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

by Michael A. Stackpole

  He rotated his arm so that his palm faced up, then back down again. It mocks me, pretending to be a suitable replacement for the limb I’ve lost. But, no, this is not what the doctor really wants to know. He cares only for how it functions, not my feelings and thoughts about having a metal arm.

  “The elbow works very well, and these exercises have helped to give me a feel for where the limb is now. I’d guess that comes from the weight and pressure on the lower part of my arm.” Justin narrowed his eyes and tried to make a fist with his left hand. “When I move the fingers or wrist, I get some slight feeling, but nothing I can control.” He shrugged. “I’d rather have my real arm back. Perhaps that feeling will fade when I gain control of the wrist and hand.”

  Dr. Thompson leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Justin, you may never gain control of the wrist or fingers of that hand. It’s true that we have prostheses that are fully articulated, but those cases were different from yours. Those people did not suffer the kind of extensive forearm damage as you did.”

  Justin listened and understood, but he could not allow himself to acknowledge any truth in the doctor’s statement. He nodded, however, feeling sweat trickle from the hairline around his ears. “You said before that the others still had muscle tissue in their forearms, which you were able to attach to artificial ligaments and tendons to give them hand and wrist control.”

  Thompson nodded slowly. “Right.” He took Justin’s prosthesis by the wrist and gently bent it back toward Justin’s shoulder. Pointing at the elbow, he continued his lecture. “The only thing we had to work with on you, however, were portions of your radius and ulna, and the ganglia in your elbow. It’s actually the muscles of your upper arm that control your elbow and lateral arm motion. All you have to drive your fingers and wrists are impulses from the nerves in your elbow.”

  Terror crawled maggot-like through Justin’s stomach. He wiped his face with the towel again. “So, what you’re telling me is that I cannot ever control this hand.”

  The doctor shook his head. “No. With years of hard work, such as your tai chi chuan, you’ll gain control of the motors and truncated myomer fibers threaded through your forearm. With persistence, you should eventually be able to perform gross motor functions with that hand.” The doctor flexed his own fingers. “You’ll never play the piano, but you will be able to pluck and eat a grape.”

  Anger flashed through Justin’s dark eyes and he stood abruptly. I don’t want grapes! I want a ’Mech! His right hand contracted into a fist, and he shut his eyes in the fight to control his emotions. When he opened them again, he scowled at Thompson. “Why don’t you just go ahead and tell me what you’ve avoided saying before now? Why don’t you just tell me I’ll never pilot a ’Mech again?” He stared down at his inert hand. “Why don’t you just tell me I’m a useless cripple?”

  The doctor pursed his lips and slowly shook his head. “I won’t tell you that because I don’t believe it’s true.”

  Fury flashed through Justin’s eyes. “Don’t tell me about training programs and therapy, Doc, because I don’t want any part of it. Without a ’Mech, I’m nothing. Imagine having to spend the rest of your life only being able to watch medicine instead of practicing it…not taking care of patients…just watching. Imagine all your friends and relatives trying to console your loss, pointing out all the silver linings in these dark clouds. By God, I’ll find a way to get a ’Mech back under me.”

  Dr. Thompson smiled and nodded his head. “I told them over in Biomechanicals that you were the right choice for that arm.”

  What? Justin stared up at the doctor. “I don’t understand.”

  “Does the expression ‘lab rat’ mean anything to you?” Thompson reached into the pocket of his white coat and pulled out a device. It was a black plastic rectangle, about fifteen centimeters long and a centimeter wide, capped by a clear Lucite section. The clear plastic cap fit flush onto the rectangle, but the upper face had been chiseled back diagonally to present a flat face toward whomever held the device. Justin turned it over and noticed an opening for a computer jack on the bottom side. “Do you know what this is?” the doctor asked.

  Justin took the device and turned it over. “I think I’ve seen something like it before. It’s a diagnostic tool used for checking MinerMech remote controls.”

  Dr. Thompson smiled. “Very good. As you know, most MinerMechs are run by remote control instead of by human pilots. A radio link is plugged into the command console below the left-hand joystick, and all commands to the joystick are delivered over tightbeam broadcast.” Thompson pointed at the unit Justin held. “They use that thing to make sure remote units are relaying the correct information to the joystick control. That one’s been modified to check for input into a BattleMech. We chose to model it on a Warhammer because of the various weapon systems that machine employs.”

  Justin nodded, then looked up, puzzled. “Why tell me this?”

  The doctor reached out and took hold of Justin’s artificial arm. He pulled the middle and ring finger back until they lay flat against the back of Justin’s synthetic hand. The MechWarrior stared as though the doctor were a madman, then he heard a click at his metal wrist. He looked down and saw a small slit in the metal.

  The doctor released his arm. “Slide that panel back.”

  Justin did so, and by the time he’d slid it back a half-centimeter, a tightly coiled ribbon cable sprang out like a striking snake. At the end of the gray cable was a light blue jack. He shifted the testing rod to his left hand, closed the steel fingers around it, and snapped the cable jack into the opening on the test rod’s bottom.

  Instantly, a riot of color swirled across the Lucite viewer atop the rod. “Easy, Justin, relax. You don’t want to burn it out,” Dr. Thompson said calmly, sensing his excitement. “Close your eyes and think about opening your left hand. Don’t frown. You can still feel the nerve connections…I know because I hitched the artificial neuroreceptors to them.”

  Justin exhaled slowly. Easy now, Justin. Be calm. Just feel your fist opening. Almost immediately, Dr. Thompson congratulated him, but Justin waited until he could harness the rising well of enthusiasm in his chest before he dared open his eyes. Slowly, almost like a child peeking through his fingers at a terrifying holovideo, Justin looked at the cube. All the light, except for a burning red dot in the center of the display, had died.

  Dr. Thompson smiled. “OK. Let’s take this slowly. The boys over in Theoreticals would be dancing just to see you do that much.” He pointed at the dot centered on the display, and drew a line from it up toward the top of the viewing area. “You’ll notice, as you think about having your hand manipulate a ’Mech’s joystick, that you get a red arrow on the viewing face indicating in which direction you’re shoving the joystick.”

  The doctor nodded, and Justin slowly commanded his phantom arm to move the joystick forward. The dot flickered a couple of times as he false-started. He swallowed hard and concentrated. The red dot stretched and lazily unfolded itself into an arrow pointing at the top center of the display. Justin willed his hand to pull back, and the arrow reversed itself. He smiled broadly and looked up. “It’s slow, but it’s working.”

  Thompson laughed aloud. “Slow? I’ve got colleagues over at the NAIS who said you’d never be able to get it to move at all.”

  Justin, infected by Thompson’s enthusiasm, laughed as well. “Should have had money on it, Doc.”

  “True enough.”

  Justin took a deep breath. My heart’s pounding like an autocannon full open and firing hot. Then he looked up at Thompson, feeling like a child afraid to be told it was all a dream. “I can target things. How do I shoot them?”

  “That’s a warrior for you. I put you back together, and all you want to do is take other folks apart.” Dr. Thompson licked his lips. “All right. A Warhammer control has three thumb buttons, as well you know. The center operates the particle projection cannon. Successfully pressing it will give you a blue light on
the display. Left thumb is a medium laser and creates a green light. Right thumb is the button to launch SRMs and will give you a yellow light.”

  Justin nodded and tried imagining each position. Carefully now. Let’s punch the center. Nope, dammit! Again… His efforts met with meager success, but he did occasionally trigger one of the three large weapons. “What else? It’s been awhile since I sat in a Warhammer, but I seem to recall two trigger buttons on the joystick as well.”

  Thompson shook his head. “Take it easy, Major. Men have spent careers building that toy you’re playing with. Try one step at a time….”

  Justin frowned. “Doc, this is my life we’re talking about here. Just let me know all the tricks this thing will perform, and then I’ll practice.”

  The urgency in his plea hit home. “Yes. I understand,” Thompson said, patting Justin on the shoulder. “Now, the index finger triggers an orange light on your display, and that stands for a small laser. The last thing, which gives a violet light, is the machine gun. That’s triggered through your middle finger.”

  Thompson watched as Justin closed his eyes and concentrated for a moment. Each of the weapon system lights burst to life in sequence, and the doctor smiled. “Blake’s Blood! I can’t wait to get you on a monitor and have you do all this. Prince Davion’s going to be handing out fellowships left and right for this.”

  Dr. Thompson shook his head as the lights danced through the Lucite block. “Good Lord, Justin, give the device a rest. Remember, too, that this system only works for the left-side weapons. Your right hand will still have to operate the other weapons.”

  Justin opened his eyes and laughed. “I think I can trust it to do that, Doctor. I don’t know how to begin to thank you.” Justin extended his good hand to the doctor and pumped his arm warmly. “This gives me hope that someday I will really pilot a ’Mech again.” He raised the test rod high like a trophy.

  Before Dr. Thompson could reply, the solarium door burst open, and both men froze. A pair of CID guards dressed in black and tan riot gear, with stun-sticks in hand and full visors that hid their faces, held the doors open and stood at attention. A small, almost cadaverously thin man with a wisp of hair curling over his high forehead marched into the room. Keeping his hands clasped behind his back, the man stared at Justin Allard with eyes full of hate. “Major Justin Xiang Allard?”

  Justin recoiled at the man’s tone. He pronounced his middle name—his Capellan mother’s family name—as though the word were something bitter, even obscene, on his tongue. If this was all a dream, it just became a nightmare. “You know me, Count Vitios. What made you decide to crawl from under your rock to venture this far from the safety of the Capellan March?”

  Justin felt a tremor go through Dr. Thompson’s arm. The doctor freed his hand from Justin’s grip and extended it toward the count. “I am Dr. Thompson.” When the small man ignored the gesture, Thompson pulled himself to his full height and snarled, “This man is my patient, and I would like you to leave us. Now.”

  Vitios snapped a look at the doctor, then pointed at Thompson, while addressing his escort. “Restrain him or remove him.” A CID guard leveled his stun-stick in Thompson’s direction, but Justin spoke and prevented either man from acting foolishly.

  “What is it you want, Count Vitios?” Justin looked up at the guard nearest Dr. Thompson. “Leave him alone and go get my father.”

  The count’s evil little chuckle dripped its icy melody up and down Justin’s spine. “Even he will not be able to help you, Justin Allard.”

  Justin snarled and balled his right hand into a fist. “What are you talking about, you malignant dwarf?”

  The count smiled for the first time in Justin’s memory. “In the names of Prince Hanse Davion and Duke Michael Hasek-Davion, it is my duty—and distinct pleasure—to place you under arrest for treason.”

  Chapter 10

  THARKAD

  DISTRICT OF DONEGAL

  LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

  10 OCTOBER 3026

  Simon Johnson, chancellor of the Lyran Intelligence Corps, closed the file and stared at it silently for a second. His fingers unconsciously traced the legend, Ultra Secret, and finally came to rest against the bulging capsule worked into the folder’s construction. He slid the folder over to the edge of the table, crushed the capsule, and let the slender document fall into the round disposal bin.

  In seconds, the chemicals that mixed together when he broke the capsule exploded into a blue-green flame that consumed the folder. The blaze painted his plain face and white hair with ghoulish tints. Johnson watched the flames until he could no longer feel the heat of the flash fire, then looked up at the room’s other occupant.

  Katrina Elizabeth Steiner, Duchess of Tharkad and Archon of the Lyran Commonwealth, regarded Johnson with eyes so gray they were like slivers of steel. Though she had lived more than a half-century already, Katrina was as lithe, tall, and blond as ever. Her strong features were still handsome, though one could easily see she had been a great beauty in her youth. “Your thoughts, Simon?”

  Johnson glanced at the small device he’d placed on the table. The colored LCD display still registered no traces of active or passive monitoring devices in the area, but he kept his voice low and soft nonetheless. “If the signature and personal holograph of Quintus Allard were not woven into the fabric of the paper itself, I would not believe the plan.” Johnson focused his black eyes on the folder’s charred remains. “That House Liao actually produced a double for Prince Davion and actually put him in Davion’s place is chilling. This explains, in part, our troubles during the Galtor campaign and the lapse in your relations with the Federated Suns.”

  The Archon rested her elbows on the arms of her chair and steepled her fingers. “Could it happen here, Simon?” The Archon watched him closely, but could not pierce his thoughts. You always play it so close to the chest, Simon. Thank God you’re with me, not against me.

  The LIC’s chancellor chewed his lower lip. “It is possible, of course, but it would be very difficult. To make such a substitution would require the duplicity of so many people that it would probably disrupt all normal activity.” Johnson closed his eyes, pursed his lips, leaving the Archon to wonder whether the white-haired man had actually fallen asleep. Then his eyes opened, and Katrina caught a brief flash of a hellish fire playing through them. “Perhaps, if you were to suffer a serious injury that required hospitalization, another person could be substituted for you in a hospital. Your convalescence would allow a gradual conditioning of the substitute, and would let people forget what you were like.” He slowly nodded his head. “Yes, it could happen here.”

  Johnson’s eyes slitted, and the Archon smiled wryly. I know you, Simon. The first thing you’ll do when you leave here is review hospital procedures and staff records. “I shall attempt to be very careful in the future, until you are able to assure me that such a thing could not happen.”

  Johnson’s gentle nod confirmed his understanding of her jest, but he felt no need to trade quips with her today. Instead, he fixed the Archon with a steady gaze. “That is not what you wanted to ask me, is it, Archon?”

  Katrina shook her head. “Could we do what Liao did? Could we transform someone into a double?”

  Again, as always, Simon Johnson did not speak until the answer had fully formed in his mind. “Yes, we could do what Max Liao did to prepare his double of Hanse Davion. The intensive training we give to the orphans inducted into Lohengrin would be sufficient to brainwash fanatic loyalty into a double. It works for our anti-terrorists, so why wouldn’t it work for a deep-cover agent? It’s certainly possible to create a profile on a subject, and then train someone to fit that profile. Finding a subject of the appropriate age and physical characteristics is perhaps the easiest part of the plan.”

  The Archon nodded, then broke eye contact as she played with the ring on her right hand. “I sense hesitation in your answer.”

  Johnson smiled. “From what little Quintus confided in h
is report, I believe Liao’s plan would have collapsed because of a gross flaw. Liao’s scientists blanked the double’s mind, then force-fed him with Hanse Davion’s memories. The double had all the memories, knew all the facts, but, he did not, of course, have Hanse Davion’s mind. If he had, Davion never would have been able to win a contest to prove that he was the genuine Prince because the other individual would have been just as real.”

  The Archon frowned. “You’re saying the double would have broken down? Mentally, I mean, not physically.”

  “Yes. Each person has his own way of storing information.” Johnson held out both his hands, palms up. “For example, if I say the word ‘crusader’ to both you and our court historian, Thelos Auburn, each of you will respond with a different impression. Because, Archon, you are a MechWarrior, you will think first of a ‘Crusader’ as a BattleMech model. Auburn will probably recall the various political groupings known as ‘crusader’ movements throughout past millennia. Though each of you would be familiar with the other’s image of ‘crusader,’ your cognitive networks would have stored those facts away differently.”

  The Archon smiled. “In short, you’re saying that the Liao imposter had stored Davion’s memories according to his own cognitive structure.” Katrina Steiner narrowed her eyes. “Given cultural differences, the double could have been caught thinking in a Capellan manner.”

  A curt nod confirmed her conclusion, and Johnson expanded on it. “Also, because the network was still there, I suspect that the imposter’s memories were merely suppressed. I think they must have withdrawn, almost the way the core personality does in some cases of multiple personality. Whenever it emerged, the person would have gone mad, or would have been very angry with Liao for enslaving his mind. Hanse Davion already hates the Capellans well enough. The idea of Hanse Davion with a grudge against House Liao is not one I would like to contemplate, especially if I were seated on Sian.”