Bred for war

by Michael A. Stackpole

  "As you have a duty to me because you are a Wolf, so I, a Wolf, have a duty to the Clan. If I am wrong, if I am destroyed in this Trial of Refusal, I still wish my Clan to be dominant. Even if the Jade Falcons repudiate the truce, I expect the Wolves to be the ones to take Terra. I may no longer be the Clans' leader, but I will not have my Clan surrender its leadership."

  Vlad felt his chest swell pridefully, but he did not let himself become carried away with fantasies of his own rise. Such imaginings could only be predicated on the deaths of the two Wolf Khans and, hate them though he might, he did not think the Jade Falcons were sufficiently talented to kill either one.

  "I tell you this, Ulric: if you fall on Butler, we will win here and go on to win on Wotan."

  Ulric smiled again, but Vlad knew it was not in appreciation for his comment, but based on something else. As always Ulric had held something back and, as always, Vlad had blundered into it unknowing. "Such action will not be necessary, Vlad."

  "I do not understand." Adding to Vlad's confusion were the three tones sounding throughout the JumpShip. The signal to jump, but we're already at Butler.

  Ulric nodded. "I know. I must apologize to you—as I wish now I had apologized to Phelan. You have worked as hard planning our assault on Butler as he worked on my defense before the Grand Council. I am sorry I wasted your time."

  "Wasted my time?"

  The anger rising in Vlad blossomed as bright as a fusion reaction when the ship jumped. It felt as if his flesh had been flayed from him in one piece that kept stretching and stretching to contain the energy of the fury burning inside him. Just as he reached the point where he must surely burst, the Dire Wolf emerged back into normal space, thirty light years away from Butler.

  Vlad's flesh snapped back onto his body, then the ship jumped again. In contrast to what he had felt a second before, his flesh became tight on him, like a water-soaked sheet wrapped snugly around him. Pain spread out from the scar on his face and raked lightning talons over his body while his flesh shrank another size and another. It restricted his breathing and his lungs began to burn for want of oxygen. He tried to arch his back, to force his air into his lungs, but all he succeeded in doing was unbalancing himself.

  In the eternity that jumping made out of one second, Vlad started to fall.

  He hit the ground soon after the Dire Wolf returned to Euclidean reality. The truth behind Ulric's remark slammed into his brain and left his head spinning. "We came in slowly not to give me time to do my calculations, but to hot-load the Kearny-Fuchida jump coils. Expecting us to fight at Butler, the Falcons would only have defenses on worlds one jump away, not two."

  "Yes, I expect the Falcons are as surprised as you are." Ulric stood above him and offered him his hand. "Come on, Vlad. Time to get to our 'Mechs. We'll be fighting in six hours."

  "Where are we?"

  Ulric smiled. "You have to ask? You did the assessments.

  Attacking Wotan with two Clusters would have been suicidal. But with what we have now, and with those troops of Natasha's that survived Twycross, we have a chance of destroying the Falcons right here, in their own nest." He pulled Vlad to his feet. "Welcome to Wotan—the world that will decide our fate. Yours and mine, Vlad, and the fate of every other man and woman of our Clan."

  42

  There are two gates of Sleep, one of which is held made of horn and by it real ghosts have easy egress; the other shining fashioned of gleaming white ivory, but deceptive are the visions the Underworld sends that way to the light.

  —Virgil, Aeneid

  Avalon City, New Avalon

  Cruris March, Federated Commonwealth

  10 December 3057

  The urgent shouting awakened Francesca Jenkins, but in the misty dimness she could not see who spoke. She felt cold lying on the floor, and she slowly realized that the chill fog drifting over her would not hide her nakedness from the shouting people. This strange place where she found herself seemed to be illuminated only from below and had neither walls nor ceiling that she could see.

  More shouts drew her attention to the floor. Its cool, slick surface leeched warmth from where her body pressed against it. She thought it was glass, but she could not be sure. With the mist and the cold and her nudity and the shouts, everything was confused, unlike anything she'd known before. Something was wrong and she began to feel fear.

  Looking down through the floor, Francesca saw what she eventually, tentatively, concluded was an operating theater. Blue-frocked doctors and nurses labored feverishly over a body on a stainless steel table. "She's arresting. Get me epinephrine, stat! Ready the defibrillator."

  "Pressure's dropping."

  "Bag her. Get the cardiac pump going, now!"

  Someone moved as another person approached the victim's head and she saw herself lying there on the table. As the medtech pressed the oxygen mask to her face, Francesca felt the ghost of pressure over her own mouth and nose. She looked down again and stared, concentrating, and suddenly realized the person they were working on was her.

  She gathered her legs beneath herself and knelt there, supported on hands and knees as she watched the physicians working on her. I'm here watching, but I'm also down there. How can it be?

  Ahead and above a strong light flashed out to spotlight her. Francesca recoiled, then a silhouette appeared, limned by the strong light. "Don't be afraid, Francie. You cannot be hurt anymore."

  "Mother?" Something insider her said it was impossible for her mother to be speaking to her, but the voice and shape were right. But my mother is dead. Then the light and the mist and the looking down at her own body all crashed in on her like a resonance striking deep within her brain. "I'm dead, too."

  Her mother nodded slowly and regretfully, the way she always had when Francesca had done something wrong. "It could be your time, yes."

  "Mother?"

  "Francie."

  Gooseflesh puckered her skin. "Is this heaven?"

  "You are on the road. You will get there eventually." In the light from the floor Francesca saw her mother smile distantly. "We will be reunited, and I cannot wait for that day."

  "Can't I be with you now?"

  "I wish that you could, Francie, but you must first atone for your sins."

  "Sins? What sins? I have only done what you would have wanted, Mother. I saved Joshua Marik." She touched the twisted flesh over her hip and beneath her breastbone. "I almost died."

  She glanced down and saw the doctors working on her again. "I did die."

  "Your sins are not entirely your fault, Francie. You were deceived."

  Francesca's head came up. "No, I fooled them. The Davions never suspected that I was a Jirik. Your parents told me everything, Mother, everything you would have if you had lived."

  Cold dread coiled in her stomach as her mother shook her head. "Dear, dear Francie, I left Castor with your father because I loved him, but also because there was nothing left for me in the Free Worlds League. My grandfather Jink was killed during the Civil War, before I was born, because SAFE thought he was a collaborator with Anton Marik. And then SAFE got my parents when Castor was taken over by the Federated Commonwealth. The only reason they didn't kill me too was because I was out with your father that night."

  "But they said ..."

  "Hush, child. They said what you wanted to hear. Why do you think I changed my name to Jenkins and not Jirik after I divorced your father?"

  "To keep yourself safe from the Davions."

  "No, Francie, no. I did it so you would grow up as someone from the Federated Commonwealth. I did not want to tie you to my past. We made a good life here. This is your home, but you betrayed its people. Because of that, until you atone, we cannot be together."

  Emotions and thoughts and the buzzing-thump from repeated attempts at defibrillation below all raced around in Francesca's mind. She wanted to be with her mother again, but the pain in her mother's words tore at her. From that internal pain came a fury first against the people who had pret
ended to be her grandparents, but then became a conflagration to immolate anyone even vaguely anti-Davion.

  "How can I atone, Mother?"

  The woman in the mists smiled at her. "Use what you were taught and will yet learn. They fashioned you into a weapon—now you must be able to cut the hands that shaped you. Those you thought were your enemies will help you salvage your honor. Your mother's heart will leap with joy."

  The mists thickened and the light behind her mother began to wane. "Be strong, Francie. Those who would destroy your benefactors must be made to pay."

  Francesca tried to stand and reach out toward her mother's dimming shape, but the mists swirled and so did her equilibrium. She sagged forward and caught herself on her hands. Then her elbows buckled and she fell to the floor. Looking down she saw a doctor approach the body again with the electrode paddles.

  "Clear."

  She heard the sound and felt a tingle run over her body. I will return to life, and I will atone.

  "I have a pulse, Doctor."

  Francesca Jenkins smiled and let darkness enfold her.

  * * *

  Galen looked at Curaitis and the small man beyond him. "Congratulations, Dr. Simons. I think you did it."

  Simons shrugged and adjusted his glasses. "Thank you, Secretary Cranston. It was just a variation on the technique the Assassins used to guarantee the loyalty of their members. They would use drugs to render them unconscious and transport them to a splendid palace. The subjects were told they were in Heaven and their every desire was attended to for three days. Then they were drugged and returned to the real world. Their 'mystical' experience fortified their belief in the dogma.

  "With Francesca I was able to accomplish the same thing using standard icons from our cultural inventory. Combined with better psychoactive drugs and the wonderful video display from below, the evidence we provided her and the conclusions we drew for her were undeniable and inescapable."

  Curaitis nodded toward the room. "The operating room sequence came from the holovid miniseries about Jenkins."

  "I thought I'd seen it before," Galen said. "The actress playing her mother, that was Gina Winters, wasn't it? She played Francesca's mother in the series about her life, as I recall. How did we get her?"

  Curaitis smiled, the first time Galen remembered ever seeing that expression on his face. "Ms. Winters wanted a chance to appear on the Prince's arm at some cultural event. She believes the exposure will help her career."

  "And you agreed to let her get that close to the Prince?"

  "The Prince was willing to indulge her."

  Galen narrowed his eyes. "But isn't there a very good chance she'll tell people about this?"

  Curaitis' grin broadened. "We had an auditor in the Department of Revenue Services point out to her that the money she spent on icefire and other illegal synthetic pharmaceuticals could not be deducted as medical expenses. The bad publicity would kill her career."

  Galen nodded and looked down through the viewing port above the soundstage that they created for their show. Francesca lay on the glass floor sleeping, looking small and innocent as a child.

  "Sleep well, Francesca," he murmured. "Once you wake, you may never know such peace again."

  43

  History will absolve me.

  —Fidel Castro

  Final Drop Approach, Drop Ship Lobo Negro

  Wotan, Jade Falcon Occupation Zone

  10 December 3057

  A warning klaxon brought Vlad's head up. Through the viewscreen of his Timber Wolf, he saw the lights go from white to red, plunging the 'Mech bay into a night as dark as the space through which the ship traveled. Papers and others debris swirled through the DropShip's hold as the crew blew the hatches and the atmospheric pressure equalized.

  He glanced at his secondary monitor, then keyed his radio. "Star Colonel, drop bay doors are open at a kilometer. Anticipate touchdown in two minutes."

  He heard Ulric's voice through the speakers in his helmet. "On schedule, good. Did you get that message sent?"

  "Affirmative."

  "And you did not listen to it?"

  "No, Star Colonel." Vlad had been tempted to review the message Ulric had asked him to send out through ComStar, but he knew he would have lost a point in their little game if he had. I did see that it had been recorded on thirteen September, before your trial. Why you sent it now, I do not know. Nor do I want to.

  "Good. You will form your Star up on me. The others have been given their orders, but we have a special task."

  "Sir?"

  "We will be hunting Khan Chistu. He is there, on Wotan. We will find him and kill him."

  Vlad frowned. "He challenged you?"

  "I was surprised as well." Ulric's voice carried with it a resignation toward the Jade Falcon Khan's foolishness. "The Falcons' inflexibility is what will destroy them."

  "It would seem this is truth," Vlad said. "One other thing, Star Colonel."

  "Yes?"

  "You recall I did not like the choice you gave me concerning my duties if you die and I survive here on Wotan?"

  "I do."

  "I believe I have found a third choice that I like much better."

  A wary note entered Ulric's voice. "And that is?"

  "If the truce is repudiated by the new ilKhan, the survivors and I will race forward and take Terra before they have a chance to take it themselves."

  The silence before Ulric's reply surprised Vlad. "I had hoped, Vladimir of the Wards, that the alternative would not occur to you. I think it will be best for all if you die here with me today."

  The landing horns blared before Vlad could answer Ulric. His 'Mech swayed as the DropShip touched down less than gently and smoke from underbrush burned by the landing jets swirled into the 'Mech bay. A green light flared to life on his command console, so he paced his Timber Wolf forward, following in the wake of a Black Hawk. Though the confines of the 'Mech bay did not allow for speed, the 'Mechs quickly cleared the bay and stepped into the darkness of the Wotan night.

  All around him the night was alive with activity. Drop-Ships sprouted on the rolling hills at the southern edge of Borealtown like metal mushrooms. They disgorged their cargo, then lifted off again on great silvery jets, withdrawing to rendezvous points where they would pick up survivors and evacuate the planet if things went badly.

  Aerospace fighters shot through the black sky, heading north toward Borealtown. Ruby darts shot up from various points within the city, lasers seeking to knock down the Clan Wolf fighters. In return the Wolf pilots launched their own multiple missile flights. Explosions lit the night, and the darkened city began to glow with fires and the light of secondary explosions.

  Vlad had helped make the assessments for the whole campaign. He knew that four Jade Falcon line units awaited the Wolves there in Borealtown. But even the addition of the troops remaining from Twycross was not enough to replace the losses Ulric's forces had taken on the long road to Wotan. Assaulting a fortified position with less than overwhelming numbers of troops was suicidal, yet Vlad had the feeling that such ironclad rules of warfare did not apply here, on this night.

  With his Star deployed around Ulric in a ring, Vlad led the advance toward the town, his heart filled with confidence. He did not know if he would live or die on this world, but he felt no fear. Was this how it was for Natasha when she chose to stay behind on Twycross? For the first time since Vlad had learned of her death, he understood why she had done what she had done.

  Vlad knew he was not immortal, but he felt part of something that would become immortal. The outcome of the fighting here on Wotan would mold the fate of the Clans for the next ten years, and perhaps would help shape what would come for the next twenty or two hundred or two thousand. What Aleksandr Kerensky had begun three centuries ago would be somehow finished here, in Borealtown, in a battle that would never be forgotten.

  His skin prickled with a kind of animal prescience, a hyperawareness that had him bringing his Timber Wolf's arms u
p the instant he sighted an odd shape in the shadow of a corrugated tin building. Even before his computer had found a match for the silhouette, Vlad was dropping the gold targeting crosshairs on it and tightening his index finger against the trigger on the left joystick.

  One of the three pulse lasers in his 'Mech's left chest stitched a line of glowing holes across the shoulder of the half-hidden Ryoken. The Falcon pilot pulled his 'Mech back behind the warehouse. Without remorse or thought, Vlad nudged the crosshairs over, entering them on the warehouse's facade, and hit both thumb buttons. A blazing wave of heat rushed into the cockpit as the Timber Wolfs twin particle projection cannons released their hellish azure beams.

  The tin sheets sheathing the building had roughly half the thickness of a ferro-fibrous armor plate, but only a thousandth of its energy-dissipating ability. The two artificial lightning bolts cored through the building, igniting the boxes stored within, and stabbed deep into the Ryoken's torso. Its left arms dangling from the ruins of the torso, the 'Mech reeled back from the burning warehouse, then staggered and crashed to the ground.

  Any other time, Vlad would have poured more fire into the damaged 'Mech, which was still capable of rising to continue the fight. In other battles he would have claimed the right to kill the Ryoken, adding its death to the long list of foes he had defeated. It would have become part of his legend, but personal concerns now seemed insignificant.

  He pressed on. Glancing briefly at the map of the city Ulric had downloaded into his computer, he saw it marked with the place where Chistu was supposed to be waiting for Ulric. Vlad believed they would find the Jade Falcon Khan there, but he knew intuitively that danger lurked all along the way. This concerned him, because he had no intention of leading Ulric into an ambush.

  For a moment it struck him as absurd that he, a Crusader, would be the one to bring a Warden to a place where he could kill a Crusader Khan. With that thought Vlad realized how certain he was that Ulric would destroy Chistu, yet the thought caused him no alarm. He had moved into something beyond a Warden/Crusader fight. This was Wolf against Falcon and—just as Ulric had predicted—Vlad valued his identity as a Wolf more than his affinity with the Crusaders.