Tara C restrained a smile. “That’sit? You aren’t Dispossessed.”
Her friend looked at her sharply. “Don’t try to blow smoke up my—don’t try to sweet-talk me, Countess. I’ve spent enough hours in myPack Hunter to know she was dying when I punched out.”
The Countess nodded. “I’m sad to say we couldn’t salvage your BattleMech—”
“Then what—”
“—but we won, remember? There’s plenty of salvage, and nobody’d deny you earned a high spot on the list. You’ll have your pick of a variety of rides, courtesy of Clan Jade Falcon.”
Tara Bishop stared at her. Her eyes were huge; and hardened veteran that she was, she could not speak as they filled with tears. She looked at Tara as if the Countess had given her life itself.
To a MechWarrior, she had.
Tara Bishop gripped her friend and Countess by the hand, and held it tight.
Duke Gregory Kelswa-Steiner sat in his darkened office, smiling broadly.
It was not because of the great peril from which his planet and people had been delivered, nor yet because of the smashing victory he had taken part in winning against fearful odds—granted, with help from a most unlooked-for quarter. Or rather, they were not the immediate cause of the gleeful expression illuminated on his bearded visage by the light bleeding from the holovid stage.
Rather, it was the scene there reenacted: furious mobs smashing the windows and doors and trashing the ground floor of the New London planetary headquarters of Herrmanns AG Media.
While the rest of Skye’s mass media sang delirious praises of the world’s defenders, especially the ever-so-photogenic young noblewoman who had led them to victory (granted, alongside the equally photogenic young woman who until recently had been her bane and Galactic Enemy Number One), Herrmanns had raised the roof with shrill accusations that Countess Campbell deliberately let the Skye volunteers of the Forlorn Hope be slaughtered to preserve the lives and BattleMechs of her precious Highlanders.
The accusation particularly annoyed the Duke, and had no doubt deeply wounded the Countess, because it wastrue . As far as it went. What that fat simpering fool Arminius was not saying was that she had announced that as her intent from her very first appeals for recruits to theHimmelsfahrtkommando . The planwas to preserve her veterans—in sufficient strength to deliver a decisive blow to the invaders.
Skye’s other media organizations had turned Arminius von Herrmann’s own vitriol back on him, at redoubled pressure and scalding hot. Whether inspired by their denunciations or something else, the people of New London—and New Glasgow as well, 300 kilometers north—had taken matters into their own hands and rioted, attacking Herrmann’s facilities.
Certainly, the Duke’s own intelligence service had nothing to do with the riots. They had their hands full sorting through the aftermath of the invasion. Especially the Solvaig mess....
Sirens and whistles sounded from the holovid track. Down the street a Seventh Skye Militia Demon crept, its loudspeakers calling for order. Files of Garryowen and Ducal Guard infantry trotted alongside it, unarmed but still wearing their stained battle dress. The crowd gave reluctant way. It responded more quickly when a capturedEyrie appeared on the scene to back up the peacekeepers, wings spread to fill the street, barbaric Clan badges painted out and the flags of Skye and The Republic, and the Duke’s personal coat of arms, hastily but not unskillfully daubed onto its front armor.
The Duke was pleased at the several-layered stroke of propaganda, and also by the way his Guard and the Garryowens, who in former times had got along as well as Wolves and Jade Falcons, acted together in perfect unison and apparent comradeship. Still, it was too damned bad they had to intervene,
especially before one or another mob caught Arminius and tossed his fat ass in a blanket for a while. But order must be preserved, even at such cost.
Duke Gregory sat back in his chair, massaged his temples with the tips of his blunt, powerful fingers. The chair itself, sensing his muscular tension, began a motorized massage of his shoulders and upper back.
The riot coverage faded, replaced by a bust of Skye’s late chief minister. Apparently, the stress of readying Skye to defend itself against horrible odds had caused the great man to break down, the female newsreader said in a plum-mily regretful voiceover: he had been found dead in his apartment after the battle, an apparent suicide.
The Duke muted the soundAh, Augustus , he thought,at least you were considerate enough to spare the world you betrayed the agony of a public trial. Although it was a damned shame, Duke Gregory felt, to be cheated of the subsequent public execution. The Duke would havepaid for ringside tickets when his former chief minister—and friend—went to the wall.
But Augustus Solvaig had stolen a march on the firing party, vaporizing the upper half of his balding head with a laser pistol.
He had left behind abundant evidence, at his flat and in his palace office, that he was a mole planted in the Duke’s cabinet by the Marik-Stewart Commonwealth branch of SAFE, the former FWL intel service. A dispatch not yet encrypted for sending off-world told how he had done what he could to weaken Skye’s defenses against the Jade Falcons. He believed that a successful Clan invasion of The Republic through Steiner space could greatly aid both resistance against the aggression SAFE knew the Lyrans planned against Marik-Stewart domains, and future Marik-Stewart efforts to reclaim territory from The Republic itself.
Nothing he left gave a clue, however, as to why he’d blown his head off at the very moment his schemes were being consummated. Forensic pathologists judged that he had died sometime around the battle’s height, when a Falcon victory seemed all but certain.
Duke Gregory lowered his hands to his lap. He wore a heavy burgundy robe over a pair of light blue silk pajamas. It was late in the day for him to be lounging about watching videos, and duty would soon enough draw him out of his warm, dark office into the cool light of day. But for now—this was what he paid his staff for, dammit.
Jasek, he thought unbidden. The boy never liked Augustus a damn . The lad had just been entering adolescence, head swimming with lurid tales of the glories of House Steiner, when Augustus Solvaig had appeared from the obscurity of the planetary government’s bureaucracy and begun his rise to prominence—and increasing access to the innermost councils of the Governor of Skye and ruler of Prefecture IX. Jasek thought Solvaig was a rodent, and said so, in that forthright way of his.
He was in many ways a reflection of his old man, Jasek was—and the reflection was not to the father’s discredit. The boy had passion, after all, and the courage of his convictions, and the wherewithal to act upon them. That counted for something, even if he had turned his back on his own father and The Republic which both had sworn to serve.
His defection had left the planet cruelly exposed. No denying it. Yet Skye had pulled through.
Much as the Duke resented Tara Campbell and her Highlanders as interlopers when they first arrived, they saved Skye. In post-battle interviews, Countess Northwind had lavished most of the credit upon
The Republic Skye Militia, and the Duke himself.
Well, if I’m going to admit I was wrong, I might as well make a habit of it,Duke Gregory thought. Within reasonable limits, of course.
He rubbed thoughtfully at his bearded chin. Sometime after the battle, the Countess had mentioned to him in passing that she doubted House Steiner had designs upon either Prefecture IX or Skye. That seemed confirmed by Solvaig’s report to his secret masters: they planned to jump the Mariks. No skin off of any portion of Duke Gregory’s anatomy, withal.
The Stormhammers, the army Jasek had ... extracted from Skye’s armed forces, based themselves upon Nusakan, Terra-wards from Skye—not far from Falcon-held Zebebelgenubi, in fact. Perhaps, the Duke thought, he could get discreet word to the boy, make overtures toward reopening communications.
Falcon captives, holding themselves bondsmen and women, had explained the scheme to grab a foothold in The Republic, in hope
of a follow-up by the whole FalconTouman. They may not have Skye, the Duke thought,but they have themselves a foothold, and no mistake . The Falcons still held worlds in Prefectures VIII and IX, and even Chaffee in the Commonwealth.
The Republic had not heard the last of Clan Jade Falcon. When they heard more, it would be well to have Jasek Kelswa-Steiner standing at his father’s shoulder against them.
The Duke made mental note to order that planning for certain contingencies cease at once—and that all evidence of that planning be destroyed.
For some reason his mind went back to the police, and later intelligence, reports from the scene of Augustus Solvaig’s demise. It seemed that, on the bureau in his bedroom, near where the body lay, a single playing card had been discovered. No one had any idea what it meant. No decks of cards were found among the chief minister’s effects. So far as the Duke knew, Solvaig didn’town a pack of cards. He was not given to games of chance. Except, perhaps, the ultimate one.
It was a false note, a loose end, and Duke Gregory vigorously detested both. Still, the universe was full of questions he was never going to learn the answer to, no matter how that vexed him. The card was doubtless of no significance whatever; perhaps it had been left there by some fool of a patrol policeman early on the scene.
He picked up the remote control. Surely, there was time to watch the crowds busting Arminius von Herrmann’s windows once more before duty dragged him back to the weary business of helping his world recover from the invasion.
“Countess Campbell?”
In an airy hospital corridor, well lighted by tall windows along one wall, Tara Campbell, walking with her head down in thought, paused and turned to see Legate Stanford Eckard overtaking her.
“Legate,” she said with a smile. “Good day to you.”
“And to you, Countess. I am pleased to find you here.”
She made an agreeable noise. She was still distracted: thinking about Paul. How he happened to materialize on the battlefield just in time to save her was as big and apparently unsolveable a mystery as
how he happened to know how to pilot a Clan BattleMech—or how he’d got hold of one in the first place.
They had grown close, these last few weeks, very close. He was the first man the Countess had let anywhere near, emotionally since .. . since Northwind. Now he was dead, in saving her, and she mourned for him.
And for what might have been.
She shook off her grief. “How may I help you, Legate?” she asked.
He smiled. “You have helped more than words can possibly express already. I have thanked you before for saving Skye; I do so now, and intend to do yet again.”
His manner grew grave. “I have received a report from Republican intelligence. With matters as up-in-the-air as they are, I am not sure it would reach you through normal channels, although doubtless it is intended to.”
He handed her a flimsy piece of paper, pale yellow. With a quizzical glance at him she held it up and read.
Her eyes skipped quickly over EYES ONLY and TOP SECRET and various routing codes and time/rate stamps, and got right to the meat: a warning that an operative of Loki, the terrorist branch of House Steiner’s intelligence service, might be en route to or have arrived on Skye. His mission was unknown. Threat-assessment was low: House Steiner maintained a neutral-to-friendly stance toward The Republic, blah, blah. But alertness was in order, since Loki had been known to have its own agenda.
Although his actual identity was unknown, this operator was familiar to counterintelligence agencies throughout the Inner Sphere as the Knave of Hearts. Some Republican security experts, the report indicated, doubted his very existence, believing him to be pure Lyran Intelligence Corps disinformation, a bogeyman to frighten the Liao, the Mar-iks and of course the Davies. But several sightings deemed moderately reliable indicated his appearance was that of an ethnic-Asian male in his thirties, medium height and athletic build, no other distinguishing characteristics....
“Countess?” The Legate’s own Asian face mirrored the perplexity in his voice. “Are you quite all right?” She raised her face to his. She blinked her eyes at sudden moisture. But her mouth smiled.
“It’s nothing, Legate Eckard,” she said. “Just emotional aftershocks from yesterday.”
Legate Eckard nodded. “I see,” he said. Plainly he didn’t.
She remembered, of a sudden, forensic reports from Solvaig’s residence, and the unexplained presence of a playing card: a jack of hearts.
Paul, she was thinking.you bastard . Yet the thought lacked heat.
You lied to me.
Still, she knew that—unlike a certain other—he had never betrayed her.
Any more than he had died yesterday on Seminary Hill when his stolenPhoenix Hawk IIC exploded. She felt certain of that now, irrationally perhaps. No body had been found. It had seemed neither surprising nor mysterious at the time: another stone added to the crushing weight of post-battle depression that followed victory as surely as defeat, once adrenaline subsided.
Smiling, she thanked the Legate and handed him back his scrap of paper, now crumpled from her brief fierce grip. Then, head held high, she strode off down the sunlit corridor, leaving the Legate looking curiously after her.
“There you go, Rabbi Martinez,” the travel agent said, handing a chip encased in clear protective plastic to the red-bearded man in the heavy winter coat trimmed with lustrous black direbeast fur from the northern forests of Skye. “Your passage aboard the DropShipGrimalkin day after tomorrow, continuing to Syrma aboard the Gold Star Lines JumpShipIlluminatus Prime ”
He smiled. “Have a safe and pleasant journey home.” It had been centuries since anyone would have found anything remarkable about a rabbi being named Martinez, any more than that he should have red hair. Or eyes of distinctively Asian shape, albeit a piercing jade green in color.
“Thank you kindly, young man,” the rabbi said, with an accent indicating his origin was in the northwest quadrant of Syrma’s northerly continent Amygdala. “I must admit I am eager to return home. I fear I found my sojourn here far more adventurous than I anticipated.”
The agent bobbed his sleek head and laughed. “It’s been that way for all of us, Rabbi.”
Saying a last farewell, the man turned and pushed his way into the bright, cold morning. He walked down the street in the direction of New London’s most discreetly luxurious hotel.
The man who had just displayed credentials establishing his identity beyond question as Rabbi Yitzhak Martinez, of Talwin, Syrma, Prefecture VIII of The Republic of the Sphere was indeed headed home. His home just wasn’t Syrma.
He should, no doubt, have checked a certain cavity behind a certain loose stone in a certain retaining wall beside Thames Bay, to see if a new assignment awaited him. But to Hell with that: he had a vacation coming. What could his superiors do, send him on a suicide mission?
They’d long since tired of tryingthat .
He intended to live as high and handsomely as possible for a month or three. Nor would the comptrollers have a gripe about that: it wasn’t coming out oftheir tight fists, clutched like a drowner’s upon the Archon’s black budget.
He didn’t know precisely where the late and thoroughly unlamented Augustus Solvaig had come by his pile of fine rubies and emeralds from Skye’s mines, worth far more than their mass in gold. He did know the minister wouldn’t be having any further use for them.
He paused to gaze into a display window. A trivid set inside showed a petite, pretty woman with short, platinum-blond hair being interviewed by reporters. He stood a moment, hands in his pockets, watching.
Then he touched the brim of his fedora, turned, and stepped right out with his cane tucked underneath his arm. It was a good day to be alive. He had long ago learned to appreciate each new day he got; “good” was just a bonus.
No passersby thought it strange he was whistling “Garryowen.” It was on everyone’s lips, these days. Jade Falcon Naval Reserve BattleshipEmerald
Talon Zenith Jump Point Orbit Skye
21 August 3134
“Welcome back to the ranks of the living, Galaxy Commander Malvina Hazen,” Galaxy Commander Beckett Malthus said warmly, coming into the stateroom in his flagship, which had been converted to a convalescence chamber. “I came as soon as our medical technicians announced you had resumed consciousness.”
The room was dark, lit only by discreet butter-colored lights near the floor. Malvina sat upright in the bed, with a white smock hanging loosely on her shoulders, as if she had shrunk. The eyes she turned to him were like ports open to the endless night outside the hull.
“We ride a spaceship,” she said. “By that very fact I know we failed.”
“Not so,” Malthus said. “First, though, I regret I must inform you that your sibkin, Galaxy Commander Aleksandr Hazen, died a death worthy of Clan Jade Falcon and the Bloodname you both shared on Skye.”
She closed her eyes briefly. “I know,” she said. “I saw him die. In a dream.”
He nodded. If he doubted, he was not one to say so. Especially not to this woman at this time.
“How can you say that we have not failed?” she demanded. “Has all life been burned from the face of Skye?”
“Oh, no. We left scarcely a mark. Yet the battle for Skye was an epic one,” he said in honeyed tones, “which will long be sung in the Falcon’s nests. And while ourdesant fell short of conquering Skye, it succeeded in its most significant objectives: Chaffee, Ryde, Zebebelgenubi, Alkaid, Summer, Glengarry: we hold all these worlds yet, with the Kimball II system doubtless soon to fall if it has not done so already. We hold a beachhead in Republic space. Khan Jana Pryde will deem the initiative a success.”
He smiled broadly. “Once she receives the report I am drafting.
“In all candor, Aleks’ death was his last great service, to the Falcon and to us personally. He has given himself to be accountable for our setback upon Skye, as well as a martyr of the first magnitude. Not only was his death, facing two famed enemy MechWarriors, so immaculate as to erase all taint that might accrue to his reputation through defeat, but one of his killers was none other than the Steel Wolf Anastasia Kerensky—than whom no more perfect Jade Falcon hate-object could possibly be devised.”
Flight of the Falcon (battletech - mechwarrior - dark age 10) Page 29
