Warrior: En Garde

by Michael A. Stackpole

  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, 30 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 insystem 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 leadtime on this."

  "Good." Noton knew that despite the week-long 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 Drop-Ship, 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 Steiner 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 Steiner 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."

  Noton half-turned back to his alcove, but a bold voice shouted his name. "Noton, did you watch my fight?"

  Noton shook his head slowly. "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 Capet's 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." Capet 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?" Capet faced his audience. "Noton's been gone these last few weeks getting a tummy-tuck and a facelift." Turning back to Noton, 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 the Legend-killer will be your death."

  7

  New Avalon

  Cruris 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 up on 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 brain activity increase rapidly and so 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 thr
ough 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 Justin 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 croaking came from his throat. Smashing down another jolt of fear, he again tried to speak. "Water."

  Instantly, the bed began to rise, 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.

  "Open your eyes slowly, Major. Everything will be dark, but that's because we've darkened the room. Go ahead. Open."

  Justin took a deep breath and opened his eyes. They snapped almost immediately shut as even the low light seared into them. Once more, he forced his eyes open and blinked them rapidly, finally becoming accustomed to the darkness. I can see! His smile almost cracked his dry lips, and brought a hearty chuckle from the doctor.

  Justin turned his head to the right and focused. The doctor, a tall, sandy-haired man, returned his smile. Justin squinted and finally succeeded in reading the name on the doctor's white coat: James Thompson, M.D. "Dr. Thompson. Thank you. I am Major Justin Allard."

  Thompson laughed. "Yes, Major. I know that." He turned toward the plump nurse standing at the foot of Justin's bed. She wore no nurse's cap to restrain her curly riot of blond hair, but had gathered it at the nape of her neck with a ribbon. "This is Nurse Alice Forrester."

  Justin nodded at her, and she returned the gesture. I can see! Thank God, I can see. "So, doctor, what is it you think I should understand?"

  The doctor hesitated, but Justin saw his gaze flick toward the far side of the bed. Justin turned his head slowly and looked down.

  There, nestled like a viper in the sharp folds of the starched white sheets, Justin saw the blackened steel thing that had engulfed his left forearm.

  8

  New Avalon

  Crucis March, Federated Suns

  8 January 3027

  A helmeted and visored guard swung open the heavy bronze door to Hanse Davion's private planning chamber. Quintus Allard saluted the bodyguard with a curt nod of his white-maned head, then swept into the room. His slightly oversize green jacket and loose pants hid a strong, lean body that belied the years Quintus showed in the color of his hair or the wrinkles around his blue eyes.

  Prince Hanse Davion, sole and undisputed ruler of the Federated Suns, looked up from the massive antique desk and frowned. Something must be very wrong, he thought. Never, in the five years that Quintus has been acting Minister of Intelligence Investigations and Operation has he looked so disturbed. The man's anxiety and anger was palpable. "What is it, Quintus? Has something happened to Justin?"

  Allard shook his head and moved toward the wall console that controlled the office holoviewer. "Justin's doing well. The doctor released him only a week after he came out of coma, and he spent the New Year's holiday with my wife, his sister Riva, and me. He pushes himself, and Doctor Thompson is pleased with the gross mobility Justin is showing with the, ah, the . . ." The voice of Hanse Davion's master of counter-espionage trailed off as he looked at his own left hand and twisted it up and down.

  The Prince was relieved, but still concerned over what was troubling Quintus. "If Justin is fine, what is the matter?"

  Quintus held up a green and gold holodisk, with a look of distaste. "This arrived in the company of more lawyers and 'security' men from the Capellan March than ought to be allowed on any DropShip. Michael Hasek-Davion seems to think I can't handle the Counter-intelligence Division in addition to the IIO Ministry, and so is trying to help me."

  What the hell is that scheming idiot up to now? Hanse wondered. He leafed through a pile of papers, and plucked a shipping schedule from the middle of the stack. He held up the sheet for Quintus to see. "How did they get here so fast? I haven't been expecting any ships from New Syrtis. Nothing due in for two weeks."

  Quintus nodded and shoved the holodisk into the viewer. "Your beloved brother-in-law learned of Leftenant Redburn's departure from Kittery for the Awards Ceremony. Because you approved the expense of having Redburn travel on the Command Circuit, Duke Michael decided to send a few representatives of his own along. The Command Circuit worked its normal wonders, of course. The DropShip passed from Jump-Ship to JumpShip and made the voyage from Kittery to New Avalon in twenty-four hours instead of two months. Some of Michael's own men had been on Kittery conducting an investigation, and so they just boarded the ship with Redburn and got permission from Michael to proceed. This holodisk was recorded from a ComStar transmission, and they brought it with them."

  Hanse's blue eyes turned to slits as barely controlled anger flashed across his face. "Wait, Quint," he said. "Before you start playing that tripe, let me get Ardan in here." The Prince punched a button on his desk. "Find Ardan Sortek and ask him to join me in my office, please."

  Hanse Davion, often known as the Fox because of his cunning, suppressed his fury and forced a smile. "You have taken care of Michael's representatives?"

  The pall lifted from Quintus's face as he smiled broadly. "Decontamination for the next thirty-six hours. Seems the batch number on their Kentares flu vaccine indicates that they got a bad dose, so we're running a full set of shots and blood tests on them."

  The Prince of the Federated Suns laughed. "Always best to be cautious." Well done, Quintus. Very well done.

  The chamber's massive door again opened to allow in Hanse Davion's friend and advisor, Ardan Sortek, who was carrying an armful of folders. Younger than either of the other two men, Sortek had the fit form and handsome face that any Davion recruiter might have wished to reproduce on recruiting posters
all over the realm. Ardan smiled warmly at the other two men, his brown eyes twinkling, then his own expression changed to one of concern as he saw the worry on his friend's face. "What has Michael done now?" he asked.

  Hanse Davion returned Ardan's smile, though somewhat wanly. As always, my friend, you see the truth at the heart of everything.

  Quintus, too, was glad to see Ardan. Though Sortek was a military man who hated the compromises and shadowy dealings that politics often forced upon himself and Hanse Davion, he had amazing political instincts. Indeed, he had managed to uncover and defeat a plot hatched by Maximilian Liao, leader of the Capellan Confederation, to substitute a double for Hanse Davion. Had it not been for Sortek's resourcefulness and intelligence, Max Liao might have succeeded where all his legions had failed miserably. Through his fake Hanse Davion, he might have taken over the rulership of the Federated Suns, the most powerful realm in the Inner Sphere.

  Hanse waved Sortek to a chair. "We're not certain yet, but this holodisk is a message from Michael. It should be explosive."

  As if sparked by Hanse's final word, Sortek extended the files toward Allard. "Some of your men said they'd found the originals for these files while they were decontaminating the luggage that came in with Michael's 'representatives.' They also added the top file, which is a complete rundown on each of the men Michael has sent."

  Allard took the files and set them down on a corner table. He dimmed the lights, then punched the viewer's start-up button. After an initial burst of static, a golden lion on a field of bright green filled the screen. As Michael Hasek-Davion's personal crest was fading from the screen, Sortek noted drily, "Is it just me, or is that lion looking more and more Capellan every time we see it."

  Hanse exaggerated a frown. "You can't believe that Michael might be talking to Liao, could you?”

  “Ha!" Sortek laughed.

  Michael Hasek-Davion's face materializing on the screen cut off all further comment. Only seven years Hanse Davion's senior, the Duke of New Syrtis wore his long black hair in a braid that curled around and up over his shoulder like a snake. His restless green eyes, just slightly too close together, kept shifting away from the camera, failing utterly to convey sincerity. His voice, though deep and well-suited to speech-making, carried no conviction.