Lethal heritage

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Kai shook his head. "You did not drive me away."

  She snapped her head up sharply. "Then why did you change assignments?"

  Kai hesitated, heart pounding. "If I had taken my first choice, we would not have served together."

  Anger pulsed through the vein in her forehead. "What are you talking about? You're fifth in the class. Your grades guarantee your choice of assignment and I saw you list the Guards—the Heavy Guards—as your first choice!"

  Her rage slammed into him like the waves against the beach. "If I had taken my first choice, we would not have served together," he repeated in a whisper. Even as realization of what he was saying dawned on Wendy's face, Kai droned on like a machine. "My father met me to congratulate me on my posting before he left with Prince Davion to attend Victor's graduation. When I saw the listing for the Heavy Guards, your name was first on the alternates list."

  He turned away as she covered her face with her hands. Just for a moment, Kai. Let her regain her composure, he told himself. But it was a lie and he knew it. He was the one who needed the time to rein in his own racing emotions, but he forced himself to believe that everything would work out right.

  Wendy's voice was barely audible over the screams of the sea birds hovering over the shore. "You did that for me? You threw away the best assignment in the Armed Forces of the Federated Commonwealth for me?"

  "The regiment is your home, Wendy." It was my performance in the La Mancha scenario that skewed the grade curve. If not for that, you would have had the grades to get into the Guards free and clear. Kai reinforced his voice with a confidence he could never feel about himself. "There have been Sylvesters in the Heavy Guards since before the fall of the Star League. I could never usurp your place in the regiment."

  "But, if I couldn't get in on my own ..."

  Kai whirled, making his anger at himself burn in his dark eyes and fill his voice. "Don't talk nonsense. Openings in the regiment fluctuate from year to year—we both know that. We also know your grades and test scores were better than half the people who entered that unit from NAMA last year. You've lived and breathed the Heavy Guards for as long as you can remember. To deny you the chance would have been a crime."

  "But why did you get posted to a unit so far away?" Wendy said. "Why didn't you get an assignment here on New Avalon?"

  Kai looked away. "There were no other openings," he lied.

  She reached out and laid a hand on his arm. "I won't believe you unless you look me in the eye when you say that."

  He refused to meet her stare. "Believe it, Wendy. It's true." It's for the best. It's your family's tradition to marry someone from within the Heavy Guards. You grew up dreaming of just that. It might not be a problem at first, but sooner or later, it would. And if not that, then you'd begin to resent the fact that you owed your position in the Guards to me. I don't see how we could withstand those strains. Better for us to be apart but keep our happy memories.

  Her hand withdrew. "I see." She straightened up and brushed the sand from her trousers. "That's it, then, isn't it?"

  Kai nodded.

  Wendy mimicked his nod. "Well, let me leave you with this, Kai Allard. Somewhere inside of you, you're terribly afraid. I don't know what you have to fear because you're brilliant and hard-working. I'd hoped that together we could conquer your demons, but that's impossible now—by your choice."

  She moved closer and kissed him on the cheek. "No matter what, I wish you the best of luck, but mostly I hope you discover what you're afraid of and how to deal with it. Until then, how will you ever be truly happy? Good bye, Kai. I'll always love you."

  Kai stared at the spray from green waves crashing against the wet black beach. He desperately wanted to turn and run after her, to bring her back and explain everything, but he didn't. She would only try to solve the problem, and she cannot. That would not stop her from working at it, forever if need be, and the effort would destroy her. Better she leave now and recover from it while she can. It is best.

  Kai dropped to one knee and picked up the two halves of the driftwood stick that Wendy had tossed down toward the shoreline. He tried to fit them back together, but the broken ends, swollen from the brief soaking, no longer fit with one another. Angry, he jammed them together, then one cracked and slipped, driving a jagged wooden splinter into his left hand.

  "Dammit!" Kai plucked the wood from his palm and sucked at the wound. The blood tasted bitter in his mouth. Idiot! How can you be so stupid?

  He sagged down onto the sand and lay back. "Why couldn't you see that what you wanted for me would have destroyed me? You wanted me to become one with the Heavy Guards. You wanted to welcome me into that family and have me take pride in their traditions and to uphold their honor." He shook his head. "Why couldn't you see how that would have made the house of cards called Kai Allard-Liao collapse?"

  Kai lay his left hand on the beach where advancing waves could wash over it and the wound in his palm. Speaking to no one but the gulls who mocked him, Kai let his pain infuse his words. "You said you hoped I'd discover what it is I'm afraid of. Well, I know. I've known ever since it dawned on me what the name Allard-Liao actually means. You were afraid I had no family, no anchor for my life. The fact is that I have two anchors, and their combined weight is what drags me under."

  The brine pouring over his hand burned like fire, but Kai consciously overrode his body's reflex to pull his hand back from the sea. He savored the pain and the minor victory over himself it represented. "I already have so much to live up to that I don't know if I can stand it. My mother was a successful MechWarrior and military commander before she took on duties within the government of the Capellan Confederation. She managed to survive within the lunatic asylum that was the Chancellor's Palace on Sian, then left when things became unbearable. Her people, the people of St. Ives, chose to follow her when she left the Confederation—billions upon billions of them willing to endure the hardships of a possible civil war out of love for and belief in her."

  Kai swallowed hard. "And my father. Already a decorated war hero, he agreed to undertake an incredibly dangerous spy mission that put him body and soul into the Capellan court. Before he could get there, though, he wandered off to Solaris, the Game World, and proved himself the best MechWarrior in the Successor States, despite having been maimed in a previous battle. Once at the court of Maximilian Liao, my father became his trusted advisor and managed to thwart all of Liao's counterstrikes against the Federated Suns while the Suns ate up half the Confederation. Then my father returned to New Avalon and was proclaimed a hero by Prince Hanse Davion."

  Kai chewed on his lower lip to stop it from trembling. "That's why I couldn't join you in the Heavy Guards. I already have so much to live up to. My parents, God love them, take pride in everything I do, and I struggle never to fail them. But that's the problem. I know I will fail them." He glanced down at his punctured hand. "In some way, some day, I will fail. I just don't want you to go down with me."

  Kai rolled onto his side and looked back, hoping perhaps that Wendy had returned and had overheard him. Instead of her smiling face, understanding and accepting, he only saw the long line of her footsteps angling back along the shore. The waves had already stolen those footprints nearest him and threatened to blot out all evidence of her presence.

  Kai nodded grimly. It's for the best, Kai. In the Lyran Commonwealth, you will be alone. You can be yourself and that way, when you stumble and fall, no one will be hurt but you.

  4

  Stortalar City , Gunzburg

  Radstadt Province, Free Rasalhague Republic

  20 May 3049

  Tyra's mouth soured with fear as the Jarlwards opened the door and pushed Phelan Kell—half-naked and barefoot— into Varldherre Tor Miraborg's waiting room. The mercenary stumbled forward a few steps, his normal, long-legged gait hobbled by the chains. He grunted and tried to straighten up, but the cruelly short length of chain binding the leg irons to his handcuffs snapped taut and kept him hunche
d over.

  Tyra shuddered at the sight of the man who had been her lover. My God, Phelan, what have they done to you? Dozens of purplish bruises mottled the smooth flesh of his muscular chest. Both his eyes had been blackened, with the left one nearly swollen shut. Phelan, still fighting the chains, moved slowly and stiffly, his face a defiant mask to keep his captors from knowing how much he really hurt.

  Then he saw her and the mask shattered to reveal the agony and fear in his eyes. He started to tip off-balance, but managed to catch himself quickly enough to slump undecorously onto the red leather bench next to the wall.

  One of the Jarlwards raised a hand to cuff him, but Tyra barked an order before he could strike. "No!" The man stopped, hand quivering, and looked at her. "Free him."

  The Jarlward straightened up and shot a grin at his partner. "I am not obliged to obey you, Kapten." The man sneered officiously. "I serve the Corrections Ministry, which puts me outside your command."

  Tyra stared at him furiously. "Do you really want to see how fast I can arrange for a transfer?" She shifted her gaze to the other Jarlward, whose sneer died at birth. "The same goes for you. Now free him." She smiled humorlessly. "And give him your jacket."

  The second Jarlward stiffened, but broke beneath her cold gaze and unfastened the clasps on his scarlet-trimmed, gray wool jacket. As one man knelt to free Phelan of the chains, the other settled his jacket over the mercenary's shoulders. Staring into space, the Kell Hound pulled it tight but did not slip his arms through the sleeves.

  Tyra dismissed the Jarlwards with a wave of her hand. Both hesitated and looked at the door leading into the Varldherre's office. The anteroom's recessed lighting burned reddish highlights into her long, bronze hair. "There will be no trouble. Leave us."

  As the door clicked shut behind them, she crossed to the bench and sat next to Phelan. She started to reach out to him, then hesitated. "I want to hold you but I'm afraid it will hurt."

  Phelan's mouth smiled, but any reflection of that smile in his eyes was lost within the bloated, discolored flesh surrounding them. "You can't hurt me, Tyra. Just go easy on the ribs. I could definitely use a hug. Your basic Jarlward is not a well of human kindness."

  "Jarlwards are not born," she quipped, pulling him close. "They're grown in vats of dung with mushrooms and other semi-intelligent fungi." Tyra held him as tightly as seemed safe, stroking his hair with her free hand. After several moments, she leaned back and tipped his face up so she could look into his good eye. "How did this happen?"

  He shrugged. "I was off the reservation and got jumped by a bunch of folks. They knew about us and that I'd asked you to join the Kell Hounds. They took exception to that. A big guy with a Radstadt Academy scar on his left cheek organized the little party."

  Tyra saw something flash through the malachite depths of Phelan's right eye. You call it a Radstadt Academy scar, but you know what most people call it. It's a Miraborg scar, just like the one the Varldherre has. Many of our warriors wear it as a symbol of their willingness to make the same sort of sacrifice as he did in the name of nationalism. Tyra stroked the right side of Phelan's face with her left hand. "Tall and blond, I'll bet. It must have been Hanson Kuusik. He was out last night and seemed very pleased with himself this morning."

  Phelan nodded wearily. "I thought I recognized him from that first Liaison meeting I attended on your base."

  "You should have told me."

  The Kell Hound sighed. "What good would it have done? My word against his and no jury of his peers would believe a mercenary against a loyal aerojock." Phelan's characteristic smile struggled to return. "Besides, I figured that I'd look him up and settle our account after we returned from the Periphery."

  Tyra flinched at Phelan's use of the word "we." His good eye shut and he turned away from her. "I guess I was wrong when I said you couldn't hurt me." He hung his head. "You're not coming, are you?"

  Tyra looked down at her hands. How do I tell you this? "I am honored and flattered that you managed to make room for me in the Kell Hounds ..."

  "Hey, don't imagine it was my word that got you the offer," Phelan cut in. "I suggested Captain Wilson take a look at you, and she liked what she saw. I'm not an officer and being my father's son makes things lots harder for me—just as her knowledge of our relationship made things tougher for you. Despite that, she made you an offer."

  Tyra nodded and rubbed her right hand up and down Phelan's hunched back. "I know, love. I know." She paused, choked up with emotion. "All that we discussed is true: my skills are not being fully realized here in the Gunzburg Eagles. And it's not that I can't stand the idea of being a mercenary ..."

  "Could you, Tyra? Could you really accept being a mercenary?"

  It was a question she'd pondered deeply so many times since knowing Phelan, but it was still a hard one to answer. "I think I could," she said, continuing to stroke his back,

  "despite the prejudice I've grown up with. Even here, all the stories about Wolf's Dragoons, the Kell Hounds, and the Eridani Light Horse work their magic. No matter how suspicious many people are of mercenaries, some units still have that aura of the noble outlaw about them."

  Phelan scratched gingerly at his left eye. 'That makes me feel better. I'd hate to see what folks here do to mercs they don't like."

  Tyra ignored Phelan's comment. "It's not that I couldn't handle the idea of being a mercenary. It's the idea of becoming a person without a nation that I couldn't live with."

  Phelan frowned. "What are you talking about? I was born on Arc-Royal. I'm a citizen of the Lyran Commonwealth. I have my loyalties ..."

  Tyra's blue eyes narrowed. "Do you? Phelan, I've come to know you intimately in the three months the Kell Hounds have been marooned on Gunzburg. I think you have loyalties, but not to any nation. You've told me yourself how much traveling you've done in your life. The Hounds have seen service in the Federated Suns, the Lyran Commonwealth, and then the St. Ives Compact since your birth. You've spent more time on the Dragoons' baseworld of Outreach than you have on Arc-Royal. You have loyalties, but they are more to your family and your friends than to any place."

  "Is that bad?" Phelan said quietly.

  Tyra took his left hand in hers and gave it a squeeze. "No, not in itself. But it can get you into trouble. It got you bounced from the Nagelring ..."

  Phelan's face closed. "And it made me lose you."

  Tyra took Phelan by the shoulders and twisted him around to face her again. "Yes, but not in the way you mean. I can no more give up being Rasalhagian than you can give up being a Kell Hound. Both of us are tied strongly to our backgrounds because it's shaped us and given us our sense of justice, our sense of right and wrong."

  She reached into the pocket of her silver flight jacket and removed a paper-wrapped object. Placing it in Phelan's left palm, she folded his fingers over it. "You've made me think about many things, Phelan, and for that I am far more grateful than you could ever know." She swallowed hard again.

  "The reason you couldn't find me last night was because I'd gone to my father's house to finish making this for you."

  Phelan slowly unfolded the paper, then stiffened as the treasure within it fell into his open palm. Cast in silver, the belt-buckle took the form of the hound's-head crest of the Kell Hounds Regiments. Inlaid onyx filled the face of it and malachite colored the Hound's eyes a fierce, cold green.

  Phelan's mouth hung open. "God, Tyra, this is beautiful. How can I ever ..."

  She pressed a finger to his lips, then quickly kissed him. "I know the hound's eyes are supposed to be red to match the unit crest, but I used malachite to match your eyes. I made it to fit your gunbelt because you like to wear a sidearm while piloting your 'Mech. I want it to keep you safe."

  Phelan swept Tyra into a bearhug, hanging on tightly until she actually felt the tremors of strain in his body. She rubbed both hands on his back, then eased herself out of his grasp. "We'd best head into the office for our joint audience."

  Clutching
the belt buckle in his right hand as if drawing strength from it, Phelan rose stiffly. "Whatever happens in there—and I'm making no promises—I want you to know that my loyalties include you as well." He shook his head. "I guess we should have believed it when everyone said it couldn't work—that nothing but trouble could come if a mercenary and a daughter of Free Rasalhague tried to get together."

  Tyra smiled gently. "But it did work, Phelan ... for three months. Can't we be thankful for that?"

  Phelan was smiling again. "We did defy the odds, didn't we?"

  Tyra winked, took his left hand and led the way into the Varldherre's office.

  ***

  Seated behind a massive mahogany desk, Tor Miraborg did not look up as they entered. Trimmed with gold piping, his gray jacket matched the color of his hair and beard except for the black whiskers running down either side of his mouth. Miraborg's dark eyes glittered as he closed the folder he was reading and set it atop the data monitor on the corner of his desk. As he looked up to see Phelan and Tyra holding hands, his scarred face openly displayed his anger.

  "I trust you found our accommodations to your liking, Herr Kell." Sarcasm laced Miraborg's deep, rich voice.

  Phelan straightened up as though his body didn't hurt at all. "Room service is less than stellar, but the complimentary massages were great fun. And I also enjoyed teaching the cockroaches to do tricks."

  Miraborg's head came up. "Indeed? And how is that done?"

  Phelan laughed. "It's not hard. First off, though, you have to be smarter than the cockroach."

  As the mercenary's cut hit home, Miraborg's eyes glowed with anger. "Be careful, Herr Kell, that someone doesn't mistake you for a cockroach. And here, cockroaches often get stepped on and crushed!"

  Miraborg rolled himself back from the desk, bringing his wheelchair into view. The sight of it killed Phelan's cruel riposte before he could vocalize it, but Tyra and the Varldherre read it in his eyes. No, Phelan, don't...