A Bonfire of Worlds

by Steven Mohan Jr.

  Out of the corner of his eye Thaddeus saw the shape of General Todorov’s Patriot stop and jerk, its arms flying wide like a man shot in the back. The great machine toppled forward. For just a moment it looked like a corpse floating face down in the river, and then it sank out of sight.

  Alaric had rushed forward to pin the League machines and so the barrage was falling among the Wolves too, but it didn’t seem to matter. The Wolf Uller to the Mad Cat’s left was suddenly battered to the ground by the horror of falling shells.

  Alaric didn’t even flinch.

  He just stood there, pouring hellish energies into Thaddeus’s chest armor. Molten metal ran down the Warhammer’s chassis, sizzling and popping as it hit the water.

  A militia Cougar broke first, bolting for the forest. A dozen emerald and ruby beams impaled the fleeing ‘Mech. One moment the Cougar was a war machine of the New Olympia Home Guard.

  The next it was a sphere of golden light and the roar of terrible, catastrophic destruction.

  Thaddeus blinked away red after-images. The Cougar was just gone.

  Nothing to mark the fact that it had ever existed except for a blackened crater.

  And at that moment, Thaddeus Marik realized the Captain-General would have neither her victory nor her husband.

  * * *

  Bone watched Alaric cut into the Warhammer’s cockpit with the emerald fire of his lasers, burning the Warden-General of the Free Worlds League down to atoms. All along the length of the Captive River, trapped Free Worlders were dying by the numbers as the Wolves fell upon them.

  Only seconds before, the Wolves had faced certain defeat. And then Alaric had turned defeat into brutal victory. What Bone had just seen confirmed what he’d already believed.

  Galaxy Commander Alaric Wolf could not be stopped.

  It was then that Samuel Bone put away his binoculars.

  He’d seen all he needed to see.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ComStar Secret Research Facility Omega One

  Luyten 68-28, Exact Coordinates Unknown,

  Prefecture X

  29 September 3139

  The first thing Tucker Harwell thought was, I don't want to die in Buhl's office.

  The Precentor's desk was antique cherry wood backed by a matching credenza. A black leather sofa in front of the desk sat across from two steel-frame chairs. But the office's most impressive feature was its ferroglass walls. Since Buhl's office sat atop the planet's highest tower, it felt like they were meeting in the sky.

  The sky. Tucker hadn't seen it once in four years, and now he'd seen it twice in a week.

  It was a beautiful office, to be sure, he just didn't want it to be the last place he ever saw.

  The next thing Tucker thought was, they'll never execute me here. You just can't get blood out. They'd have to replace the carpet. And then: I'm in trouble if the next meeting's in a room with tile.

  Or if Buhl's thinking of redecorating.

  And then he thought, none of this is funny. They're going to kill me. They're really going to kill me. So why does it all seem so hilarious?

  Fortunately, Buhl didn't look like he was thinking of redecorating. Buhl looked like he was thinking of having a stroke. The Precentor's head was an unhealthy shade of pink sheened with sweat, and he didn't seem to be blinking. He paced back and forth between the sofa and the chairs.

  Patricia, on the other hand, looked perfectly calm. She sat next to Tucker on the sofa, her legs daintily crossed, her hands resting neatly in her lap.

  Buhl jabbed a meaty finger in Tucker's face. "You destroyed my core."

  "I tried to save your core," said Tucker reasonably. "You were the one who insisted on keeping it on line."

  "You sabotaged it," Buhl roared. "When we weren't watching, you sabotaged it."

  And right then Tucker realized he had the power to save the entire Inner Sphere. It was like a bucket of ice water in the face. No longer was he a ludicrous character in a cruel farce. Suddenly he had a choice. And that made it, all of it, real.

  He started to sweat.

  He could save humanity with a single word. And that word was "yes." Yes, he could say, I did sabotage your core. Buhl would have him executed, and that would leave ComStar with no one with the gifts needed to unravel the mystery of the blackout—at least not in the time the organization had left to it. The company would collapse and would be taken over by its creditors, and Buhl and the last vestiges of Word of Blake would be buried beneath the wreckage.

  All he had to do was say "yes."

  Except he suddenly found he couldn't do it. It wasn't because he feared death—oh, he did—but if he could save billions of lives by sacrificing himself, he'd do it. It wasn't the prospect of oblivion that stopped him.

  It was the puzzle. There was a puzzle here and the failure of the Polar Network was a crucial clue. Tucker just couldn't leave a puzzle unsolved.

  He just couldn't.

  He would just untangle this last knot for himself. Yes, that's what he'd do. He wouldn't tell anyone the answer. Certainly not Buhl. It would be his last gift to himself before they killed him. Just this one last puzzle.

  So he cleared his throat and said, "You know that's not true. I had no chance to sabotage your core—and if you think I'm lying, go back and look at the security tapes."

  Buhl stopped and gave Tucker a long, hard look. Then he started pacing again. "We've been poring over data for a week and we still don't understand." He glared at Tucker. "I suppose you think you know what happened."

  Patricia looked up at him curiously.

  Tucker licked his lips. "I know what didn't happen," he said slowly.

  Buhl folded his arms across his chest and narrowed his eyes.

  "Look, you took extraordinary efforts to keep the Polar Network clear of the virus. Any chance they didn't work?"

  "No," said Buhl coldly.

  "Then it can't be the virus."

  Buhl and Patricia stared at him blankly.

  "Think," said Tucker, "We've scrubbed millions of lines of code looking for the virus, we've spent hundreds of man-years checking and rechecking the network, and then you gave up and rebuilt everything from scratch. And it still doesn't work."

  "Wow," said Patricia flatly, "you really area genius."

  "Don't you see?" said Tucker. "We've spent so much time investigating the signal and we've found nothing. Maybe it's not the wave, but the water." "I don't follow," said Buhl slowly.

  "I'm talking about the medium. If nothing's wrong with the signal, there must be something wrong with the medium."

  Buhl's face contorted into a question. "You think there's something wrong with ... hypers pace? What kind of phenomenon could possibly affect hyperspace?"

  "I don't know," said Tucker, "but-"

  "And JumpShips travel through hyperspace," said Patricia. "If it had been altered somehow, why would they still be able to travel between the stars?"

  Tucker licked his lips. "I—" He shook his head. "I don't know.

  Buhl and Patricia stared at him stonily and Tucker suddenly realized it hadn't mattered what he'd said, after all. Because this was one puzzle that he was never going to get the chance to solve.

  Union-class DropShip Archon's Glory

  Zenith Jump Point

  Autumn Wind, Wolf Occupation Zone

  7 October 3139

  Alaric Wolf reached for the handhold mounted in the overhead and flung his body forward, grunting with the effort, his teeth bared. He shot down the passageway, well ahead of his Elemental escort.

  Most flatlanders had difficulty with weightlessness. Not Alaric. He applied the same intensity to the exercise of moving through zero gee that he brought to every challenge he faced.

  He made a savage grab for the next handhold. Keeping his body straight so he did not careen into the overhead, he threw himself forward, gaining still more speed.

  Speed speed speed.

  All he wanted was speed.

  There was a starboard tu
rn up ahead. Alaric reached for the next handhold, this time using the strength in his arms to roll his body over and send it hurtling down the side passageway. Pain lanced through his arms as they took the force of the turn. He snarled at the pain.

  But he gave up not a particle of speed.

  The Elementals followed behind him without a sound.

  * * *

  The woman stood in the wardroom looking out at the vast- ness of space, her polished white boots tucked beneath a steel rod set ten centimeters above the deck. She wore white coveralls, a concession to practicality. Her hair was the color of straw and it reached nearly to her waist. She had braided it, weaving white silk ribbons into the braid every few centimeters. In space, long hair was impractical, and in some circumstances, actually dangerous.

  Alaric realized the ribbons were not mere decoration—they were tethers that anchored her long braid to her coveralls, so

  it seemed to hang naturally. That was the essence of Katrina Steiner.

  Pragmatism and vanity woven together into a dangerous whole.

  "I read your report on New Olympia's conquest," she said softly, not turning. "It is an important world."

  Alaric studied his reflection in the viewport's ferroglass surface. Like Katrina, he was slender. And he was not especially tall. (That had come from his father's genetic heritage, he was sure.) Strong jaw, cheeks blooming red with exertion, a helmet of lank blond hair that hung down even with his chin. (He did not share Katrina's vanity.) His body bore the marks of violence, scarred knuckles, a knotted rope of tissue along his right arm, a small crescent scar shadowing his left orbit.

  Intense blue eyes.

  He realized he was not smiling. Alaric rarely smiled, but it was a mistake to sulk in Katrina Steiner's presence. He quirked his lips into a grin. Maybe she had missed his lapse.

  She turned, her blue eyes locked on his face. Her face was lined with the passage of many years, but she still possessed a trace of her former beauty.

  And she was still dangerous.

  "New Olympia must be important—considering what you risked to win it."

  "I destroyed Thaddeus Marik." said Alaric carefully. "That defeat will break the League's spirit. Is not such a victory worth the risk?"

  Katrina stared at him for a long moment. "I am sorry. Here I am lecturing you about trifles when clearly you are angry."

  "I am not angry," said Alaric evenly.

  "I am not angry—" said Katrina, imitating him perfectly, but drawing out the last word to indicate that something should come after.

  "I am not angry." Alaric drew a breath. "Mother."

  Katrina smiled at her little victory. "But you are, my son. I see it in the blood in your face, in the beads of sweat at your hairline. I saw it when you failed to smile at me."

  Alaric said nothing. In his whole life he had never given ground to anyone. But no one had ever defeated him half so much as this woman.

  "You are angry because at the very moment Atreus lies within your grasp, you are called away to confer with Khan Ward. And worse yet. His Spheroid allies. Glory awaits and instead of rushing to meet it, you must submit yourself to the whim of the Archon." She shook her head. "But there is value in this delay, my son."

  Alaric was wary. It was not uncommon for Katrina to set traps of logic for him. She would invite him to analyze a situation in which the facts pointed to a single conclusion. Then she would offer another consideration that shattered Alaric's entire analysis. Katrina considered it educational. Alaric found it unsettling.

  But she had told him what he was thinking, so he returned the favor: "You believe we must consolidate our gains. And the reformation of the Free Worlds League means we will have to reconsider our offensive. Troops will have to be shifted along the border to address these new realities."

  Katrina waved his words away with an impatient hand. "Aff, aff. All true—and all irrelevant."

  Alaric stared at his mother for a long moment. What would she consider important? Ever since she had been toppled from her Lyran throne, Katrina had learned to despise her former countrymen.

  "The transport of our civilian population." He peered at her, but Katrina's face betrayed nothing. "Our people travel through Lyran space. And the Lyrans augment our lift capability. They hold a knife to our throat. Every moment we delay is a moment closer to the end of our migration and thus our vulnerability."

  A small smile curled across Katrina's weathered face.

  "But why should that be a concern?" asked Alaric. "The Lyrans brought us here. We fight by their side." Alaric did not say that the Lyrans were allies. Wolves did not have allies. Wolves were not domesticated.

  She raised a pale eyebrow. "You trust them?"

  He shook his head. "They are Spheroids, and so they are treacherous by their very nature. It is better to say I understand what they want. They need us as a bulwark against House Marik. It would not serve their purposes to delay our move."

  "Of course," said Katrina. "You are right."

  Alaric stared at her. Katrina's mind was as sharp and dangerous as a laser's emerald kiss. She had not brought up this issue just to say, "You are right." Did she see something he had missed? Or was her concern just a product of her bitterness and paranoia?

  It was a dangerous assumption—the Inner Sphere was littered with the bodies of people who had thought they were smarter than Katrina Steiner—and yet Alaric could see no realistic Lyran threat.

  "It does not matter," said Katrina easily. "I called you here for another reason. I do not think you understand the danger that faces you at this conference."

  Alaric shook his head. "No danger awaits me on Cavanaugh II. The possibility of advantage, perhaps. The chance to bid for the next phase of the offensive, certainly. But danger... ?" He shook his head.

  Katrina studied him for a long moment, her face blank, her blue eyes glittering. "How do you believe you are regarded by Seth Ward?" she finally asked.

  Alaric met his mother's steady gaze, searching for the meaning behind her words. He wanted to say: I am worthy. I developed the plan that allowed Clan Wolf to move safely into Lyran space. I was struck down by Anastasia Kerensky, and yet I rose back up. I killed Thaddeus Marik. Exploits worthy of a khan.

  A khan.

  "You suggest he fears me," said Alaric.

  "The conservatives do not like you because you have a mother and because of your peculiar relationship with the woman

  Verena. But most of all because you are the most successful product of the Ironborn Sibko."

  "I am of House Ward, quiaff?" said Alaric mildly.

  Katrina snorted. "Publicly, aff. But there are those who see through Vlad's little trick. Those who do not like the thought of Steiner-Davion genes pretending to be something they are not."

  "But the experiment has been a success," Alaric pressed.

  "Opinions vary," said Katrina softly.

  For a moment silence hung over the space.

  "You spoke of the Khan," said Alaric.

  "The Khan," said Katrina. "Seth Ward wishes to remain Khan."

  Alaric frowned.

  Katrina speared him with her gaze. "A great battle will be waged during the conference on Cavanaugh II. It carries with it the same element of danger you faced on New Olympia. The same possibility of glory."

  "You speak of politics." Alaric could not keep the disdain out of his voice. Katrina Steiner was a master of politics. She wielded intrigue like a stiletto, slipping it between the ribs of her enemies. It was this skill that had made herthe ruler of the Federated Commonwealth when that privilege had rightfully belonged to her brother.

  It was this same skill that had been her ultimate undoing.

  "You disdain the thrust and parry of politics," she said evenly-

  "We are not treacherous Spheroids," said Alaric indignantly.

  A small smile graced Katrina's face. "Honorable warriors," she agreed, "ruled by the best among them with no appeal save for that of the sword."

&n
bsp; There was no sarcasm in her voice, but Alaric sensed it anyway—not in her voice, but in the pattern of the conversation. These sessions with his mother had taught him to read human interactions like he might read a map. He had learned to look past the masks people wore.

  So he was not at all surprised when his mother said: "Politics is present in all human endeavors, Alaric. Clan Wolf is not immune. You will find that politics is present whenever two people want the same thing."

  Time and Location Unknown

  Tucker's face pressed against ... something hard. His right cheek tingled with pins and needles. How... long? he thought groggily. Where ... ?

  He slowly opened his eyes and immediately shut them again. Burning, burning. He breathed heavily for long minutes, eyes screwed shut against the terrible light.

  After awhile he opened one eye carefully, squinting at his surroundings. Black. His surroundings were black. A long stretch of black.

  Work... bench, he realized. And then: lab.

  He was in his lab. On ... where? Somewhere. But ...

  Don't look at the sky, warned some distant part of his mind. He didn't understand the thought and let it flit away.

  Cold. The workbench was cold on his cheek. Had he fallen asleep while he was working? Move ... head. He tilted it-

  Thermonuclear pain blossomed in his head, a pain so cruel it was like he'd never felt pain before. Darkness swept over-

  Woke up. On floor. Felt tile beneath his hands. Tile. Mygodohmygod, tile. His cheeks were wet with tears, his breathing a hoarse rattle, his head ringing with the bright echo of the terror that had filled his skull when he'd moved it a fraction of a millimeter.

  He tried opening his eyes again. World was blurry: gray blob. Looking up. At blob. He drew a shuddery breath. After a moment, the gray blob resolved itself into something he finally understood.

  Patricia.

  She sat on his bunk, wearing her gray uniform, her military uniform, hands folded in her lap, a faint smile on her lips.

  She'd— She'd. Watched. Him. Watched him suffer. Patricia.

  "Good morning, sunshine," she said happily.