"Trish-uh," he croaked.
"DNI," she said.
"Wha?"
"I'm sorry, Tuck. I know you're not at your best. Direct Neural Interface. It's a nifty little tool developed to achieve a better man-machine interface."
A sudden chill wriggled up Tucker's spine. "By ... who?"
Patricia flashed him a dazzling smile. "Manei Domini."
Tucker's breath caught. The Master's Hands. Word of Blake's most brutal and fanatical faction. The Manei Domini were cyborgs, their bodies altered in terrible ways to better serve the will of Blake. They had been the shock troops of the Jihad that had rippled across the Inner Sphere.
"The Manei Domini used DNI to jack into their vehicles and BattleMechs," said Patricia. "But I've always thought if a human mind could look out through the link, maybe a human mind could also look in."
Tucker stared at her blankly for a long moment and then his stomach shriveled into a tight knot as he finally decoded her words. He reached up with a trembling hand and touched his skull.
His bare skull.
He dragged his hand across his head, feeling the stitches, the jagged cuts, the violation of his very mind.
"We've made a few useful alterations," said Patricia cheerfully.
"Buhl," croaked Tucker. "Buhl ... won't ..."
"Buhl doesn't know," said Patricia. "He's still deciding what to do with you. I don't suffer from that level of indecision."
"Buhl won't," Tucker insisted.
She snorted. "If I bring him the answers he wants, he won't care how I got them. And believe me, I will. Because you won't be able to not tell me what I want to know."
Incandescent pain suddenly filled Tucker's head, a pain so terrible that it eclipsed the agony he'd felt only a few moments before.
And then Tucker Harwell was lost to screaming.
Western Coast of Hall Island
Autumn Wind
Clan Wolf Occupation Zone
15 October 3139
Alaric loved the roar of the ocean as it crashed into the rocks. The ocean's fury was gray-green water churned into foam, the taste of brine in the cold snap of sea air, and that sound, always that sound: the rush of water, the boom of terrible power, the sloshing, hissing retreat as the sea gathered itself for another blow.
The shore was a battlefield, the beach a prize in the ocean's never ending battle against the land. That was what Alaric loved about the sound of the ocean.
He and Verena picked their way across the narrow strip of bronze sand. They climbed over black edifices of rock rising out of the sand; their irregular shapes softened and hollowed out by time and surf, forming little pockets of ocean that were home to small fish and mollusks.
The sea bends everything to its purpose, thought Alaric.
"You never did tell me why Katrina Steiner summoned you," said Verena.
She glanced back at him. Verena's golden blond hair was cut short and herface was full, lending her an air of innocence and purity. She had just returned from a training exercise and she still wore MechWarrior togs: black leather boots, tight brown shorts and nothing but a cooling vest and a sweat-soaked t- shirt covering her bare chest. "What did she want?"
Alaric frowned at the sea. That was always a good question. What Katrina wanted was not always obvious. She is like Anastasia Kerensky in that way, Alaric thought.
"She came to warn me," he said.
Verena's laughter was a rich, musical trill. "Warn you about what?"
He thought a moment before answering, scrambling up the side of a jagged rock. It was an unseasonably warm day and after the frustration of his summons to Cavanaugh II and his conversation with his mother, it felt good to work his muscles.
"About the treachery of the Clans."
Verena snorted. "The Clans are many things, but they are not treacherous."
"Which is most likely why she felt the need to warn me. Because I might believe as you do."
She peered at him, her head tilted, a breeze playing with her short, blond hair, her cerulean eyes on his face. His eyes went to her wrist, her bare wrist, where only a few months before she had worn the three cords he had given her when he had taken her as his bondsman.
"The conservatives look upon me with disgust," said Alaric carefully. "Because of her. Not everyone appreciates Katrina Steiner's exalted place in our Clan—or that she styles herself a mother."
Verena's blue eyes burned into him for a moment and then she looked away, turning her face to the angry ocean. "Or could it be—" She stopped and swallowed. "That you style yourself a, a husband." Her voice broke on the last word.
Husband. It was a Spheroid word. It had no place inthe Clans. The Trueborn were not actually born at all; they were children of the iron wombs. To be a Clanner was to be the product of a ruthless eugenics program. The genes of the weak were winnowed; only the best warriors won the honor of passing on their genetic legacy.
So sex between Clanners did not carry the same emotional weight that it did for Spheroids. Sex was no act of procreation for Trueborns, no act of union. The physical act of love was a joy freely given between warriors. It was pleasure, it was release.
Nothing more.
But sometime during her long captivity, Verena had grown to be more than a bondsman to Alaric, more than a fellow warrior. He had been with no other woman since Verena and he first coupled—and he knew she had been with no other man.
"Well, there is one sure way to address the conservatives' suspicions." Verena's voice was stiff, tightly under control. She still was not looking at him. "Take one of them into your bed."
She was right. It was the logical solution and it would cost him so little. A joy freely given.
Then why was he not going to do it?
He reached out and took her wrist, her bare wrist, touching it gently with his hand, feeling smooth skin, the tendons flexing beneath, the throb of her pulse.
Unlike Verena, he had not lived among Spheroids, had not served them. How little he truly understood them.
She turned. Tears traced down her face.
He hesitated. Then he leaned in and kissed them away.
She crushed his mouth to hers. He reached hungrily beneath her cooling vest. They coupled like Clanners, enthusiastically and without shame, making love right there on the beach, not caring about the sand or the sea or who might see.
Afterwards, Alaric watched her sleep, stretched out on her stomach, her head pillowed on her bare arm, her blond hair in her face.
All his life Alaric had prized the ethic of Clan Wolf, modeling himself after Vlad Ward. He had once even hoped that he carried Vlad's genes. It had turned out not to be true, but he still looked to the example of the former Khan. Alaric was the very embodiment of the Clan warrior. And that was the face Alaric presented to the world.
But there was more to him. There was the cold, calculating influence of his mother, Katrina Steiner. And maybe ... a part of himself that he owed to his true father.
Victor Steiner-Davion.
He remembered the delicate feel of Verena's wrist under his hands, the miraculous articulation of the joint. How could he feel such wonder at such a small thing? What is this? Alaric thought.
Whatever it was it could not have come from Vlad Ward, Vlad who had loved only war. Nor could it have come from Katrina Steiner, Katrina who loved only herself.
It could only have come from Victor. His father.
He leaned forward and brushed the hair out of Verena's face. She stirred and looked up at him. A broad smile curled across her pretty face.
Suddenly his heart was pounding. Alaric was startled by his own feelings.
What IS this?
Excalibur-class Pocket WarShip Archon's Fist
Zenith Jump Point
Bolan, Bolan Military Province
Lyran Commonwealth
Trillian Steiner sat back in the darkened situation room that served as the Archon's mobile command post and listened to the smooth, self-satisfied voice of Leutnant-General Maur
er fill the space. "The Lyran thrust continues to advance. When the assault resumes we expect to swallow the Protectorate Coalition."
As he spoke the map on the bulkhead screen shifted. A Steiner blue arrow slashed into the swarm of lavender stars that made up the Free Worlds League.
"And the Covenant Worlds?" asked Archon Melissa Steiner coolly.
"The Covenant Worlds are under the personal protection of Thaddeus Marik," said Maurer. "Beyond them lies the Clan Protectorate. We know our offensive must end somewhere. And though Duke Vedet has advanced steadily, it hasn't been against Clan warriors—or a former Paladin of the Republic."
The general's voice was heavy with contempt. Despite the successes of Operation Hammerfall, the Lyran Army still resented having to take orders from Vedet Brewer.
Melissa's lips quirked ever so slightly. Trillian was quite sure she was the only one who'd seen the tiny smile. The Archon glanced at her. "Trillian, you will manage the campaign's conclusion."
By which she meant, Trillian would maneuver Vedet into a final defeat that would undercut the prestige he'd gained in leading the Lyran half of the operation. Trillian tasted something sour at the back of her throat. How many soldiers' lives would be spent to serve Melissa's political needs? But she bowed her head and said: "Of course, Highness."
With a quick glance at Gunter Duiven, the nondescript head of Loki, Melissa turned back to Maurer. "What of the Wolves, General?"
"The Wolf thrust is anti-spinward of ours." A brown arrow slashed through the narrow bridge that joined the League's two halves. "As you can see, Highness, the Wolves are driving rimward, their ultimate aim to break the spine of the Free Worlds League."
Trillian felt a light flutter in her stomach. She doubted very much that Maurer had any idea what Clan Wolf's ultimate aim was.
The Wolves were carving a nice little occupation zone out of the Free Worlds League. In what Melissa no doubt considered a clever move, she'd brought the Wolves rimward to help fight her war. She'd done what any major company did when courting a highly valued employee—she'd offered to pay for their move. Even now Lyran JumpShips were moving Wolf civilians to their new worlds on the Commonwealth border.
It was typical Melissa. Buy the Wolves' allegiance with new planets and force House Marik to pay the bill.
The Archon'sambition was breathtaking. Aside from herWolf gambit, something else was going on. Lately Trillian had become aware of huge sums flowing out of the Commonwealth, billions of kroner finding their way to ComStar holdings outside Fortress Republic. So far Trillian's cousin hadn't seen fit to explain that particular operation and Trillian hadn't pressed. She was more concerned about the Wolves.
Looking at the map, Trillian wondered if Melissa had been too clever by half. The Wolf OZ stretched from Stewart to Kirkenlaard. And there was no sign the Clanners' advance would stop. Ever.
"If I may, Highness," said Duiven, "Loki has intelligence on the Wolf advance."
Melissa nodded.
"Archon, this vidclip comes from a highly placed asset, code- named BLUEBIRD. I must caution you, I cannot answer any questions regarding sources or methods."
Trillian sat up a little straighter in her chair. BLUEBIRD was a prized intelligence source operating within the Free Worlds League. To protect the operative's identity, only four people in the entire Lyran Commonwealth knew his (or her) name. Duiven was one of the four. No one else in the room was. Not even Melissa.
"Very well," said the Archon.
A video began rolling. Trillian watched a camouflaged Warhammer settle into what looked like a mud-bath. The 'Mech wore a Marik eagle over its left breast.
Melissa gasped. Trillian turned to look at her.
The Archon leaned forward. "That's— Is that—"
"Thaddeus Marik, yes," said Duiven. "You have an excellent eye, Highness. I am at liberty to tell you that this footage was taken on New Olympia three weeks ago, before the pause in the fighting."
Trillian watched a dark brown Mad Cat with brilliant orange accents stalk forward to challenge Thaddeus Marik. Alaric Wolf, she suddenly realized. That's Alaric Wolf.
The two machines lashed each other with their energy weapons, traded missile blows. But the Wolf 'Mech was back- stepping, giving ground. Were the Wolves losing?
The Warhammer lurched clumsily, taking an unsteady step forward. The view drifted back to the treeline and— There. An SM1 Destroyer painted in Clan colors. And a Raven. And—
It was a trap. Alaric Wolf had lured Thaddeus Marik into a trap.
The view expanded. Free Worlders were breaking under the two-sided assault.
"Note," said Duiven softly, "Alaric has maneuvered the planet's defenders into an untenable position. At this point, it is likely he will win the battle. But for Alaric Wolf, winning the battle isn't enough."
On the screen artillery began to fall, shells plunging into the midst of the battle. It was a brutal assault. The fire was concentrated on the Free Worlds line, but stray shells were landing among the Wolves, too. Marik machines were bolting like stampeding cattle, but the Wolves stood in there, ignoring the deadly rain falling all around them.
The Uller beside Alaric fell. But the Mad Cat didn't move, didn't step away, didn't react at all. Alaric Wolf was totally focused on the Warhammer, tearing into it.
Thaddeus Marik's 'Mech stumbled like a punch-drunk fighter, and then it crumpled to the ground.
And then the view zoomed in on the Warhammer's mangled cockpit, its contents reduced to carbon ash, the Mad Cat standing triumphantly over its kill. The image froze.
There was a moment of absolute silence, as if the terrible images they'd just witnessed had drained the universe of sound.
"I think," said Duiven softly, "that perhaps we can contemplate an attack on the Covenant Worlds, after all."
"So the Wolves have taken New Olympia," said Maurer hopefully. "They are still moving rimward. As we've directed."
"It seems so," said Duiven.
"It's the word seems that concerns me," said Melissa dryly.
Around the room her aides shifted in their seats.
"EMPTY CUPBOARD?" asked Maurer, raising an inquiring eyebrow.
Trillian shook her head. "EMPTY CUPBOARD is a dangerous move. It'll infuriate the Wolves."
"It will remind the Wolves who holds the leash," said Maurer stiffly.
"Take it from a diplomat, General," said Trillian, "the goal isn't to remind the Wolves who holds the leash. The goal is to pretend there is no leash. If we're not careful we'll—"
"EMPTY CUPBOARD was set in motion two weeks ago." The Archon's voice was cold, firm.
Shocked silence filled the room for a heartbeat. Trillian realized her mouth was hanging open and shut it. "Yes, of course, Highness," she said softly.
"I trust you were speaking of something other than EMPTY CUPBOARD, Archon," said Duiven.
Melissa leaned forward in her chair. "There is a practice as old as hunting itself. It's called baiting. Hunters would set out meat for a bear—or a wolf." "And the animal would be led to its death," said Maurer.
"We have reason to work with the Wolves," said Melissa. "Nevertheless, we will take precautions." Her eyes found the frozen image of the Mad Cat. "Just in case."
CHAPTER FOUR
Overlord-class DropShip Bec de Corbin
Low Orbit, Romulus Clan Heirs
Horses Occupation Zone
17 November 3139
Beckett Malthus stepped on to the DropShip's bridge and shut the spacetight hatch behind him. Bec de Corbin—Beak of the Crow—was accelerating as she maneuvered for orbital insertion. For a few moments at least Beckett enjoyed the luxury of weight.
No one looked up as he entered.
A viewscreen dominated the bridge, watchstanders arrayed before it. Beckett went to the bridge's aft bulkhead and leaned against a console designed to pull up any tactical display, link with any ground command. This had once been his station.
Not any more.
The
vessel bore Beckett's name, but that was just another lie. Like the lie that he was the Khan of Clan Jade Falcon. In reality, the ship, the Clan, even Beckett himself served a single master: Malvina Hazen, who called herself Chingis Khan.
Emperor of all Mankind.
Beckett was a big man, saturnine and watchful, his body clothed in a black and green Falcon uniform. A gray beard framed his broad, calculating face. He looked out on the universe with eyes the color of a pond skimmed with green algae.
A world turned on the bridge's giant screen. The planet possessed blue seas, but what really caught the eye were the fecund greens and golds of the continents, the colors of spring, of plenty. Of life.
Malvina planned to conquer this world. Although she had yet to issue challenge, she had already laid out her strategy. It was intricate, but simple at its heart. The only part of the plan Beckett failed to understand was why they were here at all.
Clan Jade Falcon was already overextended. The Falcons clung to a perch in the Skye region, giving them a second hostile frontier with the Lyrans. And now that the Wolves had abandoned their coreward holdings, the Falcons were rushing to fill the vacuum before the Horses and the Ghost Bears swallowed the former Wolf worlds. Worst of all, the Falcon touman had still not recovered from the vicious rending that had brought Malvina Hazen to power three years before.
So why attack a backwater like Romulus? No one would dispute that Malvina Hazen was mad—but Beckett had never known her to be stupid.
The hatch opened and Malvina Hazen stepped on to the bridge with her pet, the Spheroid girl Cynthy.
Beckett felt a little shiver of disquiet looking upon the girl. She wore a bright pink blouse and denim pants, her blond hair tied back in a ponytail with a pink ribbon. Beckett judged her age at nine years. She was eating a chocolate bar. Was there no indulgence Malvina would refuse her? he wondered. The girl's small hand was sticky with half-melted candy, and a smear of chocolate marked her chin.
Cynthy turned her blue eyes on Beckett and gave him a long, frank look that knew neither respect nor fear.
Wrong.
The woman standing next to the girl was tiny, herself barely larger than a child. She wore a uniform of her own design: black with green and yellow details. The slight color mismatch
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