Warrior: En Garde

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Valhalla, Hall of Slain Warriors. Gray Noton suppressed a laugh, knowing that 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 Mech-Warriors 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 Mech Warriors—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 Mech Warriors. Many nobles owned a string of BattleMechs, and they selected Mech Warriors 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 for Noton to find Tsen Shang. Descending the steps to the third terrace, he quickly passed by 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 signalled 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 many times studied Shang's hands in meetings like this, 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 mat 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 Shang 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 a blue-green skin and fruit pits the size of navy beans rattled around in it. "And another bowl of kin-cha 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, Gray thought.

  "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 that 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 could not fight again. Noton 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 home-world, 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." Shang 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 holo-light 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. Noton 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 beer 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."

  6

  Solaris
VII (The Game World)

  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 smoke of everything from opium to Turin leaf that Noton caught only a hint of the acrid drugsmoke 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 floor 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 a brief salute. 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 of 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. Mech-Warriors 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 further with a Duchess or Count from any one of the Successor States.

  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 that the Game World of Solaris was a deadend 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 that 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 the Baron 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?" he asked.

  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 your 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 facade. 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 derisively. "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 that 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 that there might be ways of diverting a Jump-Ship from a particular course."