Flight of the Falcon

by Victor Milán

  His table was a tame enough vice, indeed, a somewhat reassuring one, inasmuch as it was known and unlikely to bring harm or discredit upon the Falcon or her get. The Clan rhetoric, particularly Jade Falcon rhetoric, about iron will and self-denial contained, as he well knew, an element of willful self-deception. Few adults of the warrior class failed of having at least one vice—as defined by the Spartan Clan ethos, that was; to Spheroids, it was the Clans’ self-defined virtues that were terrifying.

  He smiled. And now I and a pair of warrior children lead an army of näıfs to liberate people whose closest approach to a unifying passion is a desire not to be subjected to the harsh will of the Clans.

  When they planned this initiative months ago on Sudeten, the two Hazen ristars had given it a curious name: desant. In Russian, the native language of Nicholas Kerensky, Founder of the Clans, it meant what it sounded like in English, descent. But in the ancient Soviet military art from before the age of space flight, it had another meaning. It referred to a drop of air-mobile troops—generally a very daring one, striking at key targets deep in enemy territory.

  Both Aleks and Malvina were keen students of military history. That itself represented a departure from pure Clan tradition and was one of the Inner Sphere encroachments that Bec Malthus at once resented and embraced. For the Clans had been designed to spite the past. By forgetting about it.

  That had failed. Ever objective, Malthus would acknowledge that, at least to himself.

  He smiled, sipped. In order to preserve Jade Falcon ways, he thought, I am willing to destroy them. He held up the goblet to the dim ocher shine of a potted-down lamp beside his chair, in a toast to himself. That in itself was true to the spirit of rough-and-tumble Clan ways.

  Yet there was another word from the same lexicon that applied to this mission equally well. More specifically, to that of the emissaries on Tharkad. That word was maskirovka. While it had been appropriated by House Liao for its intelligence service, neither of the hotblooded young ristars was reluctant to reclaim its use per the original meaning.

  The word meant masquerade. It had been used by the Soviets to signify a ruse concocted to cover intelligence or military operations.

  The desant meant to see the Steel Wolves eradicated, no doubt about it. Every Jade Falcon did. And every woman and man of the expeditionary force down through the techs to the lowliest laborers burned with the desire to be part of that holy extermination.

  But it was not the real objective.

  That was: to conquer a bridgehead in the Inner Sphere, centered upon the world of Skye, the capital of Prefecture IX. And if they could win and hold that bridgehead convincingly enough, the full strength of Clan Jade Falcon might, Khan Jana Pryde willing, eventually join them in one great final Crusade to liberate Terra and all of the decadent Republic.

  5

  Jade Falcon Naval Reserve Battleship Emerald Talon

  Jump Point

  Crevedia

  25 March 3134

  “We cannot do it!” burst Aleks, starting from his chair in Malthus’ elegant stateroom. He jumped up with such force that the rubberized magnets on his boot soles broke contact with the carpet and he floated to the overhead, and was compelled to push himself back down to the deck with his hand like a planetlubber. He had been thoroughly trained and seasoned in microgravity maneuvering long before this mission began. And he, like the rest, had had little enough to do but practice it.

  His brief flight was a clear sign of his agitation.

  Sprawled in another plush red chair, Malvina tilted a twisted grin toward her sibkin. “Here you were always the amenable one, Aleks,” she reminded him.

  He shook his shaggy head as if shedding water from his square-cut bangs. “We must not do this thing. It would be a disaster!”

  Malthus’ eyelids were at half-mast, as if he were drowsy. “What do you mean?” he asked mildly. It was a mildness few Clanners would recognize as dangerous.

  “To raid Porrima,” Aleks said, “would disrupt our schedule.”

  “The schedule is flexible,” said Malthus. “It is ten days’ round trip from jump point to planet. Allowing one day for the raid, or even two, will not add unacceptably to our time loading; we cannot depart the system within one hundred sixty-four hours of our arrival in any event, owing to the necessity to recharge our star drive. Four or five more days will not compromise our ultimate victory.”

  Aleks paced the cabin, careful not to break loose again, his long legs taking him the length of the available space in two strides each way. “We risk rousing opposition—warning our foes to prepare for our arrival. Do we wish to discard the maskirovka completely?”

  “After our arrival at Chaffee,” Malthus said with something resembling humor in his voice, “few will harbor any doubt as to our true intentions. To be sure, the purpose of our maskirovka was to forestall any significant attempt by the Steiners to halt us. Yet always we have had the odds on our side. The ultimatum that our people delivered upon Tharkad will likely have caused the Lyrans to equivocate, in accordance with their essentially mercantile nature; there was a reason Jade Falcon took so many worlds from them when first the Clans returned to the Inner Sphere some eighty-five years ago.

  “Even should they decide to try and intercept us, the message lag caused by the collapse of the HPG network would make that problematic at best; after all, it is not as if they know our itinerary. And finally, we know through intelligence gathered by our own Watch that House Steiner prepares a major initiative of their own against the disordered remnants of the Free Worlds League, and have no desire to disrupt their own preparations chasing phantoms.”

  “All this is true, Galaxy Commander,” Aleks said. “Yet once we perform a hostile act, the chance exists that JumpShips will carry word before us to our target systems. We have yet two jumps before we reach our first objective, to Edesich and Whittington. The locals might attack us as we recharge.”

  Seated behind the small polished mahogany desk in the richly paneled stateroom, Malthus turned his heavy face toward Malvina. “Let them try,” she said, laughing. “Old Dolphus Binetti would kiss them before he vaporized them with his main batteries for giving him his shot at glory. Even if Galaxy Commander Malthus will not let his WarShip go weapons-free, DropShips and aerospace fighters would give the Spheroids short shrift.”

  “We should not overlook that Porrima is the personal holding of the Archon Melissa Steiner herself,” Aleks said. “Merchants though they are, the Lyrans will not take such an insult lightly.”

  “They will never catch us up,” his sibkin said. “Once we have our foothold in the Inner Sphere, let them try to dislodge us!” She laughed like a child at the thought.

  Aleks’ normally dark face was ashen and tense. “What honor is there, then, in falling upon an unsuspecting world?”

  “What honor is there in attacking Chaffee, come to that?” Malvina asked.

  “It serves a direct military end,” he said. “Therefore it serves the overriding interests of Clan Jade Falcon—and all humanity, ultimately.”

  Malthus rose languidly from behind his desk. “As does a raid upon Porrima,” he said. “Our warriors grow impatient. They need the taste of hot blood in their mouths. We have already seen one death result from an attack prompted by a chance remark in the corridors of this ship. That incident was a certain harbinger of what we can expect a great deal more of, and soon, if we cannot slake our war birds’ appetites for action!”

  Aleks’ broad shoulders slumped and he looked down at the crimson carpet. “A repetition would be disastrous for morale,” he acknowledged.

  “At last, my fine young ristar shows evidence of his famed clarity of thought!” Malthus said. “You are widely esteemed as a military genius, boy, as well as a true Jade Falcon warrior—both of you are. Indeed, I myself so represented you to Khan Jana Pryde. Yet in this matter you display no more wit than a street-sweeping laborer!”

  It was a risky thing to say to any Clanner, much le
ss a Jade Falcon. But Bec Malthus knew his man.

  He always did.

  Aleks sighed and stared down at his big, strong hands as if doubting their utility. “There is something to what you say, Galaxy Commander.”

  “It is not softness of the head which troubles you,” Malvina said, “but softness of the heart.”

  He brought his head up sharp, and when his dark eyes fixed upon her there was something of the Falcon in their gaze.

  “It is your silly sympathy for the bellycrawlers,” she said. “You scruple to risk spilling any of their precious blood, though only the very best of them is worth more than the lowest Falcon laborer.”

  “You easily dismiss these ‘bellycrawlers,” ’ Aleks said, “yet billions of them dwell under Jade Falcon control in the Occupation Zone.”

  “At least they are under control, not living and rutting like beasts of the fields.” She tossed her head, making her snow-colored bangs bounce on her forehead and her heavy braid slither on her shoulder like a restive serpent. “And perhaps if I were Khan they would be under better control still.”

  Aleks goggled, looked from Malvina to Malthus and quickly back again. Plain on his face was concern that his beloved sibling should voice such sedition in the presence of a man far and not always well-famed as the pure creature of Khan Jana Pryde.

  “Do not let your own heart’s hot blood betray your head, Galaxy Commander Malvina Hazen,” Malthus said blandly, showing no reaction to the woman’s shocking words. “The Inner Sphere has its true warriors; it was not Wolf perfidy and cowardice alone that stymied our first Crusade. And the distance between us and them has diminished, do not forget, in the years since we agreed to our Devil’s bargain.”

  The last came out tinged with bitterness. Devil’s bargain had been gaining currency of late among the radical traditionalists of the Crusader faction, referring to the modus vivendi the Falcons, even of the homeworlds, had agreed to with The Republic of the Sphere. It was itself a play upon a rare Clan play on words: those same fervent traditionalists had taken to calling The Republic’s vanished founder the Devil in Stone.

  Malvina made a circular gesture with her hand, as if deferring to her superior without conceding his point.

  “Our mission is to protect the people of the Inner Sphere,” Aleks said, calmly and quietly now. “Even from themselves. Such was the Founder’s vision.”

  “Yet they are inferior—with all respect, Beckett Malthus, allowing them the odd hypothetical hero. The fact remains that as warriors, man and woman, they cannot touch us. I know you are no chalcas, Aleksandr, entirely the opposite, in fact. Why then this soft spot for Freebirths, whose lives are as chaotic and undisciplined as their breeding habits?”

  “Precisely because of what you say, Malvina,” he answered gently. “Yes: we Clanners are superior. As we warriors are superior to our laborers and techs. And with that superiority comes a burden: responsibility. The Founder, Nicholas Kerensky, decreed the one when he set about to build the other.”

  “All this to the side,” Malthus said, overriding Malvina, whose sculpture-perfect face had started to crease with anger, “we can all agree without hesitation that Turkina’s interests outweigh those of the people of Porrima—and that if we do not find some way to bleed our internal pressures fast, they will rupture us like a faulty fuel cell. Quiaff?”

  “Aff,” said Malvina, lightly, as if nothing said previously were of any consequence to her.

  Aleks hesitated. “Aff,” he said at length.

  Malthus smiled and nodded heartily. “Excellent. Now as to the raid itself—”

  “I bid my first Cluster,” Malvina piped up promptly.

  “Neg,” Malthus said, still smiling, but forcefully. “Devoted as we all are to our traditions, batchall has been honored as much in the breach as in the observance since long before any of us was born, among the Falcons no less than any other Clan. This is a matter not of bidding but of necessity of war—and it behooves us all to remember that Khan Jana Pryde herself instructed us most explicitly that the success of our mission took precedence over any imaginable consideration.”

  “So I suppose you’ll be leading the raid—” the woman began, sulky now, almost petulant.

  “Neg,” Malthus said again. “Young Aleksandr shall carry out the raid upon Porrima. With his entire Zeta Galaxy.”

  She snapped upright in her chair, risking a brief embarrassing flight of her own, staring at him in open disbelief. “But I thought—”

  “Yes, but perhaps no more clearly than your sibkin but a moment ago,” Malthus said. “Your Gyrs are battle tested. Their skills and fervor are second only to my own Turkina Keshik—and perhaps the rest of the Turkina Galaxy—in all of Clan space. Which of course means all of human space. What need have they, therefore, to learn what it is like to wet their claws in the blood of prey? They know.”

  “But—” She scowled and her small mouth grimaced in confusion. “Our warriors, yours and mine, it is they who most need the release only battle can give, quiaff?”

  “Aff,” said Malthus. “Yet they are Clan warriors, Jade Falcon warriors, and they know discipline and their duty. They must settle this time for vicarious battle. It must suffice them that the great desant in which they are privileged to take part is striking a blow against the foe. They will participate by remaining with the JumpShips at Porrima’s proximity point, and celebrating Turkina’s Beak’s success upon that Galaxy’s return. They also serve who only sit and wait; we shall remind them of that, you and I. And of their duty.”

  Malvina’s ice blue eyes were wide. “If you say so, Galaxy Commander,” she said softly.

  “I do. I know the sons and daughters of Turkina, what makes them go, and what makes them come. It is the great study of my life. Now go, the both of you. Aleksandr has plans to write. And it is not too early for you, Malvina Hazen, to begin preparing your Deltas for their role as enthusiastic spectators—no matter in how little esteem they hold the Zetas now.”

  Both the young ristars, the unique sibkin set, were subdued. Malthus considered that in itself a minor triumph. Malvina slipped almost furtively from Malthus’ stateroom. Aleks hung back, seeming abashed.

  “Well?” Malthus demanded with one eyebrow arched—an expression which had cost him hours of practice before a mirror, in his youth, and repaid his investment many times over in the years intervening—looking up from several moments’ apparent study of the display screen inset at an angle in his desktop. “Have you further business with me, Galaxy Commander?”

  “I claim my right to surkai,” the taller, younger man said. “I would undergo the Trial of Forgiveness.”

  “Fast for twenty-four hours.”

  Aleks drew his head up and blinked his eyes once in surprise. The “right” of surkai was the penalty a Clan warrior paid for pressing an issue and losing. The price exacted for having opposed one’s will to that of the Clan could be highly arduous or even literally agonizing punishment. No Clan was inclined to give out second-place prizes in any endeavor.

  The penalty Malthus had named was almost insulting.

  “But, Galaxy Commander—”

  Malthus looked sternly at him. “Grow up, Aleksandr,” he said. “We are embarked upon a mission to rekindle the holy flame of the Crusade, without interference from the cowardly Wolves who have diluted and denatured the blood of Kerensky. And without having to share the glory with any other Clan. Do you not feel that is more important than your ego, or if you would call it that, your honor? I cannot afford to have you wasting time and energy being tortured.

  “Now go, and plan, and think only of ultimate victory!”

  6

  Allison City

  Porrima

  Lyran Commonwealth

  3 April 3134

  The first that residents of Allison City knew of the drastic change in their lives was when two Points of aerospace fighters from Trinary Echo of the Third Falcon Velites streaked over their city at hypersonic speed, shattering t
he glass from most every window. While the citizens were still dusting broken glass fragments off themselves the four fighters came back, much slower this time, to destroy an entire company of VTOLs parked in a yard by the wall on the west side of town.

  Three new stars appeared high in the overcast sky, grew quickly to novas, then to suns, and finally crosses of blue drive fire. Two came down east of the city, on the mud flats of the Equanica River. The third descended directly into the huge spaceport outside the high city walls, blasting with its formidable armament anything that moved or looked remotely threatening, including a hapless electronic mule dragging a series of baggage carts to a DropShip out of The Republic of the Sphere, and the control tower itself, which exploded into fragments from the single kiss of a PPC.

  Three Demon wheeled medium tanks of the Lyran Commonwealth Armed Forces, stationed at the spaceport more as a convenient place to park them than for any military considerations, bravely ventured forth with all weapons blazing. One flashed into incandescence under the attack of a Jagatai aerospace fighter, which had stooped like a falcon from the swarm of five fighters orbiting the descending DropShip. The underwing-mounted extended-range particle guns attacking the thin upper armor probably made the arrival of a volley of twenty long-range missiles overkill.

  The DropShip itself, Red Dragon, met the other two tanks with a glittering ruby volley of pulse laser fire. The large and medium weapons’ beams, precise and relentless as the needles of an industrial sewing machine, sieved both Demons in a matter of seconds. One managed to rake two glowing slashes across the rounded underhull of the descending craft with its turret-mounted lasers, achieving little more than to scour away the char of rapid descent through atmosphere, leaving two shiny streaks of hull metal virtually undamaged. The other tank did not accomplish that much, but staggered, sagged on pierced and melting tires and severed suspensions. Its turret rose into the air on a geyser of hellish red fire, slipped to the side, and fell with a ringing clang on the pavement.