Natural Selection

by Michael A. Stackpole

  "I doubt it. The Jade Falcons took half my hand at Wotan." Assuming her equipment was Clan standard, Nelson knew that it would take a series of solid hits to breach her armor. And that would only be possible at pointblank range. "My son, Jon Geist, died on Teniente, in service with the Revenants."

  "The Revenants." A harsh burst of brittle laughter echoed through the speakers built into Nelson's neuro-helmet. "The Revenants seriously shamed the Nova Cats when they liberated Hohiro Kurita. Your son died in a glorious battle."

  At that moment Nelson saw the rangefinder at the top of his display telling him he was in close enough. Here goes. "Yes, it was. Almost as glorious as your defeat at Tukayyid."

  Nelson started his BattleMaster off on a tangent, then twisted the upper body so that the weapons continued to track the Red Corsair's 'Mech. He hit the thumb button on his joystick, launching an SRM flight at her BattleMaster. The missiles shot out from the left side of his 'Mech's chest, spiraling down at the Red Corsair's 'Mech. Fireballs blossomed all over her machine, shredding armor across the chest and arms, then hitting the left leg.

  A wave of heat washed up over Nelson as his medium pulse lasers next drilled energy darts into the red 'Mech. One beam sliced huge chunks of armor from the BattleMaster's left leg, enlarging the hole made by the missile hits. Melting armor oozed from a hole in the 'Mech's chest, and more ran from the gashes made by hits to either arm.

  Glancing at his secondary monitor, Nelson saw that he'd failed to pierce the BattleMaster's thick hide. His heat registers had spiked up into the yellow range, but his 'Mech's heat sinks had just as quickly brought it back under control. He headed straight at her, swiveling his weapons around even as she also brought her weapons to bear against his machine.

  Twin PPC beams leaped from the pistol-like weapons on each of the red BattleMaster's arms. One missed, but the other wreaked havoc. Crackling static into his earphones, the artificial lightning peeled armor off the left side of his 'Mech's chest. With his auxiliary monitor reporting a 55 percent reduction in protection on that side, Nelson instinctively knew that her one shot had hurt his 'Mech more than all his assaults combined had hurt hers.

  It was then he noticed the squat muzzle of a weapon just about where the BattleMaster's navel would have been if it had one. The muzzle let loose with a blast of green energy darts that stitched their way up the left leg of his 'Mech. The large pulse laser left the armor with steaming pits in it, but the armor held and prevented more serious damage to the 'Mech's internal workings.

  As the left leg wobbled, Nelson had to fight both the pull of gravity and the 'Mech's shifting weight to keep the machine upright. Favoring the damaged leg slightly, he pivoted to the right and triggered his weapons. Six more SRMs shot out, but only four hit the target. Armor crumbled on the other 'Mech's left arm, left chest, and right leg, but still showed no breach.

  Those four lasers plus the missile damage further burned away the armor protecting the bandit 'Mech. Two sets of ruby needles slashed armor from the chest while the other two sliced half-melted shards of armor from the BattleMaster's legs. Heat pulsed into his cockpit and the hot air dried his throat. Sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging them, but his gaze never left the image on the projection before him.

  "Not bad, Kommandant, but I tire of this game." The Red Corsair's PPCs swung out of line with his 'Mech, but the weapons built into the shoulders and torso all oriented on him like sharks scenting blood. As the Corsair triggered every one of her lasers, Nelson knew in an instant that these bandits were very, very unusual. Her BattleMaster was configured with nothing but energy weapons, which made it ideal for long campaigns where resupply could be a problem.

  The pulse laser in her 'Mech's torso boiled more armor off the left torso of Nelson's, which still boasted a thin layer of armor there, but now had a huge hole in the mid-chest. With her next shot one PPC withered the armor on his machine's left arm, while the other plowed a furrow through his right-leg armor.

  Again Nelson struggled to keep his 'Mech standing, but it was no use. As the BattleMaster began to fall, the most he could manage was to twist it around so that it would land on its back. He winced as his helmeted head smashed into the back of his command couch, the hot sting of sparks shooting across his bare legs.

  Lying there he looked up and saw clear air above his cockpit canopy. With a sudden jolt the truth about these bandits hit him like some kind of divine insight. The next instant came the urgent necessity to escape so he could warn his superiors. They've got to know! "Eject, now!" he commanded the computer.

  Nothing happened.

  With a glance, Nelson saw that his auxiliary monitor had gone dead. "Have to do it manually." This ejection seat will get me clear and then I can get a message out through ComStar.

  With his left hand he reached over to flip the small lid over the manual ejection control. It popped up, but before he could hit the red button, it snapped shut again. He did it again, but once more gravity made the casing close. If my hand were only quicker.

  Suddenly the sunlight from outside his cockpit died. When he looked up he saw one of the bandit's PPCs eclipsing the sun.

  "Your fight is done," she said. "Surrender. You can no longer hurt me."

  Nelson worked the lid up with his left middle finger and slid his index finger in over the red button. "I could eject. The chair would destroy your PPC."

  The Red Corsair's voice filled the speakers in his helmet. She sounded surprised. "That you could. Surrender or die—your way or mine."

  Nelson looked at the button and back up at the muzzle that would kill him. Is this how futilely Jon died? He swallowed hard and remembered his grandsons playing in the yard. Was Dorete right?

  "Your decision, Kommandant?" Nelson's half-hand slid back into his lap. "I surrender."

  The Red Corsair's voice turned cold. "You disappoint me. A real warrior would have chosen death."

  "Part of me has." His left hand tore ineffectively against the buckle of the straps holding him into the command couch. "Perhaps someday my body will catch up with it."

  BOOK I

  The Best of Times

  1

  Arc-Royal

  Federated Commonwealth

  12 April 3055

  Prince Victor Ian Steiner-Davion turned toward the elevator in the waiting area as its door opened. Tugging down at the hem of his dress jacket, he smiled and nodded at the two security men flanking the elevator. Those two remained motionless, yet Victor knew from long years of experience that their eyes were alert behind the mirrored glasses and that their guns were near at hand.

  The Prince's smile broadened as a tall, robust warrior in the red and black dress uniform of the Kell Hounds stepped from the lift. The warrior's long hair brushed the shoulders of his jacket, but it had changed over the years from black to almost white, matching the equally snowy field of his beard. The crow's-feet around the man's dark eyes deepened as his face creased with a warm smile.

  "I'd not expected to find you up so early, Highness," said Morgan Kell, cocking his head toward the windows giving a view of the the dark spaceport. "Having the DropShip arrive this early in the morning was meant to keep the idle curious away."

  Victor's laugh was good-humored. "I am hardly the idle curious, Morgan." Knowing that the leader of the Kell Hounds was well-aware of his secret reason for being on Arc-Royal, Victor played along with the banter, assuming it was for the benefit of the elevator's other passenger. "I suppose I still haven't adjusted to Arc-Royal's time. And then after we got the news of the bandit strike at Pasig, I was up all night studying the preliminary reports."

  "I heard about that—not good." Morgan turned back and looped his left arm around the shoulders of the young man who had trailed him out of the elevator. Tall and gangly, the youth had the black hair of a Kell, but his eyes were an unusual blue-green. He was still blinking away sleep.

  "Highness, this is my grandson, Mark Allard. Perhaps you remember seeing him when we came to greet you
on your arrival."

  The Prince of the Federated Commonwealth extended his hand to the young man. "Victor Davion."

  Mark smiled as he looked down at Victor and shook his hand. "I am honored to meet you, Highness."

  "Just call me Victor, cousin." Victor frowned slightly as he glanced at Morgan. "I have tried, repeatedly, to get your grandfather to do that, but he insists on formality. I could order him, I suppose, but everyone knows that the Kell Hounds can't follow orders."

  Morgan laughed, but Mark's eyes became distant for a second. "Like Phelan." The words, heavy with contempt, hung in the air like a foul vapor.

  Morgan's eyes narrowed slightly. "I thought it would be good for Mark to see his uncle again in a less formal situation than what all the receptions are likely to be later this week."

  The younger man tried to shrug off his grandfather's arm. "Why you want to save that traitor embarrassment, I don't know." Mark looked over to Victor. "You must be suspicious of him, too. You have all your bodyguards here."

  Victor hesitated a moment before replying. "Actually, these men go everywhere that I do. Were I really worried, I'd have asked Kommandant Cox to come along. And, yes, I am here in my official capacity as Prince of the Federated Commonwealth to welcome a Khan of the Wolf Clan. I am also here as myself to welcome my cousin."

  Mark's hands balled into fists as the frustration all but shimmered off him. "How can you two be so blind? Phelan got himself expelled from the Nagelring, then went over to the Clans. He's a hero, to them, a hero to the same people who have tried to destroy the Inner Sphere. The Wolf Clan, the one he helped, has been the most successful in attacking us, and they rewarded him by making him a Khan. He shouldn't be welcomed, he should be shot on sight."

  Victor folded his arms across his chest. "I think you have that a bit wrong, Mark. Phelan was expelled from the Nagelring, but it wasn't exactly what you're suggesting. Phelan saw a job that had to be done, and he did it. The Honor Board, as I understand it, believed he had violated the honor code. I was at the New Avalon Military Academy that year, so I only know what I read in the files, but Phelan's action saved lives."

  Even as he spoke, Victor shifted uneasily. He didn't like having to defend Phelan because, despite being cousins, they had never been close. Victor had tried to get to know him while at the Nagelring, but Phelan had rejected the overtures. Actually, I thought he was a big waste at the Nagelring, and it didn't surprise me in the least when he got bounced. I was relieved when he was gone.

  Mark clasped his hands behind his back. "Forgive me, Prince Victor, but I remember about Phelan. He was my idol. I was hurt when he left the Nagelring, but happy at his return to the Kell Hounds. When he was reported killed in what turned out to be the first engagement with the Clans, I was crushed. I took heart, though, because I believed, like so many others, that he had died a hero. Then it turned out he'd become a full-fledged member of the Wolf Clan, had rejected the Kell name, and even become one of their leaders."

  Victor shook his head as he noticed several of his bodyguards nodding ever so slightly. "There is no faulting your logic, Mark, but I wonder if you have all the facts."

  "Such as?"

  Victor smiled at the younger man's fiery enthusiasm. "Well, for one, ComStar has just released the casualty figures for the worlds the Clans have captured. Of all the Clans, the Wolves have been the easiest on the indig population of the worlds they've taken. And they say Phelan captured the planet Gunzburg without a shot being fired."

  Mark nodded curtly. "Sure, he wanted to save his troops from being killed."

  "More important, Mark, Phelan saved countless lives among a people who had treated him monstrously while the Kell Hounds were trapped on Gunzburg. He could have insisted that the planet be razed. And I'm sure more than one person in the Inner Sphere would have been happy to see Tor Miraborg get his arrogant head handed to him when the Wolf Clan hit Gunzburg."

  "You can put me at the top of that list," Morgan said softly, and Victor felt for the dilemma his uncle was in. The Kell Hound commander obviously loved his son, and respected what he had done on Gunzburg and elsewhere, yet Phelan's membership in the Clans had just as obviously compromised that love and respect. I would not like to find myself in Morgan's position, ever. It must be devastating having to choose between family and nation.

  Mark frowned as both Victor and Morgan nibbled away at the corners of his argument. "But Phelan is one of their leaders, a so-called Khan. So is Natasha Kerensky, that other traitor."

  Victor shook his head. "No. Natasha was always of the Clans. In spirit that may also have been true of Phelan. You've managed to build him up into a monster, though I admit you're not the only one who thinks that way. Many people believe that what Phelan has done is a crime, an act of treason. But for all we know, Phelan's rise to power among the Clans may only reinforce the fact that the Kell Hounds beat the Clans on Luthien and on Teniente. So did my Revenants. The Clans may produce great warriors, but that doesn't mean they produce the greatest warriors."

  Morgan gently squeezed the back of his grandson's neck. "I have been among the Clans, Mark. I've met with Phelan and ilKhan Ulric. Give your uncle a chance."

  Outside the waiting area a silvery shimmer lit the sky like a magnesium flare, lighting up the ferrocrete landing area like white moonlight over a placid lake. Little dust clouds billowed up and away from the center of the DropShip as it slowly descended. The ship's ion jets continued to put out millions of pounds of thrust and Victor felt the heat radiating through the windows.

  The spherical K-l Class DropShuttle hovered over the ground as its landing gear descended and locked into place barely seconds before touching down. Victor grudgingly admired the pilot, knowing how much daring and skill it took to pull off such a maneuver. Every Clanner I've ever seen displays phenomenal skills. How we managed to even slow them down astounds me.

  When the ship finally landed, the docking gantry was rolled into place. Victor saw the huge docking arm move out to cover the door of the craft, then felt the vibration as the arm set itself firmly against the DropShip. From within the docking corridor one of his bodyguards opened the doorway into the reception lounge, then headed down toward the Clan ship.

  Victor frowned to discover that his palms were sweating. He wiped his hands surreptitiously against the sides of his navy blue trousers, then pulled at the gray-trimmed cuffs of his jacket. For half a second he wished for a mirror, then snarled at himself for that momentary spark of vanity.

  With the frown still on his face, he caught sight of his cousin, the man once known as Phelan Kell, who was now a Khan of the Wolf Clan.

  Almost instantly it hit Victor that he'd always resented Phelan for his height, then dismissed the thought as unworthy. Always tall, Phelan seemed also to have bulked out in his time with the Clans. The gray leather uniform hugged his thickly muscled body, and he wore his black hair long, like his father. He did not sport a beard, however, nor did his green eyes glitter with the devilish light Victor remembered. Now they seemed to burn with a deeper fire.

  Phelan took everyone in with a glance, then saluted his father.

  "Thank you for your invitation to visit, Colonel."

  "Thank you for accepting, Khan." Morgan returned the salute, and then opened his arms to embrace his son. Victor found Morgan's acceptance of his son exactly what—if he'd thought about it—he would have expected from the Khan.

  After returning his father's embrace, Phelan turned to Victor. "I thank you for permitting this visit, Prince Davion."

  Victor nodded, his wariness returning at the cold formality with which Phelan addressed him. "We are happy to honor Colonel Kell's wishes. The Federated Commonwealth owes him much. Despite recent raids originating in Jade Falcon territory, I could not refuse his request to see you."

  "One should not be surprised that bandits come from the Jade Falcon area, quiaff?" Phelan hesitated as if wanting to add something. Victor nodded, knowing they would have a chance to discuss the
raids later. A smile tugged at the corners of Phelan's mouth as he extended a hand toward Mark. "You have grown quite a bit, Mark. It is good to see you."

  Mark made no attempt to take Phelan's hand. "You look well, Uncle, " he said, managing to infuse the word with so much contempt that it sounded like a curse. Victor looked to Phelan for a reaction, but the Khan had not even flinched.

  Phelan slowly withdrew his hand, then gestured to the people in the corridor just beyond the room. "Colonel, Highness, nephew, please allow me to present those who accompanied me here."

  Phelan took the hand of a tall, slender woman with very short white hair, and brought her forward. She wore gray leathers similar to Khan Phelan's, which made her not at all hard to look at. Her blue eyes might have struck Victor as cold, but the way she looked at Phelan dispelled that impression. She looks at him the way I imagine Omi looking at me. Victor also found something disturbingly familiar about her, but he could not place it.

  "This is Star Captain Ranna. She is of the Kerensky bloodline. She is, in fact, Natasha Kerensky's granddaughter. "

  Morgan Kell took her hand and kissed it. "It is good to see you again, Ranna."

  "And you, Colonel Kell."

  Victor nodded a salute to her and she returned it, along with a smile. Mark held himself ramrod-straight and tried to ignore her.

  Following her came two others, also wearing Clan leathers. One, apparently a woman, filled the doorway. Victor immediately assumed that the giant woman was an Elemental. Flinging her long braid of red hair back over one shoulder, she studied Victor's bodyguards for a moment. Apparently confident that she had nothing to fear from them, she entered the room.

  The man coming up behind her might have been her opposite. Thick blond hair capped a head two sizes too big for his small, slender body. Victor was short, but this man actually stood a couple of centimeters less, which made him tiny by any standard. His physical size and his large green eyes also made him ideal for an aerospace pilot. The grin on his face suggested he was the commander who had so skillfully brought the DropShip in.