Noton waved a friendly greeting to the first few MechWarriors he knew, though he did not linger to chat. He usually enjoyed the company of other ’Mech pilots, even those doomed to live and die in the tempest world of the games on Solaris. Tonight, however, there were other, more important matters on his mind.
Lo, though I walk through the valley of death, I shall not fear—I shall not linger… Noton knew that any MechWarrior found in Valhalla was superior to 80 percent of the MechWarriors on the planet, and could best 90 percent of the MechWarriors in the Inner Sphere. He also knew the Game World of Solaris was a dead end for MechWarriors because, unlike ’Mech pilots in service to the lords of the battling Successor Houses, no one here could retire to a title and liege-gifted riches. As the name Valhalla suggested, these MechWarriors were already as good as dead.
Or they’ll get smart and get out, as I have, Noton thought, admiring the shield that decorated his alcove. The device, a wispy, almost comical, ghost centered in a red crosshairs, reminded everyone of Noton’s past glories. Legend-Killer, they named me and my Rifleman, and I spilled more alcove owners from their havens than has anyone before me or since I “retired.” Now, as an information broker, I consort with royalty and spill leaders from their thrones. Though some MechWarriors believed Gray had betrayed their profession by making such a switch, most did not care. No one cared less than Gray Noton himself.
Noton parted the curtains secluding his alcove. “Good evening, Baron von Summer,” he said to the dark-haired, corpulent noble from the Lyran Commonwealth who sat waiting for him.
With him tonight was a female companion, a strikingly beautiful blond with ice-blue eyes. She smiled and extended her hand toward Noton. “I am Contessa Kym Sorenson, late of the Federated Suns.” A diamond and ruby ring sparkled up at Noton. “I am pleased to meet you, Gray Noton.”
He kissed her hand, noticing its velvety softness and the perfection of her manicure—right down to a nail polish color that exactly matched her eyes. “The pleasure is all mine, Contessa.”
The contessa stood up gracefully. Her blue satin blouse, which mimicked the double-breasted styling of Noton’s tunic, had not been fastened all the way at the left shoulder. Gathered at the waist with a linked silver belt, it defined her lithe figure most flatteringly. She also wore silky black trousers and riding boots. Though the boots were not yet a fashion rage on Solaris as on other worlds, they looked enough like battle gear to give Noton pause. Is she a MechWarrior…?
Despite the contessa’s grace of movement and choice of clothing, Noton answered his own question after a moment’s reflection. She’s no MechWarrior. Not with those hands. He frowned slightly as she moved toward the curtain. “You are leaving us?”
Enrico Lestrade, the Baron von Summer, added a mute protest and offered the contessa his hand.
With her free hand, she flicked back her shoulder-length hair and smiled. “I will perhaps return another time, Mr. Noton.” She reached out and squeezed Lestrade’s right hand. “I assume that you and Enrico have some business to discuss, which I would not wish to interrupt. Until we meet again.”
Noton held the curtain open for her. “I shall look forward to that time.” He let the curtain fall behind her, and then turned on Enrico Lestrade. “You insist on a private meeting, but then bring a woman with you? No wonder your uncle prefers to keep you here on Solaris instead of on Summer! I’m surprised he didn’t get you posted as a diplomat to Luthien.” Noton paused, then added cruelly, “No, I expect he couldn’t risk you starting a war with House Kurita, could he?”
The baron stammered, then gained control over the flow of gibberish that had begun to spill from his mouth. “She knows nothing. You have become far too suspicious for your own good, Noton. The contessa is newly arrived here. I met her at a party last night—a party thrown by the head of the Solaris Battle Commission—and she asked me about Valhalla. Could I pass up the chance to escort her here? No. Quite simply and absolutely, no.” Seated in the corner, Lestrade glowered at Noton like a child refusing to eat his ashqua.
Noton frowned, too, and sat down in the large wooden chair at the head of the narrow table. Either you’re an incredible fool posted here to keep you from doing too much damage, or you’re hiding your own schemes behind this foolish façade. I will take steps to find out which it is.
Wooden planks formed the alcove into a three-sided box. Touching a button hidden beneath the table’s edge, Noton activated the low hiss of a white-noise generator to assure him that no one would overhear any subsequent conversation. “How do you know she is harmless?”
Lestrade snorted. “My dear Noton, after many a year of dealing with the bored daughters of rich industrialist fathers, I can spot one from a myriameter off. As it so happens, though, I have learned she was booted out of the Federated Suns because she refused to join her father’s business.” The baron smiled at Noton. “Her family made the engine in your ground car, in fact. You still do drive the Typhoon?”
Noton nodded. “Sorenson Mechanicals.” He touched another button, and the wooden panel opposite him slid up to reveal a holovision viewscreen. “Steiner Stadium, fifth fight tonight.” In response to his voice, the computer scanned through Valhalla’s available library. Finally, after a blizzard of partial images stormed across the screen, there appeared the frozen image of a Rifleman facing off against twin Vindicators.
Before the taped battle began to unfold, Noton added a command. “Display only the results.”
Lestrade frowned. “A most uninteresting fight.”
Noton grunted. More the fool, I begin to think… White lettering superimposed itself over the BattleMech images. Noton smiled. Fuh Teng had survived, and would be able to fight in another month. He had lost his brother, however, and the battle, to Philip Capet. Beneath the official results, the computer added a footnote describing this as Capet’s thirteenth straight victory in the Open Class, and the first time he’d failed to kill a Capellan opponent.
Lestrade sniffed. “He should have killed the other one. I lost because he did not.”
Noton regarded Lestrade harshly. The chubby baron’s red shirt, black vest, and red pants made him look more like an actor from some heroic comedy than a nobleman. Suddenly exasperated with the man, Gray demanded, “What was so urgent that you asked for this meeting?”
“Some people,” the baron began, while Noton instantly substituted the names of Duke Frederick Steiner and Duke Aldo Lestrade, “believe there might be ways of diverting a JumpShip from a particular course.”
Noton frowned. Definitely the fool. “If you’re talking about stealing a JumpShip, stop right there.” The ultimate example of lostech, JumpShips were vessels capable of instantaneous, thirty-light-year leaps from star to star. And they were jealously guarded by anyone lucky enough to own one. “No one I know would dare steal a JumpShip. Especially since the Federated Suns began its anti-hijacking measures last year.”
Lestrade wrinkled his nose. “Well, not actually a JumpShip. It’s a DropShip they want. A DropShip with some special people aboard.”
“Military DropShip?”
Lestrade shook his head. “No, just a DropShip.”
Noton pondered the thought. Often enough, a passenger line or cargo hauler kept JumpShips at certain central jump points. DropShips—craft capable of traveling from space to a planet’s surface—arrived in-system via one JumpShip and were then transferred to another outbound ship. Because a JumpShip generally required a week to recharge its Kearny-Fuchida jump drive, the relay system helped speed up the shuttle between stars.
Noton nodded. “That’s more possible. What ship? Where?”
Lestrade smiled weakly. “I don’t have that information yet. I know that the ship will be in the vicinity of Terra, so your contact would have to be near there to strike. We anticipate a two- or three-month lead time on this.”
“Good.” Noton knew that despite the weeklong waits between jumps and the seemingly leisurely pace of jump travel, any operation
to hijack a DropShip full of passengers would require split-second timing. “It will be expensive.”
Lestrade nodded and produced a little notebook from his vest pocket. “These people will pay an advance of up to sixty thousand C-bills to cover operational costs—”
“Eighty-five thousand,” Noton said.
Lestrade looked up as though Noton had stung him. “I’m only authorized to give you sixty thousand.”
“Get new authorization.” Noton leaned forward. He knew that if these “people” were desperate enough to want to hijack a DropShip, they’d be desperate enough to pay well for it. “I assume you want these certain passengers held for a certain amount of time. Preparing a place to hold a DropShip’s worth of people will be costly. While you’re talking to your people, tell them my cut of the operation will be fifty thousand, up front, and my people will want a balance of three hundred thousand C-bills upon completion of the mission.”
All the blood drained from Lestrade’s face. He looked at Noton, then glanced at his notebook, and back up at the mercenary. “That’s way over budget—”
Noton smiled like a fox. “No, it isn’t. They can supplement the payments by collecting ransoms from the families of the passengers. My people will have to take serious risks in this operation, and they won’t even consider it unless the price is right.”
The baron swallowed hard. “I will pass the message along.”
Noton nodded. The only person bound toward Terra that could possibly interest the Steiner/Lestrade faction of the Lyran Commonwealth would have to be a courier from Archon Katrina Steiner to Prince Hanse Davion of the Federated Suns. Kidnapping that courier would delay the growing alliance between House Davion and House Steiner. While that alliance was gaining Katrina more power with each passing day, it stood squarely in the path of her cousin, Frederick Steiner, who had his own designs on the Lyran throne. Noton assured himself that Frederick and his ally, Duke Aldo Lestrade—Enrico’s uncle—would pay well to sabotage that Steiner-Davion alliance.
Noton stood and guided the visibly perspiring baron to the curtain. “Contact me when you have some real figures to discuss, Baron. Until then.”
He started to turn back to his alcove, but a bold voice shouted his name. “Noton, did you watch my fight?”
Noton slowly shook his head. “No, Capet. If I wanted to see the sort of battling you do, I’d have only to toss a C-bill in the street and watch the crippled orphans of Cathay scramble for it.”
Philip Capet, seated on the dais at the room’s far end, slammed his flagon against the table. It struck hard, shattering against the oak wood surface and spattering golden ale over his companions. “How dare you!”
“How dare I what, Capet? How dare I point out that the emperor has no clothes?” Noton turned to face the front of the room and rested balled fists on his narrow hips. Capet, you fool, have you begun to believe you’re as invincible as the fight commentators claim?
Noton’s voice dropped to a razor-edged growl. “Your Rifleman grossly outclassed those two Vindicators. Your fight should have ended quickly. In Steiner Stadium, with all that open ground, you should have killed both pilots in a minute or less. Five minutes. Ha! You toyed with them. You did not treat them like MechWarriors.”
Capet shook his head. His curly salt-and-pepper hair was cropped closely to his scalp, but his bushy black moustache gave his visage a menacing, angry look. Added to that were a hooked nose broken once too often and a jagged scar plucking the corner of his right eye into a perpetual squint that matched his habitual sneer. He now graced Noton with one of those looks.
Capet forced a harsh laugh. “You washed-up fighters are all the same. I’ve been in the wars, Noton. I’ve seen combat the likes of which you’ll never know.” He spat on the floor. “I didn’t toy with those Capellans. I gave them a few more minutes of life than they deserved.”
Capet stabbed a finger at Noton. “If I’m such a street brawler, why don’t you come out and defeat me, eh, Noton? Or has retirement softened you?” He faced his audience. “Noton’s been gone these last few weeks getting a tummy tuck and a facelift.” Turning back to the other man, he added, “You should have gotten some backbone while you were away.”
Noton laughed aloud. “That’s the difference between us, Capet. You don’t know when to shut up. You also don’t know how vulnerable you really are. I don’t care about your hatred for Capellans or your God-awful ego, but stay clear of me. If you don’t, I swear that Legend-Killer will be your death.”
Chapter 7
NEW AVALON
CRUCIS MARCH
FEDERATED SUNS
27 DECEMBER 3026
Consciousness seeped into Justin Allard’s brain drop by drop. As the doctor slowly dialed 10ccs of dexamaline into the IV monitor, the drug slowly ate away the narcotic coma induced by other drugs. The doctor looked over at the EEG monitor, smiled as brain activity increased steadily, and quickened the pace of the dexamaline infusion.
Disjointed and fragmented, words and feelings flashed across Justin’s consciousness like firefish striking at the surface of a murky pond. Shrapnel bits of pain and memories of fire stung him, and he latched onto the pain long enough to give his mind some focus. He located that pain—a tiny, almost lost shard of it—in his right forearm. From that pinpoint of awareness, he began to recall that he had an arm and a body, which led him to the knowledge that he was still alive.
Random scenes from memory suddenly bombarded him. First came the intense fear for his command that he had felt upon discovering that Rifleman. Then the battle began to play itself out again, but in such shifting colors and slow movements that his recollection twisted into a surreal nightmare. Missiles exploded into flowers that sprouted teeth and bit into ’Mechs made of balloons.
The doctor watched the brain activity increase rapidly, and brought down the dexamaline level again. A nurse pressed a cool cloth to Justin’s forehead and drew his sheets down to the waist to cool him off.
Justin’s dream battle evaporated in a cold rush of reason. Impossible to happen. It cannot exist. I do not wish to dream it. Those three thoughts, short but connected, descended into the black pit where Justin found himself, and he clung to them like the lowest rungs of some ladder. Slowly, laboriously, he reached up and grasped another thought. I have pain. I am alive.
The acrid scent of his own perspiration almost blocked the room’s harsh antiseptic odor, but Justin caught it. Memories of hospital visits tore at him, but he refused to succumb to them. I am in a hospital. I must have been injured. With that thought came another impression that confirmed it. Justin finally felt the bandages circling his head and covering his eyes.
Panic shot through him with a jolt. No, not blind. Dear God, anything but that! He tried to lift his right hand to touch his face, but the doctor restrained him gently to keep the IV needles from tearing free. Justin, feeling resistance, immediately abandoned the effort to use his right arm and commanded his left hand to act instead.
It took almost superhuman strength, but his left arm responded. Bending at the elbow, it jerked upright, then flopped over and struck Justin heavily in the chest. In that instant, terror and confusion ripped away at Justin’s sanity.
What is it? What’s wrong with my arm? He could feel his forearm pressing against his chest, and there was a dull ache where his fingers had poked hard into his ribs, yet he still felt his left hand and wrist extended straight down from his upper arm!
A sharp, authoritative voice drilled through Justin’s blind panic. “Stop, Allard! Wait! Stand easy, Major.” The command, voiced like an order from a superior officer, hit him with the force of a physical blow. It shattered the chaos of anxiety that was swallowing him, and he grabbed at it like a drowning man at a life preserver.
Justin’s parched lips opened with difficulty. He tried to speak, but only a harsh croak came from his throat. Smashing down another jolt of fear, he again tried to speak. “Water.”
Instantly, the bed began to r
ise, elevating his head and torso. Whatever had fallen on his chest no longer pressed against him. Justin heard the gurgle of water pouring from a pitcher into a cup, and his burning thirst swept away all other considerations.
“Slowly, Major.” A straw rested against his lower lip and Justin greedily sucked in the cool water. In a habit born of two years’ garrison duty on Spica, he held the water in his mouth for a second or two before swallowing. He drank more with the same deliberate care, then shook his head.
With the straw withdrawn, Justin turned his head in the direction from which he’d heard the commands. “Am I blind?”
The commanding voice softened a bit. “No. There are bandages over your eyes because you’ve been in a narcotic coma. The drugs dilate your pupils, and so we bandaged your eyes to prevent any accidental damage to your vision.”
Justin nodded slowly. “You will remove them? Now?”
“If you wish,” the voice replied, after a moment’s hesitation. “Nurse, dim the lights and draw the window shades.” The doctor paused, then spoke even more softly. “There are some things you may want to understand first.”
Justin shook his head. What could be more important than my vision? “I want to see first, doctor. Any problem I can see, I can defeat.”
Justin felt the line of cold steel slide down beside his right ear as the doctor carefully scissored through the bandage. With two quick snips, the wrappings tumbled down over Justin’s nose, but two cotton pads still covered his eyes. He felt pressure briefly against his eyes, then the nurse pulled away the pads.
Warrior: En Garde (The Warrior Trilogy, Book One): BattleTech Legends, #57 Page 7
