Warrior: En Garde (The Warrior Trilogy, Book One): BattleTech Legends, #57

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Patrick smiled warmly and sipped his whiskey. “I’ve heard good things about your brother Justin. Always hoped he’d want to join the Hounds one day.”

  Dan nodded. “Me, too. I can remember when he announced his intention to enroll in Sakhara Military Academy. He told my father he wanted to be away from New Avalon to keep from taking advantage of the Allard name, and my father took that rather well. Justin told me he wanted to become a MechWarrior because, in a BattleMech, everyone becomes equal. From that moment, I decided to become a MechWarrior, too, because I wanted to be Justin’s equal.”

  Salome reached out and kneaded the muscles at the back of Dan’s neck with her strong, slender fingers. “I bet there’s another message rattling around in some ComStar center that would tell you that Justin is doing fine. The New Avalon Institute of Science has made so many breakthroughs lately. At least your brother’s getting the best possible care.”

  “Dan, are you certain you don’t want to head out? I’m not saying we can function without you, but the Cucamulus is yours if you want her.” Patrick pointed out the window at the Manannan MacLir. “I’ll have the Mac’s crew stand by, just in case.”

  Dan shook his head, drained his glass, and stood. “No, but thank you. Thank all you.” He smiled calmly. “I’m sure Justin will be fine. As the aerojocks like to say, ‘Any wreck you walk away from is a good one.’”

  Dan raised his head and smiled even more broadly. “I’ve got work to do here, and Justin would think poorly of me if I didn’t accomplish it. After all, someone’s got to figure out a way to get Master Sergeant Jones off Old Stormy when his time comes.”

  Patrick Kell smiled. “Understood, Captain. Just remember, the door’s always open.”

  Daniel Allard nodded, but Kell’s words barely registered with so many thoughts speeding through his own mind. I’ll find out who did this to you, Justin, and I swear, his blood will be on the hands of an Allard.

  Chapter 5

  SOLARIS VII

  RAHNESHIRE

  LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

  15 JANUARY 3027

  The black and blood-red groundcar sliced through the gray drizzle, cutting around piles of debris scattered over the ferrocrete street. As the car’s headlights burned away the dark shadows hiding alleys and doorways from view, pedestrians scrambled back out of the light. Recognizing the car, they knew, as certain as the clouds never left Solaris VII, that to ambush that vehicle was to die.

  The groundcar crossed the burned-out no man’s land between Cathay and Silesia—the Capellan and Lyran quarters, respectively, of Solaris City. The tongsmen of Cathay ignored the vehicle as it left their area of influence, but the “unofficial” wardens of Silesia snapped respectful salutes at the darkened windscreen as the car sped past on a whispering cushion of air. The vehicle turned left at the first unblocked street and finally stopped before the narrow doorway of a nondescript building.

  Air hissed as the gull-wing door on the driver’s side of the car swung upward. No interior light came on, for the driver refused to be silhouetted for a sniper’s convenience. Stepping quickly into the rain-slicked street, he snapped the door back down. With long-legged strides, the driver headed toward the smoked glass door.

  Once inside, the man swept off the slouch-brimmed black hat from his shaved head and handed it and his spattered rain cloak to the checkroom attendant. He quickly followed that with a ten C-bill tip, and smiled at her reaction.

  “Oh, thank you, Mr. Noton,” the girl gushed in astonishment. He could tell by the look in her eyes that she could hardly believe he’d given her a ComStar bill. Most of her tips had to be in House bills or, worse yet, Solaris scrip, the underground currency that paid for most of the illegal doings on this world.

  “It’s real, child.” His deep voice had an edge that did not quite match the warmth of his smile, but the girl never noticed. Noton turned from her, straightened his double-breasted blue satin shirt, and fastened the last two buttons at his left shoulder. Feeling how tightly his shirt stretched across his barrel chest, he knew that if he grew any stouter, he’d have to abandon the paramilitary dress all MechWarriors favored. Noton thought better of it then, and smiled. As long as I am a MechWarrior, I will continue to dress as one.

  Gray Noton straightened up to his full height and strode boldly down the dim hallway and up the half-flight of stairs against the left wall. A slender, nervous looking doorman glanced up as Noton filled the doorway, then smiled. “Welcome back to Thor’s Shieldhall, Mr. Noton. There is someone waiting for you up in Valhalla, but Mr. Shang hoped you would have a moment for him. He’s down here in Midgard, back watching the matches.”

  So he’s waiting for me, is he? That he knows I’ve returned is obvious, but did he know of my other meeting? And, if so, how? Noton smiled easily. “Thank you, Roger.” He deposited a twenty C-bill note on Roger’s desk. “Mr. Shang does not know that I am meeting someone else here?”

  Roger laid a long-fingered hand over the C-bill, which vanished as though absorbed straight into the man himself. “I certainly did not tell him, sir, but he is resourceful, as you well know.” Roger stopped for a moment and absently tapped nicotine-stained teeth with a finger while thinking. He narrowed his eyes. “Mr. Shang just came in and announced he’d be watching the fights in our holoroom. I offered him a private viewing room in Valhalla, but he declined.”

  Noton nodded slowly. “Very well, Roger. Thank you.” You must be more careful, Gray. If Shang can guess that you’d show up at Thor’s Shieldhall on your first night back on the Game World, you’ve become predictable…fatally predictable.

  Turning from the doorman, Noton took one step into the darkened room and studied the crowd. Garish phosphoron designs of diverse colors and intensities decorated the u-shaped bar. He watched intently, but recognized none of the faces revealed by dazzling but tantalizingly short bursts of light. Beyond the tables and off to the right were more brilliant lights rotating above the dance floor. The harsh white illumination they splashed over the bar resembled searchlights racing along prison walls. An occasional beam would fragment into rainbows as it lanced against some patron’s oversized gem, but mostly the lights served only to heighten the corpselike pallor of those destined to remain in Midgard.

  No one to fear in the land of the dead, but it’s the ones you don’t see that get you. Noton shook himself slightly. Ease off, Gray. You’ve not lost your edge. He eluded you, but you got him in due course.

  Gray blinked against a momentarily blinding spotlight, then looked around him. Thor’s Shieldhall—a place so chic and popular that it needed no exterior signs—divided its clientele into two distinct classes: the masses and the privileged. If anyone of the former had enough luck or initiative to find out where Thor’s was located, he was welcome to spend time and money in Midgard on overpriced drinks, loud music, and the garish ambiance. Ordinary customers actually paid for the chance to spot members of the privileged pass through Midgard on their way to Valhalla.

  Valhalla, Hall of Slain Warriors. Gray Noton suppressed a laugh, knowing he was probably one of the few who understood and appreciated the real meaning behind that name. Whether it was the masses longing for admittance or the MechWarriors and slumming nobles of the Successor States, most people thought of Valhalla as a haven, a heaven, for the human stars of Solaris. There, one could see and perhaps speak with legendary MechWarriors—the gladiators of the Game World—such as Snorri Sturluson, Inigo de Onez y Loyola, Antal Dorati, or even the current champion, Philip Capet.

  Visiting and resident nobles and their guests swelled Valhalla’s population and often outnumbered the MechWarriors. Many nobles owned a string of BattleMechs, and they selected MechWarriors the way their Terran ancestors might have selected jockeys to race thoroughbreds millennia ago. Those “stabled” ’Mechs dominated, perforce, the heavyweight leagues on Solaris, while owner-operators wallowed around in the lighter classes. If an independent dared challenge a noble’s ’Mech pilot, the independent became a
long-odds shot—not for winning, but for surviving.

  Noton cut through the crowd and headed deeper into Midgard, toward the open end of the bar. Ignoring invitations to join people he did not know or wanted to forget, he continued toward a far doorway leading into a wide and deep room.

  The backlight from the massive holographic display dominating the center of the bowl-shaped auditorium made it easy to find Tsen Shang. Descending the steps to the third terrace, Noton quickly passed one crowded booth after another, until he reached the one where the Capellan awaited him.

  “Greetings, Tsen,” Gray said, sliding onto the seat opposite. He knew better than to offer Shang his hand. Instead, he bowed his head, and the Capellan graciously returned the gesture.

  Shang signaled to catch the eye of a server. The gesture silhouetted his hand against the glowing blue hologram of a battling Valkyrie in the center of the room. Though Gray had studied Shang’s hands in meetings like this many times, he never overcame a feeling of slight disgust at the sight of them. The affectation seemed unnatural and gave Shang a delicate and foppish appearance. Gray knew, however, that anyone who accepted that impression could be in as much trouble as someone who believed a Valkyrie posed no threat to a Rifleman.

  Shang, in Capellan fashion, had grown out the fingernails on the last three fingers of each hand to a length of ten centimeters. Decorated with gem chips and goldleaf, the distinctive nails marked him as a Capellan of culture and wealth. This coincided with the image he cultivated on Solaris and, in addition to his ownership of two heavy ’Mechs, was enough to grant him entry to Valhalla whenever he visited the Shieldhall.

  Noton shuddered slightly because he knew Shang so well, perhaps better than did anyone else on Solaris. Tsen Shang answered to masters in the Maskirovka, the Capellan secret police. He ran a string of spies on Solaris and often worked with free agents, like Noton himself, to gather information for his superiors on Sian, the Capellan capital world. In keeping with Shang’s true identity, the nails were much more than a concession to fashion.

  The female server appeared and squatted to keep from blocking the two men’s view of the hologram battle. Despite the din raised by the room’s other spectators, Shang’s half-whisper was still commandingly clear. “Another plum wine for me, and a PPC for my companion.”

  Noton shook his head. “Beer. Timbiqui Dark, if you have it.”

  Shang smiled. “Timbiqui Dark, then.” He slid a small bowl toward the woman. Scraps of blue-green skin and fruit pits the size of navy beans rattled around in it. “And another bowl of kincha fruit, please.” Shang waited for her to scoop up the bowl and retreat before he spoke.

  “Welcome, Gray. Congratulations on your mission.”

  Noton frowned. “Congratulations? That mission blew up in our faces. Your superiors sent me out to bag a training cadre, but all I did was destroy a Valkyrie. That MechWarrior was good.” Too damned good.

  “Indeed.” Shang fell silent as the server returned with their drinks. She placed the bowl of fruit in the center, but Shang quickly slid it toward himself. He lifted a kincha, and with great skill born of much practice, sliced through its thick flesh with the carbon-fiber reinforced, razor-sharp nail of his little finger. “That Valkyrie’s pilot was none other than Major Justin Allard.”

  Noton smiled ruefully. “So that’s the Allard Capet speaks of so often. No wonder he fears him. Capet’s not bad, but Allard is better.”

  Shang peeled back the kincha flesh and carved off a sliver of the fruit’s sweet meat. “Was better. Though your attack did not kill him, it ended a brilliant career. According to our agents on Kittery, you blew off his left forearm. Allard’s still alive, but he’ll never lead troops again. After what he did on Spica, we praise his removal from Hanse Davion’s service.”

  Noton grimaced. Had I known that, I would have killed him. Never would I so maim another MechWarrior that he couldn’t fight again.

  He looked up and saw Shang lost in the pleasure of tasting the kincha. Ah, Shang, he thought, has the Maskirovka made you forget your days as a MechWarrior? You have become so careless, and your addiction to kincha marks you as one of the Liao’s Lost Legion. You disgraced yourselves when you lost Shuen Wan to Marik. Do you forget what it is to be a MechWarrior because you wish to forget losing the kincha’s homeworld, or is it that you believe MechWarriors are below your exalted height as a spymaster?

  Shang opened his eyes. “I have arranged for your payment, as usual.” He fished a silvery slip of paper from the pocket of his green silk jacket, and passed it across the table to Noton. Gray waited until Shang’s attention returned to the kincha before reaching out for the paper. In the dying hololight of the scarlet Wasp collapsing above him, he squinted and studied the ticket.

  “Steiner Stadium, fifth fight?” Noton frowned. “The bet is too small to make any money on Philip Capet.”

  Shang nodded and his dark eyes flashed. “It has been arranged.”

  Noton pulled back and slowly shook his head. “You’ve fixed a fight with Capet in it? Impossible. He won’t lose on command. We both know that—especially not against Capellans.”

  Blue light flashed from diamond chips as Shang waved away Noton’s concerns. “He’s in his Rifleman and he’ll be fighting the Teng brothers. They’ll both be in Vindicators. Your bet is that he’ll leave Fuh Teng alive.”

  Noton nodded. “Sze Teng will die?”

  Concentrating more on the kincha than his answer, Shang nodded diffidently. “He has lost his nerve. He disgraces ancestors who, two hundred years ago, made the Vindicator a ’Mech to be feared. He knows it is time to die.”

  I will never understand your Capellan ways, Gray thought. They are…unnatural. “But won’t that affect how he fights?”

  Shang flicked the kincha pit into the bowl. “He has been told that he will die in the rematch after he and his brother defeat Philip Capet.”

  Noton took a long drink of beer to forestall any comment. The brothers Teng were Maskirovka, too. They would follow Shang into Solaris’s sun if he so commanded them. He lowered his glass. “Is there something that you want me to do?”

  Shang thought for a moment, then nodded. “The MechWarrior who organized the defense on Kittery while you fought Major Allard is Leftenant Andrew Redburn. Keep your eyes and ears open and let me know anything you’re able to learn about him.”

  Noton smiled and rose to leave. He made no move to drain his glass of beer, as other MechWarriors or denizens of Solaris might have. Shang’s eyes flicked toward the glass, and Noton suppressed a smile.

  Capellans—so bound up in traditions that confuse me, but still so easy to read. Because I leave that expensive, imported beverage, you take it as a sign that I am prosperous. Likewise, you will abandon your prized kincha fruit to prove to me your own affluence. You will respect me for what I do, while I find your action laughable.

  “Again, Gray, I offer you the praise of House Liao for your mission. I look forward to sharing similar successes with you in the future.”

  Noton smiled in the dimness of Midgard. “And I with you, Tsen.”

  Chapter 6

  SOLARIS VII

  RAHNESHIRE

  LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

  15 JANUARY 3027

  Leaving Shang to his kincha fruit, Noton climbed the terrace steps and cut back along a narrow catwalk to a door linking Midgard with Valhalla on the far side of the garishly lit bar. Opposite the bar was a section of tables and booths kept intentionally dark. A bank of coolers set into the ceiling was so efficient at sucking up the vapors of everything from opium to Turin leaf that Noton caught only a hint of acrid smoke while passing among the tables. He never looked down, never tried to identify anyone in the cherry glow of a pipe, but marched straight ahead toward and through the shadowed doorway in the wall.

  Noton brushed aside a thick black curtain and walked swiftly up a ramp that doubled back on itself and brought him to a lobby roughly above where he had spoken with Roger earlier. Set into the flo
or was a pressure plate where Noton stopped to allow the identiscanner’s ruby red beam to play over him. Behind a clear, impact-resistant glass panel to his left, a security guard smiled. “Welcome, Mr. Noton.”

  Gray nodded in brief acknowledgment. Facing him across the short lobby was a dark glass wall that prevented anyone from seeing into Valhalla, but that allowed those already inside to monitor approaching newcomers. From time to time, the denizens of Valhalla amused themselves by watching the guards conduct undesirables back down to Midgard, but most paid little attention to new arrivals.

  Noton smiled, thinking that only one person there would be anxious about his arrival. As the wall’s central panel slid noiselessly into the ceiling, Gray Noton entered Valhalla.

  In accord with its name, Valhalla had been constructed as a Norse warrior’s vision of paradise. Long and wide, the whole room was constructed from rare, imported woods cut into rough, unfinished planks. Animal skins hung from the walls, and garishly painted shields decorated pillars and posts. A holographic bonfire raged in the center of the room. Along with holographic torches stuck into wall brackets, the fire provided virtually all the light for Valhalla.

  Running the length of the room, from the door to a raised dais at the far end, were crudely built tables and benches. MechWarriors filled the tables, seating themselves in a rough hierarchy of skill and reputation. The best MechWarriors sat nearest the dais. The new warriors, or those on their way down, sat nearest the door. Male and female servers hurriedly passed up and down among them, carrying wooden mugs frothy with Tsinghai ale, or depositing plates of steaming meat and fresh bread before the customers.

  Along either side of Valhalla, gray woolen curtains cut off dark alcoves from view. Alongside most of these hung a shield decorated with the arms of the MechWarrior or noble who owned that alcove. The nobles’ booths were clustered nearer the door than were the alcoves of the MechWarriors. Even so, everyone on Solaris VII knew where the real power lay. Though it might be a great honor to sit with Snorri Sturluson in his alcove near the dais, it was usually more profitable to visit back farther with a duchess or count from any one of the Successor States.