by Victor Milán
As the hovercraft turned to starboard again another giant bipedal shape filled the port behind Malthus. A Cougar, its torso rotated right, raced from a side street right ahead of them. Cyan and red light filled the compartment as its weapons spoke in brilliance. Malvina threw an arm around Cynthy—
And saw the green Eye of Horus painted on the interloper.
She looked back the other way. Long-range rockets wracked the Uller. By lucky chance—or wizard aim, for Malvina had picked the cream of the battle-seasoned desant to return with her to Sudeten—dazzling ruby needles from the Cougar’s left arm stitched a line of glowing head-sized craters in the onrushing Uller’s frontal armor and slagged a huge hole in its forward viewscreen. A quarter second later the right-arm laser sent a pulse right into the squat forward-thrust ‘‘head,’’ filling it with hell-red glare.
Still at a full run the pursuing ’Mech toppled to its right. It slammed against the side of an administrative dome, rolled vertically along the reinforced ferrocrete façade as if pirouetting. Then it sprawled into the street, rolling, bouncing.
By that time the Cougar had flashed across the intersection and braked. Straightening, the APC shot right behind its heels with the fallen Uller rolling after in a ghastly parody of pursuit. The tumbling wreck slowed and came to a stop on its back, steaming and smoking.
‘‘Galaxy Commanders.’’ Wyndham’s voice came over the intercom. It was barely audible above the noise the hovercraft made as it banged its way down the street. A bad fan bearing keened like a lost soul, and the engines sounded as if they were trying to digest a handful of bolts. ‘‘We have fighting up ahead. We may have to ditch this bitch and find someplace defensible to hole up.’’
Even over the awful racket he sounded disgusted; for her part, Malvina was impressed that a former fighter pilot would even form such an alien concept as ‘‘holing up.’’
‘‘Neg,’’ called Bec Malthus. He had a way of filling the compartment with his voice without shouting. ‘‘Help is on the way.’’
Malvina Hazen stared at him. He smiled.
It made her want to smash his face. But she knew she must deny herself that pleasure. She had a terrible feeling Beckett Malthus was just about to prove himself indispensable again.
‘‘Now that’s something you don’t see every day,’’ Rorion Klimt said.
They stood on the sidewalk in front of the Falcon’s Perch. A whole Binary of Jade Falcon security forces had secured the great building and the plaza across the way. A Spirit with a ridiculous jut of a lower jaw swelling up from its breastplate stood guard with its handheld Streak SRM quad launcher tilted toward the sky, flanked by a pair of 50-ton Epona hovertanks. Elementals stood spaced widely around the perimeter, while squads of laser-rifle armed infantry trotted this way and that without any obvious purpose. A gang of laborers under the guidance of one white-suited scientist and several technicians examined the scattered wreckage, mechanical and human.
So far no one had spared the pair of outlanders more than a glance. The would-be assassins had obviously been Clan warriors, and not even the most obtuse Falcon could possibly conceive that such men would obey mere Spheroids, or deign to employ them in their schemes, however mad.
Rorion Klimt did not call his superior’s attention to the hivelike activity in the plaza. Rather he pointed away to the western sky, where a gigantic pear shape hung low above the city. As it approached and grew larger the reflected blue glare of its drive jets clearly illuminated the stylized silhouette of a great black crow, with wings outspread behind and beak thrust pugnaciously forward, painted on the lower curve of the Overlord-C DropShip’s hull.
‘‘The Bec de Corbin,’’ Heinz-Otto von Texeira said. He knew the phrase meant ‘‘Crow’s Beak’’ in a dialect of French that had been archaic almost a millenium before Kearny and Fuchida launched humanity into interstellar space. ‘‘Beckett Malthus likewise displays a certain flair.’’
Lightning flashed from the port side of the descending spacecraft. A yellow flame-bloom, bright and low above Hammarr’s humped skyline, showed where one of the vessel’s heavy particle cannon had struck an attacking helicopter dead-on and exploded it.
‘‘I don’t envy any laborers working on rooftops under that beast,’’ his aide said. ‘‘Or even in the upper floors. The drives have to be licking the tops of the taller domes.’’
‘‘The usual fond Clan regard for human life,’’ von Texeira said as the craft stopped and settled.
Then both men ducked reflexively as a sonic boom cracked open the sky above their heads. They looked up to see a pair of heavy Jagatai aerospace fighters streaking north. As the Lyrans watched they curved east—away from the now-landed DropShip.
The Overlord-C sat amidst a bubbling pool of molten asphalt. Its bulk more than spanned the broad Turkina’s Path. On the south side of the boulevard a landing jack had crushed the front of a laborer-caste dormitory.
The fronts of buildings north and south were scorched and glazed from the drives’ intolerable heat. It was likely that anyone in the front of the damaged habitation was dead before the vast metal jack crushed the ferrocrete onto them.
If not, the jack had been a crowning mercy.
The Merlin APC’s abused engines died as Malvina Hazen stepped down to the street from the open hatch; their clattering finality suggested ‘‘died’’ was the right diagnosis. A ramp was already descending from the Bec’s underhull like the tongue of a great beast.
Shriveled husks lay in charred spots on the pavement: luckless pedestrians caught in the wash of the drive flares. After noting them in a glance Malvina paid no more notice to them than she would so many insects. They were no more to her. She set Cynthy down on the street beside her. The girl’s face was unusually pale, but her blue eyes were bright, her cheeks dry.
A squeal of maltreated metal made Malvina turn. The APC driver’s hatch was being forced open. Wyndham climbed out to stand unsteadily blinking in the thin but UV-rich light of the morning sun. His face was smudged.
‘‘Wyndham!’’ Malvina snapped. The erstwhile aerospace pilot snapped to attention. ‘‘That was a rough ride you gave us.’’
‘‘I am prepared to accept all consequences, Galaxy Commander, ’’ he said. ‘‘I am Jade Falcon.’’
‘‘Good, Star Captain Wyndham. Turkina has much use for skills such as yours.’’
The huge amber eyes blinked. ‘‘G-galaxy Commander?’’
‘‘Do not stutter. An officer of the Jade Falcon touman cannot show the slightest hesitancy. And should anyone question your elevation, they shall find themselves in a Circle of Equals with me.’’
The pinched little mouth grew even more pinched. ‘‘As my Galaxy Commander orders.’’
She laughed at his poorly hidden dismay. ‘‘If you are still determined to die gloriously, Star Captain,’’ she said, ‘‘I assure you that the coming weeks will offer abundant opportunity.’’
‘‘If you will forgive me, Malvina,’’ Malthus said, coming up beside her, ‘‘though Bec’s weapons have forced back our assailants, we must make haste. My captain communicates directly with Star Colonel Hastur Chistu.’’ Chistu commanded Turkina Galaxy, which guarded the planet and Khan Jana Pryde.
‘‘Naval Captain Joachim ignores a stream of challenges from Hammarr traffic control, while simultaneously assuring Chistu that he has no intention of approaching closer to the Falcon’s Perch. Jana Pryde broadcasts a message deploring the attack upon our persons.’’
‘‘What urgency then?’’
Malthus smiled thinly above his beard. ‘‘I suspect it will not be long before the spaceport tower says something my shipmaster will feel compelled to act upon.’’
Malvina glared up at him. ‘‘I am not yet so far gone in megalomania as to believe I can walk on molten asphalt with impunity, Bec Malthus!’’
His answer was a rising gesture of a gauntleted right hand. An open-topped utility hovercraft descended down the ramp toward them, dr
iven by a nervous-looking technician under the eye of a naval warrior.
‘‘Not a conveyance suited to the dignity of the future khan of Clan Jade Falcon, perhaps,’’ Malthus said, ‘‘but as is said, when needs must, the Devil drives.’’
Her eyes drilled into him like lasers a heartbeat longer. Then she laughed.
‘‘You have the gift of making your words speak in several voices at once, Beckett Malthus,’’ she said. ‘‘Whether it is a good thing for a son of Turkina to do so remains to be seen.’’
He genuflected toward her. ‘‘As the Chingis Khan says. So long as she moves briskly.’’
Laughing and shaking back her hair, Malvina reached down toward the even tinier Inner Sphere child. Cynthy solemnly raised a mittened hand. Malvina enfolded it in the gauntlet covering her prosthetic member and led her toward the utility craft as it approached in a miniature whirlwind.
Even as acceleration pressed Malvina into a blast couch on the bridge of the DropShip ascending toward Emerald Talon in orbit, her mood flashed over again.
‘‘What happened down there, Malthus?’’ she raged.
‘‘Certain warriors allowed their emotions to be so affected by your words and actions,’’ her nominal superior said blandly, ‘‘that they acted in a deplorably irresponsible manner. Their codices are being examined and the qualities of their genetic lines scrutinized for defects. If one believes what Jana Pryde currently broadcasts to all Sudeten.’’
‘‘I mean, why did our forces arrive so conveniently to rescue us?’’ Once aboard, Malvina had stooped to kiss Cynthy’s cheek and sent her off with a pair of techs to be strapped down in her quarters for takeoff. The wounded, including the newly minted and still sullen Star Captain Wyndham, had been dispatched to sick bay.
‘‘Is my khan dissatisfied at being rescued?’’ Malthus murmured.
‘‘Answer, damn you! Do not press me now, Beckett Malthus.’’
‘‘As the Chingis Khan commands. If I may incur the risk of boasting—’’
The mask of rage overlaying Malvina’s white features softened into a mean little smile. ‘‘A self-effacing Falcon warrior is a contradiction in terms. Spit it out, Bec Malthus.’’
‘‘—I possess some small knowledge of our Jade Falcon character. I deemed it likely that an attempt would be made upon our lives today when we appeared at the Falcon’s Perch, irrespective of the Council’s judgment concerning your challenge, and for that matter with or without . . . shall we say, encouragement from a lofty perch?’’
‘‘You expected treachery? That filthy surat Jana!’’ Malvina shook her head. ‘‘I should simply have shot her where she sat, and damn the consequences.’’
‘‘The consequences,’’ Malthus said with quiet emphasis somehow clearly audible above the muted thunder of the drives, ‘‘would have been futility. Clan Jade Falcon would never acknowledge as khan one who acted so dishonorably. Indeed, were they to do so, it is not inconceivable the other Clans might call a Trial of Annihilation against us. Many Clans seethe with jealousy of the Falcon; it would not be the first time the Wolves have played upon the fact.
‘‘Besides, I do not believe the khan stands behind the attack on us. For her to order such a thing, or even be seen to countenance it, would risk tearing the Clan apart. Much as she surely hates you now, she is utterly devoted to Turkina and Clan Jade Falcon, in her way. As I know well.’’
‘‘Whose side are you on?’’ Malvina flared.
‘‘The Falcon’s,’’ the big man said imperturbably. ‘‘More proximately, I am now committed entirely to yours, willynilly. You must surely see that Khan Jana Pryde cannot but view my actions as being of a parcel with yours. I am no less renegade in her eyes now, regardless.’’
Malvina sat back with a strange little V-shaped smile on her lips. ‘‘Yes,’’ she said. ‘‘I rather suppose you are. And whatever connivances you had in mind before, you are mine now, Bec Malthus.’’
If she sought to distress him she failed—visibly, at least. He inclined his head. ‘‘As you say, my Khan,’’ he replied.
‘‘You keep calling me that.’’
He inclined his head to the side. ‘‘Am I mistaken, then, as to your intent, Malvina Hazen? Do you intend to flee into exile? The Periphery perhaps?’’
‘‘You know that before I do that,’’ Malvina said, ‘‘I will die. But not alone. Not by any means.’’
Malthus turned his head forward again. Acceleration pressed the flesh of his face toward his ears like grayish putty. ‘‘Then you must declare yourself Khan of Clan Jade Falcon,’’ he said, ‘‘and make it stick.’’
In the studio attached to her quarters within the Falcon’s Perch, in which she privately indulged her vice of puttering at handicrafts—what the decadent Spheroids called hobbies—Khan Jana Pryde stood gazing out a high narrow window at the sky. A white overcast had covered it, as if to hide from her sight the heavens that sheltered her enemy.
In the present emergency she might have repaired to the Clan Jade Falcon command center buried many stories underground. She chose not to hide from her enemies. At least, not until they moved openly against her.
‘‘Khan Jana Pryde,’’ a wall communicator said. ‘‘The Emerald Talon has just requested clearance to depart orbit for the zenith jump point.’’
‘‘Now is your last chance to stop the stravag, Jana,’’ said Loremaster Julia Buhalin. Like her khan she stood, with her staff of office somewhat grandiosely in hand.
Jana turned with a questioning lift of her eyebrow. ‘‘You would try to stop a Nightlord?’’
‘‘We have WarShips," the loremaster said. ‘‘The Talon is still operating at less than maximum capacity, quineg? She was badly hurt in the fight for Skye by the Inner Sphere battleship Yggdrasil.’’
‘‘Ah, yes,’’ Jana said. ‘‘The Lyran WarShip." She frowned thoughtfully for a moment, then shook her head.
‘‘I have no desire to see a space battle in orbit above the capital world of the occupation zone,’’ she said, ‘‘nor to see Hammarr become a new Turtle Bay.’’
‘‘My Khan,’’ Buhalin said, her face set in earnest lines, ‘‘if you let that Hazen miscarriage escape it will mean a Rending.’’
Jana drew in a deep breath, let it out in a sigh. The words civil war were too obscene to pass her loremaster’s chaste Clan lips. She had little taste or patience for euphemism herself. But she must indulge her staunchest ally at such a time.
‘‘How well I know that, Julia. Yet my responsibility is to Turkina and my people. If a Rending must afflict our Clan, let it do so elsewhere than above Clan Jade Falcon’s beating heart!’’
‘‘Khan—’’ the communicator prodded, with hesitation obvious in the young male voice.
‘‘Grant permission to my WarShip Emerald Talon to depart Sudeten system,’’ Jana said.
Buhalin’s face tensed. ‘‘Yes, Julia,’’ Jana said. ‘‘On my head be it. I am khan. And no matter what that twisted little freak believes, I am Jade Falcon!’’ She practically roared the last words.
Her loremaster bowed. ‘‘You are Jade Falcon, my Khan.’’
Jana Pryde drew a deep, shuddering breath. She sighed.
‘‘Your assistance has been invaluable to me, Julia,’’ she said. ‘‘Your advice has helped me steer our Clan through crises before. You will not take it as an affront to your considerable abilities, nor to your unmatched service to khan and Clan, if I now feel I must seek certain specialized assistance.’’
Buhalin looked up past lowered brows. ‘‘My Khan?’’
‘‘Security desk,’’ Jana told her communicator. In a moment a female duty officer answered. ‘‘Somewhere in proximity to the Falcon’s Perch you will find the two emissaries from the Lyran archon. Bring them to me.’’
She listened a moment. ‘‘No,’’ she said. ‘‘They are not prisoners. Do not construe that to mean they have a choice, however.’’
She looked back and smiled into her frie
nd’s expression of shock and nascent outrage. ‘‘I need cunning and skill in treachery now, Julia Buhalin. For along with Malvina Hazen, I go up against Beckett Malthus. And to your credit, you are no Crow.’’
Wordlessly the loremaster bowed again.
‘‘And where better to turn for devious counsel,’’ Jana Pryde went on with feral smile, ‘‘than to a Steiner? Especially a Steiner merchant prince.’’
10
The Casts
Hammarr Commercial Spaceport, Sudeten
Jade Falcon Occupation Zone
17 September 3135
‘‘Bargained well and done,’’ von Texeira said blandly, extending a broad pink palm to his factotum. Scowling and griping, Rorion dug in a pocket and dropped five gold coins onto it.
It was night in The Casts, the outlanders’ quarter: the inevitable stews of shops, warehouses, dingy flats and spacers’ taverns that had sprung up like fungus around the fringes of Hammarr’s commercial spaceport. Inside the crowded canteen they could have heard a hand-grenade pin drop.
The tuft of hair atop the rangy Sea Fox woman’s head dipped like a cockatiel’s crest as she nodded acknowledgment of her foe’s tap out. The resemblance was unusually close because she had dyed the scalp lock white and yellow, apparently in anticipation of a festive night out. She released the arm she held captive—gently, von Texeira noted—and sat up.
‘‘Wise choice,’’ she said, leaning down to pat the cheek of the youthful Falcon MechWarrior she had just defeated. ‘‘You fought well. Get your friends to help you put the joint back. You’ll be fit in a few days.’’
She stood up, dusting her palms against each other. Then she walked toward the edge of the cleared circle of floor, already beginning to fill as the bar’s clientele, with the show over, began to mill. By chance, or so it seemed, she came almost directly toward von Texeira and Rorion.
Her eyes found von Texeira. The diplomat was not exactly inconspicuous in most crowds, and fat people were no common sight on any core Clan planet. Her brows rose questioningly.
