"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 Justin's 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."
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 blonde 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 charred remains of the folder. "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 gently. "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 wi
th the ring on her right hand. "I sense hesitation in your answer."
Johnson smiled. "From what little Quintus confided in his 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 upon 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."
Truer words were never spoken. The Archon laughed. "So, would we have difficulty creating a substitute for someone?"
Johnson shook his head. "Not at all. We could not, and would not, enslave a mind as Liao did. An actor, for example, could slip into a role well enough to handle 99 percent of the matters a leader must handle. With the proper delegation of authority, the realm might not even notice the hand of a temporary leader at the helm."
Johnson smiled and reached for another folder. "I took the liberty, Archon, of bringing this with me." He opened it and looked up at her. "Whom did you have in mind for the creation of a double? Loki agents can pick up any of the people in the files today."
"As ever, you have anticipated me." Katrina whispered the name of her candidate. Johnson licked his thumb, paged through blue and yellow sheets of paper, then stopped. He smiled. "Oh, yes, we have some excellent candidates .. ."
* * *
Jeana Clay coasted the racing bicycle down the final hill as she pulled her water bottle free of the bike's frame and squirted some of the warm liquid into her mouth. Savoring the water, she sprayed the rest over her face and down her arms. A quick glance at her watch brought a smile. Knocked thirty seconds off that last leg, she thought, well-pleased with herself. Her smile continued to light up her pretty face as she hunkered down and pedaled the bike up the last little rise and into the driveway of the house where she had lived alone since her mother's death.
Old Mr. Tompkins looked up from trimming his shrubs and waved at her. "Getting faster, Jeana. You'll surely win this year's Tharkad Triathlon!"
"Thanks, Mr. Tompkins, for your confidence." She stopped the cycle and swung off. She slid it into the anti-theft rack that she'd welded together herself years ago, then straightened up to her full height and walked back to where the older man stood. "I just hope my unit doesn't have exercises that weekend."
Tompkins smiled and looked almost cherubic. "They won't, child, and I have a feeling it would take more than that to keep you from that race."
Jeana peeled the fingerless gloves from her hands and nodded. "Yeah, my CO is pretty good about letting me race. I think he feels that my wins reflect well on the 24th Lyran Guards, being as we're such an untried unit."
Tompkins winked. "I knew Lieutnant-Colonel Orpheus Thomas when he was a lad, before he wandered off to Donegal to recruit all of you MechWarriors for his unit. He's a proud man, and I can tell that he appreciates what you do for the unit."
The tall, slender MechWarrior smiled. She grabbed her riding jersey by the shoulders and gently tugged at it while making a face. "I'm going to change out of these sweaty things and catch a shower." Jeana began to walk away, but turned back long enough to add, "I'll let you know if I'm going to be able to race."
At her own door, Jeana slipped a mag-key from the waistband of her riding shorts and inserted it into the lock. The door clicked and she ducked inside. The cooler, which she had not set particularly low, had made the house positively arctic. When she double-checked the thermostat, however, the dial still sat where she'd left it. Below the thermostat, the lights on house alarm system all glowed reassuringly green.
Jeana passed through the kitchen and jogged up the stairs, barely glancing at the closed door of the master bedroom before entering the sanctuary of her own room. It's silly, Jeana. There's no reason why you shouldn't move into that room. She sat on the bed to untie her shoes. Keeping the room as a shrine to your mother won't bring her back.
Jeana shook her head and forced herself to abandon that line of thought. She'd covered it before, many times, and all the "what ifs" and "I should haves" could not reverse what had happened to her mother. Yet, Jeana could not shake the feeling that if she had been home that night, no intruder would ever have killed her mother.
Jeana pulled off her blouse, wadded it up into a ball, and tossed it into a basket. Socks, shorts, and underclothes quickly arched after it. Then she stood, stretched, and went into the cleaner to start the shower running. As steam filled the small, white-tiled room, Jeana flicked on the radio to listen to something other than her own sad thoughts.
As Jeana stepped into the shower, she was unaware of the door of the cleaner opening behind her. With her eyes closed and water rushing over her face, it was only the cool draft of the shower curtain being pulled aside that alerted her to danger. She turned from the watery spray and stared in horror at the hooded intruder.
Loki! The thought burst into Jeana's mind like an inferno rocket as she caught sight of the emblem on his collar. She balled her left fist and swung at the intruder without thinking, but her feet slipped and she started to fall. What is someone from State Terrorism doing here after so long? How did they find me?
The Loki operative's first dart missed Jeana's falling body, and her aborted punch forced him to step back. She broke her fall by tearing a faucet handle from the shower and gathering her long legs beneath her. She uncoiled and hit the agent with a tackle that smashed him back into the handbasin. He grunted, then spun away out of her grasp.
Jeana grabbed a towel and threw it at him. It unfolded like a JumpShip's solar collector and prevented the agent's second dart from hitting her. He continued to back away out into the hall, and Jeana dove at his legs. Her wet feet slipped at the last, draining her attack of much of its power, but the fury and anger born of guilt over her mother's death more than compensated for it.
Her shoulder hit the intruder in the shins, and she gathered his ankles in a savage hug. Unbalanced, the agent flailed helplessly with one hand, but failed to grab the stair railing. He crashed down the stairs, careening from side to side, and then lay very still.
Jeana gathered herself up on hands and knees, then felt a sting against her right buttock. Numbness spread like a blush, and her nerveless limbs refused to support her anymore. She fell to her left and stared up at the man silhouetted in the master bedroom's doorway. "Yes," she heard him say, "an excellent candidate." In her befuddled state, Jeana could make no sense of those words a
t all.
* * *
The air-ambulance driver smiled reassuringly at Mr. Tompkins as two white-suited medics gently lifted the stretcher into the back of the craft. "Don't worry, Mr. Tompkins. You did the right thing in calling us when you heard her crash down the stairs. She's very lucky to have a concerned neighbor like you."
The older man shook his head as Jeana vanished into the air-ambulance. "She's so young .. . only twenty-five. First, her mother dies, then this." He frowned. "A heart attack, you say?"
The driver nodded. "Stress-induced, but really secondary to some damage done when she caught Yeguas fever while training with the 24th last year. It'll normally leave folks alone, but one in a million develop a heart defect." The driver shrugged. "It's in the doctors' hands now."
The driver turned to leave, but Mr. Tompkins grabbed his wrist. "You'll let me know where they've taken her? I'll visit."
The driver laid his hand over that of the older man and patted it warmly. "I'll keep you informed. Remember, if you hadn't called, she might not even have the chance she's got now. The Commonwealth needs more citizens like you."
11
Tharkad
District of Donegal, Lyran Commonwealth
11 January 3027
Jeana's eyes snapped open and the brilliant white of the room's walls and ceiling sizzled pain into her eyeballs. She shook her head once, then unconsciously rubbed the sore spot. Feel muzzy from whatever they hit me with.
Jeana raised her hands to shade her eyes. Good, I'm not restrained. Her eyes narrowed. The duty of a prisoner is to escape. Name. Rank. Serial Number.
She sat on the room's only stick of furniture—a rickety wooden chair—and studied her surroundings. The whole ceiling glowed with a light that burned away all shadows except those hiding beneath her chair. It also bleached her black jumpsuit a pallid gray. It was no surprise that there were neither insignia or labels on the suit or slippers she had been given. Jeana had nary a clue to where her Loki abductors had taken her.
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