Heir to the Dragon

by Robert N. Charrette

  "He was a superior Tech," Sorenson agreed, infected by the calm of the Coordinator. "Does the Dai-i think the override could be broken?"

  "Not in time."

  "Then we are trapped."

  "Unless you can grow wings or walk on air like the fabled tenshin."

  Sorenson started to shake his head. The Coordinator's comment sparked a desperate plan.

  "There may be a chance," he said. "Come, Tono."

  Sorenson led the Coordinator to the BattleMech bay.

  The Coordinator must have divined Sorenson's plan as soon as they reached their destination.

  "The 'Mechs are not equipped for orbital drop."

  "No, Tono. We have the shells and maneuver units on board, but there is no time to rig them up. My Grasshopper has jump jets, though, and we have already entered atmosphere. If we can get a 'Mech outside the ship, it may be possible to ride it down. It won't be a pleasant trip and the landing will be rough, but it's a chance."

  "The Dragon approves audacity, Tai-sho."

  Sorenson suspected that Takashi was a superior 'Mech pilot. Hoping that the Coordinator would understand, he said, "There's no time to clear the safety locks and to wipe the neurocircuits clean for you, so I'll have to pilot it."

  The Coordinator nodded.

  They rode the lift to cockpit level in silence, rising high above the deck where crewmembers scurried in panic.

  "Better let me in first, Tono. I'll never get my bulk past you otherwise."

  Sorenson squeezed through the narrow entry hatch. As he passed, he tugged the lever that unfolded the jumpseat and locked it in place. Most 'Mechs had such accommodations for passengers, but they were cramped, uncomfortable. The rider was locked in, able to see nothing more than brief glimpses of the controls and screens, unable to affect his fate. Briefly, Sorenson wondered how Takashi would take such helplessness. He himself would have been frantic.

  As he settled into the command couch and keyed in his computer identification code, he heard the Coordinator strapping in. Sorenson slapped on the biomonitor patches and jammed the plugs into their neurohelmet sockets before rocking the massive helmet free of its cradle. He settled the helmet over his head, feeling the weight pressing down onto his unprotected shoulders. Damn! That will bruise, he thought, but there was no time to don the cooling vest whose padded shoulders normally protected a Mech Warrior from the oppressive mass of the neurohelmet.

  The lack of the cooling vest was a problem. No MechWarrior ever wanted to operate his machine without one. As heat built up in the cockpit, a man could be cooked. He and the Coordinator would have to take their chances.

  "All belted in, Coordinator?"

  "Hai," came the answer, still cool and sounding far more ready than Sorenson felt. "The reactor is cold."

  The Coordinator hit upon another flaw in Sorenson's plan. It normally took several minutes to safely bring a Battle-Mech's fusion reactor to operating temperatures. Minutes they didn't have. Starting the 'Mech cold was another risk that only a desperate man would take.

  "We're going to have to chance a cold start, Tono. I'm trying to set up a power feed through the DropShip's monitor cables."

  Sorenson completed the circuit just as an explosion rocked the ship. Damn, Beorn. Nothing left to chance. You set explosives as well.

  The BattleMech jerked as power flooded into it. Limbs spasmed as random surges activated the myomer pseudomuscles that moved the massive alloy bones of the machine's skeleton. In the midst of the jerky dance, Sorenson sent the signal to open the bay doors.

  There was no response.

  He tapped the unlock code again. And again. The titanium alloy doors remained immobile, as unmoved by his repeated signals as by his curses. The damned traitor, had been too thorough.

  There was only one chance left.

  Sorenson triggered the 'Mech's head-mounted missile launcher.

  Crashing detonations filled the bay as its door shattered under the explosive power of the warheads. Strips of steel ripped free of the ship, scattering free into the sky like chaff. The Grasshopper was knocked free of its mooring as a tremendous blast spun the ship. A tumbling whirl of clouds was the last thing Sorenson saw as the BattleMech toppled backward, jarring its pilot, and sending him straight into darkness.

  * * *

  "Good to see you again, Duke Ricol," Theodore said, straightening from his bow and extending his hand to the man.

  "The pleasure is mine, Highness." Ricol's tone was as suave as his dress. His natty red garb was a distinct contrast to the drab gray and brown that dominated Theodore's uniform. "What brings you out so early in the morning, after so long a night of celebration?"

  "A message from my cousin Marcus," Theodore answered, wondering if Ricol really knew how he had spent his night. "He asked me to come to the control center."

  "I would have expected him to be here to meet you," Ricol said. "His lack of grace in not meeting me is understandable. I am but the lord of a minor house, expected to wait on the whims of the mighty."

  Theodore gave Ricol a sidelong glance. He couldn't be sure just what part of the man's comment was sarcasm and to what part he was supposed to respond. Theodore elected to deal only with the factual statements.

  "Then you were to meet him, too."

  "So his message implied, Highness."

  "Curious."

  "Yes, isn't it?"

  The two men lapsed into thoughtful silence. Theodore looked out of the command center at the dawn rising over the starport. Condensate clouds rose from vents on the roofs of buildings across the field, as heated exhaust met the chill atmosphere. Workers moved about their business, taking care to spend most of their transit time in the light of the rising sun, avoiding the frost-cloaked shadows. Less lucky were a company of Tai-sho Sorenson's Eight Rasalhague Regulars. The MechWarriors' physical fitness instructor led them on a prescribed course that took no account of personal comforts as they jogged off to begin an early morning run.

  All was ordinary, another typical day. Order was serenity, something Theodore wished he had more of after the bustle of the previous day's hectic wedding preparations and the uneasy night with Tomoe.

  "Ah," Ricol said, drawing his attention. The Duke pointed at a speck in the distance. "A DropShip is approaching. I believe that your father will be making planetfall soon."

  11

  Draconis Military Starport, Reykjavik, Rasalhague

  Rasalhague Military District, Draconis Combine

  22 September 3019

  A commotion in the outer reception room drew the attention of those awaiting the incoming flight. Through the transparent barrier wall, Theodore could see Tourneville arguing with a new arrival. The newcomer still wore an aviation helmet concealing all his features except for the salt-and-pepper beard that bobbed up and down as he spoke and gesticulated at the main reception area.

  Theodore recognized the beard as belonging to Ottar Sjovold, Governor of Rasalhague District and his future father-in-law. Excusing himself from Duke Ricol, Theodore headed for the other chamber. As he penetrated the white-noise curtain masking the observation area, his ears filled with Sjovold's urgent demands to see him.

  "What is the problem, Jarl Sjovold?" Theodore inquired.

  Slipping past Tourneville's outthrust arm, Sjovold hurried toward Theodore and grabbed him by the arm. "Hurry, your Highness. Your man wouldn't let me through and there is little time. We must get you out of here."

  "What are you talking about, Governor?"

  Sjovold swept his eyes across the chamber before stammering nervously, "Ah ... an accident. Yes. There's been an accident! You must come with me."

  "Have you notified the authorities?" Theodore asked, suspicious of the sudden shift from assurance to distress.

  "No. No time," Sjovold babbled as he continued to rug the resisting Theodore toward the exit. "It's . . . it's your mother."

  Concern swept away Theodore's wariness. "She's been injured?"

  "No," the Governor
answered. "At least, nothing serious. But she wants to see you immediately. We must hurry!"

  The Governor urged Theodore into a waiting VTOL craft. Theodore dropped onto the perforated metal bench seat in time to see Duke Ricol and Tourneville climbing in after them. Sjovold seemed as surprised as he was. Ricol made a remark, but his words were lost in the scream from the turbines as the craft rose from the pavement.

  Theodore was forced into his seat as the craft lifted rapidly. The thunder of the rotors changed pitch when the wing tilted, bringing the whirling blades down into position for effective forward flight. The pilot had begun a sharp bank over the outskirts of the spaceport when the VTOL bucked as a shock wave hit it. The sound of thunder followed.

  As the craft banked in the other direction, Ricol tugged Theodore's sleeve and pointed out through the still-open hatchway. Framed in that patch of sky was a scene of horror. The incoming DropShip was trailing smoke and flames. Explosions erupted along its length, scattering smoking debris and burning fragments. As they watched, a BattleMech toppled out through a great rent in the heavy metal bay doors on the ship's side. It fell in a loose-jointed tumble to crash and shatter on the ferrocrete. A huge fireball erupted from the descending spaceship's nose and enveloped the fuselage. Out of the flames shot another 'Mech. One arm flopped loosely, trailing fire as the 'Mech traveled in a low arc away from the the burning ship. The DropShip's nose lifted slightly, as though the pilot had somehow regained control of his plummeting craft. The illusion was shattered as the ship plunged into the control center and erupted in flames.

  The men in the VTOL shielded their eyes from the fireball's intense flare. Dark, deadly smoke billowed up in death's umbrella over the site. Theodore was appalled. No one could survive that crash.

  His father had been aboard that DropShip.

  Governor Sjovold struggled across the compartment and slid the hatch closed. The noise level dropped instantly as the sealed cabin's sound buffers muffled the engine sounds. Sjovold dropped into the seat next to Theodore.

  "You could have died in the crash, your Highness."

  With a start, Theodore realized that Sjovold was right. If he had remained in the control center, now an inferno, he would have died at the same time as his father.

  "I risked my own life," Sjovold continued, "to get you out of there. I tried to get a message through to you all morning and arrived at your barracks to find you had left for the port."

  Theodore held up a hand to stop Sjovold. "Chu-i Tourneville, perhaps you had better go up to the cockpit and use the radio to ensure that the emergency facilities are mobilized. Get the fire under control before it jeopardizes the rest of the compound."

  Tourneville looked on the verge of refusing the suggestion, clearly wanting to remain. Theodore raised his chin slightly in a way he had seen his father do many times when wishing to reinforce his orders. Chastened, the Chu-i gave a sketchy bow and vanished up the companionway to the cockpit.

  Theodore turned to face the puzzled Governor. "Tourneville screened my calls this morning," he explained.

  Sjovold nodded his understanding, and a slight smile crept onto his face. "I see you begin to understand what has happened. You will appreciate that I have your best interests in mind."

  "I appreciate that you saved the life of the man who is to marry your daughter. A man who would become ... no, has become Coordinator. I do not think that you have only my interests in mind."

  Sjovold rocked back into his seat and stroked his beard, a sudden, new respect coming into his eyes. "I would be a fool and a liar if I denied that. Our paths take us in the same direction, and we can be of great help to each other.

  "For years, I have studied your career. The more I came to know of you, the more I was impressed. I have worked to see you replace your father. My people and I have worked alongside the Warlord, planning to rid ourselves of the tyrant, a man who has oppressed you as much as he has this District. Though we worked with Marcus, assuring him that we would support him as Coordinator, we worked for you. Marcus has betrayed us all by trying to kill you today, too.

  As soon as I learned of his message to you, I tried to stop you."

  "You did not try to stop me, Jarl," Ricol drawled.

  Sjovold, his concentration on Theodore broken, looked blankly at the Duke.

  There was something between the two men that Theodore did not understand. It was unimportant compared to what the Governor had said. "You say that you were involved with my cousin Marcus in a plot to kill my father."

  "It was necessary. But Marcus double-crossed us. He wishes to be Coordinator. It was always my intention to see you on the Coordinator's throne. We did this for you."

  "And now you expect me to work with you."

  "You will be Coordinator. We will all benefit. As your Warlord here, I can assure you of a peaceful, loyal district."

  Theodore stood and paced across the compartment. Sjovold's ambitions had been revealed, naked and ugly. He was now double-crossing Marcus even as he said the Warlord had double-crossed him. His back to the Governor, Theodore said, "You have an interesting opinion of the Kurita clan, Governor Sjovold. In general, and of me, specifically. If you know me so well, you should realize that I will not be a party to regicide."

  A sudden, meaty smack and yelp caused him to turn. Ricol and Sjovold were wrestling, rolling back and forth across the deck.

  Theodore stared at the struggling men, disturbed that he had felt no warning, no sense of danger to himself. His early training with Tetsuhara-sensei and later sessions with Director Indrahar had taught him to trust that sense. He did not believe it would betray him here. This was between the two of them. He held himself aloof from the struggling men on the floor of the compartment.

  The combatants bashed up against the aft bulkhead, Sjovold on top. The Governor's hands were locked around the Duke's throat. Ricol's arm snaked out to one side, slamming a fist into Sjovold's left elbow. Having weakened the grip, Ricol broke it completely in a convulsive heave. He drove a stiffened arm forward, catching Sjoyold's chin with his palm. The Governor's head snapped back with a brittle crack and he collapsed onto the Duke. Ricol untangled himself and slowly rose from the motionless body of his opponent. Stepping back, the Duke clearing Theodore's line of sight and pointed to a slim blade lying next to the Governor's outstretched hand. "He meant that for you, your Highness."

  "And you threw yourself in his way to save me," Theodore stated flatly.

  "As you say," Ricol said, inclining his head, "Coordinator."

  Theodore was taken aback at being addressed by his father's title. It did not sound right. He wondered about Ricol's motives, about the fight he had witnessed. "Did you wish to cover your own connections to him, or did you act only out of loyalty to the Dragon?"

  "Coordinator, I shall face any allegations of disloyalty in the circle of honor," Ricol replied, nonplussed by Theodore's bluntness.

  "And triumph, no doubt. I have heard of your skill with blades. Of all kinds."

  Ricol's face betrayed nothing.

  Theodore shrugged. "Tell the pilot to take us to the Hotel Kiruna. My mother must be informed of today's events." Ricol bowed, as befitted a loyal servant of the Dragon.

  12

  West of Reykjavik, Rasalhague

  Rasalhague Military District, Draconis Combine

  22 September 3019

  Sorenson had no idea how long he had been unconscious, but he knew it must have been only briefly. When he came to, the Startreader was still plummeting toward the surface of Rasalhague.

  Ignoring the warning buzzes and flashing system failure lights, he forced the Grasshopper from its bed of smashed machinery. The BattleMech wobbled as it reached its feet, sending a feedback of dizzying vertigo through the neurocircuits to increase the ache that filled his skull. The 'Mech staggered forward toward the rent his missiles had torn in the bay door. He reached out with the machine's arms and grasped the ragged edges. Metal tore like paper as he applied the herculean st
rength of the seventy-ton machine's myomer muscles.

  A high-pitched whine warned him of an actuator failure. He stabbed a hand forward even as his eyes registered the lights signaling a myomer failure, but was too late. Before he could hit the cut-off, the Grasshopper's left arm twitched, then went rigid as the motivating myomere, already stressed by the cold start, locked in spasm. Sorenson snapped the switch, cutting the power and unlocking the tension on the main myomer bundles. The smoking arm flopped uselessly to the side of the 'Mech, but the irregular motion of the failing arm twisted the 'Mech off-balance. Before the dazed Sorenson could compensate, the 'Mech crashed into the edge of the bay door, its upper torso jutting through the opening. The screaming wind of the DropShip's passage smashed the Grasshopper firmly against the frame of the ship, doubling it over like a ragdoll.

  Cursing the useless arm, Sorenson used the machine's remaining limb to lever the 'Mech into a more favorable position for firing the jump jets. As he did so, his sensors registered a tremendous explosion near the bow of the Startreader. Fearing that he would not clear the wreckage of the dying DropShip, he speared the red jump button.

  Fire from the captive sun at the heart of the BattleMech's fusion engine vaporized a minute quantity of the mercury reaction mass, transforming it instantly to plasma. Flame and superheated air rushed out the exhaust ports in the Grasshopper's back and legs, thrusting the 'Mech through the growing fireball enveloping the Startreader and away from the doomed vessel.

  Heat deluged the cockpit, and the Grasshopper's computer voice warned of imminent shutdown because of it. Sorenson, barely conscious, cut in the override, stilling the voice. Stubbornly, he worked the controls, trying to bring the wobbling 'Mech under control. As it spun, his cockpit screen gave him alternating views of ground and sky.

  "At least we're not heading straight down," he croaked, his throat gone dry from fear and heat.

  There was no answer from the jump seat.