by Victor Milán
‘‘But if both factions oppose Malvina—’’
‘‘Both find fault with her. Both also are drawn to her. The Jesses are keen to strike at her, while ironically the Slips, self-proclaimed fire-eaters that they are, drag their feet. At the moment.
‘‘But there’s the key: at the moment. Falcon moods change like the wind. Jana Pryde might act to accommodate one faction, only to find it has changed its mind and both factions are aligned against her.’’
‘‘The Falcons are fighters, though,’’ Rorion said. ‘‘Will they really play politics in the face of a threat like Malvina?’’
‘‘Do not underestimate the power of denial,’’ Senna said. ‘‘In their ways both factions hope that if they hunker down long enough this will all blow over. Malvina will come to her senses—or be killed by one of her uncontrollably vicious acolytes. The latter, you must admit, is at least feasible.’’
‘‘If unlikely,’’ von Texeira said.
‘‘How can they be so blind?’’ asked Rorion. ‘‘I wouldn’t have ever thought to accuse the Falcons of giddy optimism before.’’
‘‘Not that,’’ she said, ‘‘but fear of the alternative.’’
‘‘Fear?’’ Rorion scoffed. ‘‘Clan Jade Falcon?’’
‘‘Again I call your attention to the difference between physical courage, which Falcons possess to a ludicrous degree, and moral courage. The real danger Malvina poses is civil war.’’
‘‘Which the Falcons fear above all things,’’ von Texeira said. ‘‘Enough that they won’t even say the words.’’
‘‘Which the Clans fear above all things,’’ Senna agreed.
Rorion leaned back and put his arm up on the back of the couch. ‘‘Why, exactly? I mean, I know General Kerensky founded the Clans out of disgust over all the strife that was tearing up the Inner Sphere. But why this deep dread? It’s not as if the Clans fear much.’’
‘‘More than you might think,’’ Senna said, with a taut little smile. She sipped from her mug of the eye-popping local schnapps. ‘‘It isn’t just because of the Founder. What I am about to tell you no other Clanner will speak of, not even another Sea Fox. I ask you as a professional courtesy not to let slip where you heard it; my honor and my status are . . . peculiar, even in my Clan and Aimag, but they are not armor-plated. And I am attached to them, in my way.’’
Rorion raised his charcoal-smudge eyebrows and sat forward. The blandly cheerful expression on von Texeira’s face didn’t change.
‘‘During the Jihad a great war broke out among the Clans of the homeworlds,’’ Senna said. ‘‘Over points of philosophy you would find either utterly opaque or utterly ridiculous, if not both. Unless that’s just me. But the outcome was anything but trivial: a Trial of Reaving, of Annihilation and of Absorption all rolled into one, on a Clan-wide scale.
‘‘The destruction was cataclysmic. Untold Bloodnamed were Reaved. No fewer than five entire Clans were obliterated.’’
‘‘Deus meu,’’ Rorion breathed.
‘‘If we had not had decades to recover, not even I would tell you this,’’ Senna said. ‘‘Despite my quirks, I am Sea Fox, I am Clan.’’
‘‘Our intelligence services have gleaned a certain knowledge of these events,’’ rumbled von Texeira, from deeper in his chest than usual. More than a little, he thought. At the very least he was certain that would come as no surprise to Senna. But he didn’t say it. As she was Clan despite her idiosyncrasies, he was LIC in spite of his.
‘‘The real reason few Clanners would speak of these events to Spheroids,’’ Senna said, ‘‘is embarrassment. We like to lord it over you soft, undisciplined denizens of the Sphere, with your disorderly ways. It pains us to admit we fell into a conflict as self-destructive and pointless as any succession battle within a Great House. But the reason we fear civil war, and call it by euphemisms like the Falcons’ ‘Rending’ when we speak of it at all, is that it might draw other Clans into a second War of Reaving. Which could spell the end of our Clan. And maybe of the Clans.’’
Von Texeira closed his bearded lips upon an amen. He liked this wild and peculiar Sea Fox merchant. He sensed that she liked him. But if he hinted just how minuscule a tragedy he thought it would be for all the Clans to simply go away . . . even the bonds of profitable transaction might strain.
‘‘So it’s in almost everyone’s interests to prefer to believe that all of this is no more than Malvina Hazen’s impetuousness: the high spirits expected of a Falcon ristar. The situation might simply resolve itself. If they do not honor it by calling it rebellion—or worse, a Rending.’’
‘‘Even now that Malvina has declared herself khan?’’ Rorion asked.
Senna nodded. ‘‘Oh, yes. Extravagant pronouncements and grandiose gestures are not exactly alien to the Falcons, you know. And even now, if Malvina were to see reason and submit herself to Khan Jana Pryde’s will, Jana would have to accept. Nor could she make the surkai, the punishment exacted for disobedience, too severe. Not just to appease the conservatives, but for the unity of the Clan. Do you see?’’
Von Texeira sighed. ‘‘So Khan Jana Pryde finds herself in a cleft stick.’’
‘‘But I thought her power base lay among the moderates—the Jesses rather,’’ Rorion said.
Senna dipped her head to one side. ‘‘So it does. Yet she must maintain balance—to keep the peace, as well as her position.’’
‘‘And then,’’ von Texeira said, ‘‘there is her new advisor, Julia Buhalin.’’
Senna’s smile was slow and sly. ‘‘I thought her newest advisor was a certain Lyran merchant, whose seemingly soft exterior conceals a mind as sharp as one of Turkina’s claws.’’
‘‘You flatter me, Master Merchant.’’
She laughed. But it held an edge like glass. ‘‘I have said before: I do not flatter. I might be selective as to what truths I tell. But flattery is a lie. And a Sea Fox merchant does not lie.’’
‘‘How about bending the truth?’’ Rorion asked brightly.
‘‘Hush,’’ Senna said. ‘‘The loremaster must be a politician in a way—as must anyone who holds high rank in any large organization. But her position does not require her to build coalitions or accommodate shades of opinion. She is a Slip as rabid as any.’’
‘‘I suspected as much,’’ von Texeira said.
‘‘She actively hates the Jesses. Almost as much as she despises the coterie of high-ranked scientists and technicians who really run Sudeten and the touman—and by extension, Clan Jade Falcon.’’
To Rorion’s look of outright disbelief she said, ‘‘You don’t think warriors would stoop to such mundane tasks as administering an army, or an empire, do you? But leave it. Julia Buhalin is intelligent and formidable. And she hates readily and well. You would do well to be wary of her, Merchant Prince.’’
‘‘I have . . . experience of women with strong wills and— shall we say, tempestuous natures,’’ he said.
‘‘Really?’’ Senna asked archly.
He chuckled. ‘‘And speaking of strong-willed women— you strike me as most unorthodox, if you will forgive my saying so, dear lady—’’
‘‘There’s a lady present?’’
‘‘—even for a Sea Fox. I did not believe any Clan encouraged quite such a degree of individualism.’’
‘‘Delta Aimag of Alpha Khanate is known for going its own way among Foxes,’’ she said. ‘‘I am known for going my own way in the Aimag. In a way, my behavior can be rationalized as simply taking our group traits to their logical extreme. The real reason I am tolerated is that Clan Sea Fox identifies honor with the bottom line. I deliver results.’’
‘‘Profits,’’ said von Texeira.
‘‘Among others.’’
"And of course you fight like a devil,’’ murmured Rorion.
‘‘My Clansfolk have not found challenging me a profitable pastime, aff.’’
She stretched. Von Texeira tried not to stare at her chest. Lec
herous fool! And what could such a one—a Clanswoman, however unusual her outlook—see in such a fat, old cripple?
‘‘I trust you will excuse me,’’ Senna said, rising. ‘‘You pay handsomely for my advice—but I have other interests to attend to while I’m on Sudeten.’’
‘‘Of course,’’ von Texeira said.
But as he rose with the aid of his cane and a certain amount of puffing, he tried not to wonder too hard what those interests might be. Clan Sea Fox drew little distinction between commerce and war, he knew—and its relations with Clan Jade Falcon were as tangled as they were unfriendly. He had a high estimate of her ability, or he never would have hired her: despite openly flaunting orthodoxy, she had attained an advanced age for a Clanswoman as well as a Bloodname. But it made him uneasy to have to rely on her not to make some mistake that might bring the wrath of an already roused Turkina slashing down on Rorion and himself.
The lengths I go to, to put off facing my dilemma, he thought. Ah, well: it’s not as if anyone leaves this world alive.
13
BattleMech Fabrication Unit #1
New Paris Spaceport, Graus
Jade Falcon Occupation Zone
17 October 3135
‘‘My Khan,’’ a voice called from behind.
Walking with Cynthy holding onto her hand among machines the size and general shape of hover-APCs, which hummed industrial as within them multiple-axis machine tools robotically milled BattleMech drive-train parts to comply with three-dimensional drawings, Malvina stopped and turned. Pacing on her other side with a glum expression, Bec Malthus mirrored her. A young male warrior strode quickly after them across the machine shop’s cement floor.
After finally wresting Graus from the Lyran Commonwealth, Clan Jade Falcon had brought strategic industry to what once was an altogether bucolic world. They built a complex of factories next to New Paris spaceport, including one producing vehicles and IndustrialMechs. Though pacifists, the agrarian communalists who inhabited the world assimilated quickly and well into Clan culture—as docile laborers. Their original back-to-nature bias long forgotten, since laborers knew only what their masters taught them, the Graussians had adjusted quickly to the occupiers’ new industrialization program.
Offworld visitors marked down the somewhat excessive size of the ’Mech-works’ computer-controlled manufacturing centers and assembly bays to a known Jade Falcon tendency to overbuild, arising from their usual grandiosity of self-regard, as well as the fact that the Falcons were neither the most precise nor subtle engineers among Kerensky’s heirs.
The factory began producing ever-expanding numbers of military vehicles after the disappearance of Devlin Stone became known in the JFOZ. When the HPG net collapsed, only the most besotted enthusiasts for The Republic could have been surprised when the factory switched almost literally overnight to building full-on BattleMechs. Production had not reached high enough levels to benefit Beckett Malthus and the sibkin Hazen when the desant was launched into the Inner Sphere. But the bipedal land dreadnoughts were walking off the lines at regular intervals now.
Today Malvina Hazen toured the industrial complex preparatory to taking possession of her Shrike, whose repairs had just been completed in the BattleMech assembly facility.
‘‘What is it?’’ she asked the warrior. He was clearly a messenger. Malvina refused to carry a communicator or allow her immediate retinue to do so.
The young Falcon saluted the two Galaxy commanders with a certain awe. Or perhaps it was reluctance to share his news: ‘‘Khan Malvina Hazen, we have just received word that the Alessio Five laborers dormitory has mutinied.’’
Malvina looked blue laser death at Malthus. ‘‘You advised me to leave Watrous in his post!’’
His answering look was bland. ‘‘Should he prove malleable enough to accede to a fait accompli. As he did. You need Graus, my Khan, and you need its production as unimpaired as possible. Which meant interrupting as few routines as possible.’’
‘‘But now the fool’s very softness threatens to interrupt it."
Malthus inclined his great head. ‘‘I presume the Khan shall now show the iron fist?’’ One of her first deeds to gain renown—and notoriety—was putting down a laborer revolt. That won her the sobriquet Butcher of Wotan.
Indeed, quelling this revolt with Mongol savagery would win Malvina support in the Council. If the Clans dreaded one thing more than a Rending, it was an uprising by the lower classes.
‘‘No.’’ She smiled sweetly. ‘‘You will. See to it. And I shall see to Watrous after reclaiming the Black Rose.’’
He pressed his palms together before his chest. ‘‘My Khan commands,’’ he said, and departed, with the aide trotting at his heels like an uncertain dog.
Malvina scowled after his broad retreating back. The plant technicians, in rose and lavender jumpsuits, all stood by trying to look exceptionally obedient.
‘‘Take me to the Vehicle Assembly Building,’’ she commanded. ‘‘I wish to test the repairs done to my machine.’’
Her tone did not suggest a happy fate in store for the Fab’s staff should she not be fully satisfied with their work.
‘‘Initiate test sequence,’’ Malvina Hazen said, fastening her safety harness. She was dressed in the usual neurohelmet and Clan cooling-mesh bodysuit, with an additional cooling vest over it. Around her, lights began to flicker on and off in the Shrike’s narrow cockpit as the computer queried its various systems, both software and hardware, and recorded and analyzed the responses. When she had brought up the fusion bottle moments before, the ’Mech had performed a power-on test; Malvina wanted to confirm its systems were truly nominal.
For the same reason she had spent half an hour doing a personal walk-around inspection of the refurbished war colossus, trailing a small constellation of nervous technicians. Many Clan warriors, especially Jade Falcon, disdained such activity as beneath them: ensuring their ’Mechs functioned properly was the province of lowly techs.
Like her brother Aleks, Malvina had always regarded such attitudes as both stupid and lazy. The BattleMech was the MechWarrior’s soul. Her life, her codex and the honor of her Clan depended on its being in the best condition possible—and when unrepaired battle damage limited the ’Mech’s performance, she had to know exactly how so as to compensate in battle. Although his manner was always gentler than Malvina’s—gentler than any lesser Jade Falcon warrior could afford—Aleksandr Hazen had been no less ruthless than his sister in stamping on that particular caste affectation in his commands.
From thirteen meters up Malvina watched through the viewscreen as a pair of female laborers stolidly swung a jump rope for Cynthy to skip through at one side of the VAB floor. As usual, Malvina’s ward clutched her floppy stuffed toy to her breast. The girl’s small face was solemn, although her motions were lively and deft.
Malthus, of course, would disapprove.
Perhaps his unspoken criticism is right, Malvina thought. Perhaps she does soften me, my Cynthy. For now there is a human creature I do not hate. And whom I will protect when I drown this foul race, and at last myself, in blood and fire.
She alone shall I never harm.
Klaxons blared from Black Rose’s internal speakers. ‘‘Galaxy Commander Hazen! Alfa Star-Six!’’ the warrior commanding her personal-security detachment cried from the radio. ‘‘We are under attack by unknown—’’
A crash of static, followed by a loud white-noise hum.
Alfa Six’s brace of elementals and fifteen hoverbike-mounted infantry were meant mainly to prevent ad hoc assassination attempts like the one on Sudeten. For more serious assaults the light force could expect little more than to serve as a tripwire. Basically, die noisily. As indeed they most likely have, Malvina thought.
The speaker noise was louder than a simple carrier. And her sensors showed nothing unusual. Even through the VAB’s stressed-ferrocrete walls her BattleMech’s suite should detect some sign of any attacking force more substantial th
an a pure conventional infantry Star. The stravags use electronic countermeasures, she thought. They also actively jammed her comms.
‘‘Omega Galaxy, this is Galaxy Commander Malvina Hazen.’’ She used the general frequency circuit for the Galaxy she had chosen from the warriors who accompanied her and Malthus back to the JFOZ. A light mobile unit could blanket her receivers with static; they could hardly keep her ’Mech’s fusion engine from driving a signal out. ‘‘All Omega units, go to Code Black. Condition Black.’’
Code Black meant war. Not imminent. Now.
Power cables parted and fell like severed snakes, bleeding sparks, as Malvina walked her Shrike out of the repair bay without the nicety of disconnecting. Ten meters away the two laborer women stopped to gape at the metal behemoth that had broken its shackles to take a clanking step toward them. They dropped the rope and fled.
Cynthy turned and looked up at the ’Mech’s beaked head.
‘‘Stay still, Cynthy,’’ Malvina commanded over her loudspeaker. ‘‘I will not hurt you.’’
The girl nodded, pigtails bobbing. She stood unflinching as the metal monster crouched before her.
Malvina reached for her with the Shrike’s left hand. Its three-digit claw could crush a ground car. Without the most perfect control those curved steel talons would pinch the Inner Sphere child in half.
Malvina Hazen had such control. The great claws enfolded Cynthy. Had she been an egg her shell would not have cracked.
The girl laughed as the BattleMech straightened, lifting her high off the cement floor with its color-coded lines and geometric patterns. Perhaps we occasionally underestimate these people, Malvina thought.
With a hiss of entering air the cockpit side hatch opened. Without prompting the tiny girl clambered out of the colossal fist and into the BattleMech’s head.
‘‘Sit behind me,’’ Malvina instructed. The girl nodded. The jumpseat behind the command couch would have been cramped even for diminutive Malvina Hazen. Her ward fit it quite well. She quickly figured out how to secure its five-point safety harness, which was designed simply for speedy operation.
