it. Were we to create a 'Mech with such an array of weapons, we would be unable to armor it sufficiently. On the other hand, if we gave it the armor it needed, the 'Mech would be unable to move because of the current power-to-weight ratios available in our fusion engines. In short, either this 'Mech has incredibly light but durable armor, or it has a power plant of a design surpassing anything we have to offer."

  Myndo's mouth went sour. New technology in the hands of someone other than ComStar! "That's terrible!"

  Focht's grim nod echoed her concern. "It gets worse. The ranges at which these new 'Mechs were able to hit
their targets is 300 to 400 percent better than what our current targeting and delivery system allows. It also appears that their heat compensators are much better or else their pilots can tolerate higher levels of heat because the rate of fire shown would have virtually fried any 'Mech known in the Successor States."

  Myndo chewed her lower lip to stop it from trembling. "Explanation?"

  The Precentor Martial shrugged. "Their 'Mechs show evidence of technology beyond what we know. My advisors and I wrestled with the question of where these 'Mechs might originate and who piloted them right up until the time I left to join you here."

  The Primus's dark eyes half-closed. "Are they Kerensky's army come back to haunt us?"

  The Precentor Martial took a deep breath before answering. "That was one of the more popular theories we came up with, but some of the surface evidence seems against it. These 'Mech designs are alien to those the Star League army had when it abandoned the Inner Sphere three hundred years ago. When Kerensky's people left, they took with them support personnel, but no research scientists and no manufacturing facilities."

  "As nearly as we know, Precentor Martial. With the slaughter of the intelligentsia that preceded the First Succession War, we cannot be certain who died that way and who had vanished beforehand."

  Focht bowed his head to his Mistress. "Your point is valid, Primus. There are other reasons, however, and they also cast doubt on the Kerensky solution. For example, the paint scheme on the mystery machines is unlike that of any known Star League unit. More important, the most thorough scouting missions carried out on Kerensky's trail lost track of him over 130 light years beyond the Periphery borders. General Kerensky and his people are long gone from here."

  Myndo's head came up. "Surely you cannot dismiss the return of Kerensky's people that easily."

  Focht shook his head. "If I gave you the impression that we had easily ruled out the return of the Star League Defense Forces, I apologize. No, we considered it long and hard before setting it aside. Still, Primus, you should understand that 'the Return' is a bogeyman used to explain every unusual group that shows up in the Successor States. Wolf's Dragoons, for example, are the latest in a long line of groups tagged as having come from Kerensky—the Black Widow's surname adding much fuel to that fire. Even so, even if it were true, the Dragoons—and all the other groups before them—have only had 'Mechs with designs and features that date from the time of the Star League. Again, we have no evidence that Kerensky's people had the information or means to produce these new 'Mechs."