Another Death Commando tossed a spherical object into the room. Kym tackled Riva, knocking her back toward the wall as the plastic ball bounced once, then exploded in a flash of red fire and white smoke. The concussion grenade blew the lab's windows out and sent Riva's terminal sparking to the ground.
Riva felt the explosion like a punch in her stomach and a club against her head. Sharp pain shot from her ears inward, then an incessant ringing filled them. Her lungs burned as she fought to breathe, but she could only gasp like a fish out of water. Blood slowly leaked from her nose and tasted salty against her lips. Slumped against the wall, with Kym lying unconscious—or dead—across her legs and her pistol blown just out of reach, Riva fought against panic.
A Death Commando strode into the room through the smoke and stood above them. "Women! I should have known." He shook his head slowly, his helmet's mirrored faceplate and computer-modulated voice utterly devoid of emotion. "Henderson always said dames would be his death."
Riva lunged for her laser pistol, closing her right hand around its cool, plastic grip. She brought it up, but faster than she would have thought possible, the Death Commando swept forward. Using the muzzle of his autorifle, he batted the pistol out of line with his body even as her finger tightened on the trigger.
The bolt of coherent light sizzled through the air and struck the end of Banzai's watermelon. The beam burned through the green rind in a nano-second, then instantly converted the fruit's water-filled pulp to steam. The melon exploded with a muffled thump, spraying organic shrapnel all over the office. The melon's structural integrity destroyed, the tensometer's top plate slammed down, liquefying the rest of the melon and grinding it into the metal plate below. Suddenly, equipment on the far wall started a hideous wailing and a tape of Dr. Banzai's voice filled the room.
The Death Commando spun. The autorifle in his right hand lipped flame as he sprayed a full clip over the equipment making noise. Sparks flew from the machines as the bullets savaged them. Ejected shells flew in an arc from the rifle, then stopped when the breech snapped open, demanding again to be fed.
As the Death Commando dropped the spent clip and reached down to pull a fresh one from his belt, Riva tracked her pistol back in line with the Death Commando. Her finger tightened on the trigger as he filled her sights. The first bolt hit him on the inside the right thigh, blasting him back against a lab table. The second and third pulses of coherent light burned through his armor chestplate like an arc-welder's torch through cheap tin. The Liao Commando jerked convulsively, then pitched over dead.
Riva stared at his unmoving body and started to tremble. Lost in a maelstrom of fear, anger and revulsion, her thoughts ran wild. You’re in danger, Riva. Think! Think! Concentrate on something! You've got to get yourself and Kym out of here!
She heard Dr. Banzai's voice, strong and even, repeating the same message over and over again. Grabbing at the sound, she used it to fight her way back to sanity. What he was saying didn't matter at all, only that he sounded calm and normal in a situation that was anything but.
Riva rolled Kym over onto her back, then checked her for pulse and respiration. She's just unconscious, bleeding from the nose and ears. She grabbed Kym by the armpits and dragged her deeper into the room. Armed with both the Foxfire and the laser, Riva crept back to the dead Commando and stripped him of weapons and ammo. She intended to return to Kym, but bright lights and the whine of autocannon from outside brought her to the window. She stared out at the battle unfolding below and shook her head. "No, Doctor. I think you're wrong."
Banzai's taped voice again repeated its loop. "This was just an experiment. The watermelon was unimportant except that it shows that you should not touch something you do not understand. This was just an experiment, but next time you could ruin something real."
Riva narrowed her eyes. "No, Dr. Banzai, this time it's very real. It looks like the war has come to New Avalon."
42
New Avalon
Cruris March, Federated Suns
10 September 3029
Angry, Hanse Davion sat upright in bed. He glanced at the darkened screen of his holovid viewer, but forced himself to leave the remote control where it sat on his nightstand. No, Hanse, you’ll not watch that editorial again. No matter how often you view it, the words will not change. New Avalon Broadcasting has every right to say whatever they wanted—that's part of the game. I just received news that the sixth wave seized planets between the front and Sarna. The editorial ignored this success, but that's part of the game, too.
Though he was alone in his bedchamber, the Prince answered himself aloud. "It may be part of the game, dammit, but this is nothing short of a personal vendetta . . ." He threw back the bed clothes, and clad only in Mech Warrior shorts, slid from bed. "I refuse Karl Green's request to have his son posted in a non-combat area, which the boy didn't want anyway, and now Green uses his broadcasting company to attack the war as senseless aggression."
The Prince stared out through the curtains of his bedroom window at the lights of the New Avalon Institute of Science. Face it, Hanse, you resented his painting you as a man who has torn children from their mothers and husbands from their wives in a mad quest for power. He suggests that you are incapable of sympathizing with the common folk in your realm.... that you are an emotionless dictator. . . .
The Prince turned and stared back at his empty bed. Would he understand that I, too, have felt the separation and loss caused by the war. Would he believe that my one choice was to fight Liao in his own realm or to fight him in mine?
Hanse's internal voice answered him. For a man like that, all explanations are just lies covering other lies. He'd find some deeper, more sinister motives for your actions. You only tell him what you want him to know, and he digs for more. It's part of the game, and the key is not showing him how much his attacks annoy you.
Hanse rubbed the unshaven stubble on his chin. "But do the people—my people—believe him? And does he tell more of the truth than I allow myself to see? When I first came to the throne, I saw myself as a caretaker of my brother's realm, but that time is long gone. Have I become some kind of dictator out for personal gain?"
A DropShip burning low through the sky near the NAIS drew the Prince's attention. He smiled. "As long as DropShips keep bringing in Liao 'Mech salvage, Green will probably not have too much support. True patriots never listen to complaints about a victorious war."
As the DropShip slowed, then sank toward the ground, something nagged at the back of Hanse's mind. Is there a shipment coming in today? He crossed to his desk and used the visiphone to reach New Avalon's Spaceport Control.
The clerk stationed at the phone jerked alert and smiled at the Prince. "Highness, what can I do for you?"
Hanse returned the young man's smile. "The DropShip that came in on an NAIS vector . .. what is it?"
The clerk's face drained of color. He turned, and in his nervousness, forgot to mute the speaker. "Henry, we're done. That DropShip woke up the Prince. Waddyamean, what Prince? The Prince, you idiot! What was that ship's name?"
Henry, out of sight, yelled an answer to the question. Hanse heard it before the clerk could relay the message and his blood went cold. He stared into the visiphone. "Get tactical command and have them put aerofighters in the air. That ship's not the Camelot!"
The clerk's jaw dropped open. "How ... ?"
"Never mind how I know." Hanse said sharply. "Just do it!" He snapped off the connection, then whirled toward the door. That ship's an impostor. It can't be the Camelot, but only a handful of people know that right now the Camelot is carrying my wife back to Tharkad.
Hanse burst from his suite, startling the two guards at his door to attention. Barefoot, he sped past them and down long marble corridors he'd not run through since the nearly forgotten era of games with his brother Ian. At the end of one corridor, he slapped the button to summon the elevator, but then dashed away impatiently and flew down the stairs. Three flights later, deep in the
ground beneath the Palace, he reached his goal.
Chest heaving with excitement and exertion, the Prince flicked on the lights in the 'Mech bay. The cavernous room, bereft of the battalion of 'Mechs belonging to the Heavy Guards, dwarfed the sole 'Mech inhabiting it. Tall and humanoid, with a massive, pistol-like PPC in its left hand, the 'Mech looked down on him the way he imagined a warhorse might have regarded the knight who rode it.
Hanse was smiling as he sprinted across the open bay toward the rope ladder hanging down from the 'Mech's cockpit to the floor. It's been a long time . . . far too long. He eagerly scrambled up the BattleMaster's broad chest. They've brought the war to me because they've forgotten. They've forgotten that before I became Prince of the Federated Suns, a command couch was my throne, a neurohelmet was my crown, and the battlefield my domain. After tonight, no one will ever forget that again.
* * *
The BattleMaster's long-legged gait ate up the five kilometers between the Palace and the NAIS campus like a cheetah chasing an antelope. Hitting top speed, Hanse sped his 'Mech through the Davion Peace Park, leaving two-decimeter-deep footprints behind him. Aware of his surroundings in the vaguest way, he avoided the monuments scattered throughout the park only because of the damage a collision might do to his 'Mech. Gone was the Prince who had presided over the tearful dedications of these memorials; the 'Mech's cockpit held a man whose sole concern was tactics and strategies of combat.
The flames billowing from the NAIS dormitories silhouetted most of the Death Commando 'Mechs and threatened to burn out his infrared display. Without conscious thought, Hanse shifted the scanning mode over to normal light as he barreled into the fray. The PPC in the BattleMaster's left fist cored the aft armor on a Panther, spitting armor-shards and melted parts out in its backwash. The Panther pitched forward, then exploded when the fusion engine consumed its SRM magazine.
A Marauder turned around to face him. It stabbed one massive arm in his direction, but Hanse angrily batted it aside with the BattleMaster's right hand. The Marauder's PPC blasted into a small guard house, its cerulean thunderstrike blowing the building into brick dust and fiery splinters. The Liao 'Mech, having missed its first strike, pivoted to bring its other arm into play.
Sitting tight in the BattleMaster's cockpit, Hanse Davion shook his head. No way do you get behind me! He leaned his 'Mech into the Marauder, jamming into the thorax with his shoulder. The ungainly Liao 'Mech tottered, then landed on its back, clawing at the sky like an overturned turtle.
Seeing movement on the 360-degree display, Hanse swung back to the left. His PPC pistol-whipped the humanoid Griffin that had been coming at his unprotected back. The massive weapon exploded as it smashed into the Griffin's face. The Griffin spun away, smoke billowing from the shattered cockpit, and collapsed much as its Human analog would have.
Alerted by frantic calls from the Marauder, the other Death Commandos turned from their wanton destruction to face the Assault 'Mech in their midst. Hanse cursed them silently. Damn! There are so many of them! Grim determination filled him, and outrage burned in his veins. To hell with the odds and the numbers. They've attacked my home. If I'm to die in this war, let it be here.
Hanse dropped his targeting crosshairs onto one Locust and fired all four of his forward lasers. The four beams focused on the birdlike 'Mech's chest, slicing it open like a surgeon's scalpel. The beams lanced through the fusion engine, letting superheated plasma leak from the 'Mech's heart like puss from a boil. In a flash of heat and brilliant light, the Locust vanished.
Hanse ducked his ponderous war machine to the right as the enemy returned fire. He ignored the shafts of coherent light that melted scars across the BattleMaster's broad chest as he discarded the shattered remains of his PPC. He barely felt the shower of short- and long-range missiles peppering the 'Mech's flesh, pockmarking it with craters. For all the thunder of explosions and the rainbow of lights that made up the Liao counterattack, none of it breached his defenses.
The BattleMaster reached out for and grabbed the right arm of the downed Marauder. Hanse set his 'Mech's right leg against the Marauder's torso, crushing armor and warping the other 'Mech's skeleton. With a heave of myomer muscles, the Battle-Master ripped the Marauder's arm free. Sparks shot from the ruined shoulder, the metal and armor screaming as though the Marauder were alive and protesting its maiming. Like Beowulf raising Grendel's severed arm, Hanse Davion brandished the limb triumphantly at his foes.
Except for those moments that burned into his consciousness from stroboscopic explosions or the harsh glare of a PPC's azure fury, the scene was a blur for Hanse. The BattleMaster lunged forward like a bear into a pack of wolves. A Stinger ignited its jump jets in an effort to escape him. It rose too slowly on twin columns of ion flame, so the BattleMaster's shoulder hit it at the knees. Upended, the light 'Mech slammed headfirst into the ground behind the Prince of the Federated Suns, crushing the cockpit and killing the pilot instantly.
Charging into their midst, Hanse turned the Death Commandos into their own worst enemies. In such close confines, a missed shot almost invariably hit a comrade, and in a few cases, enemy pilots actually squared off against one another. Lasers shot through the chaotic fray, vaporizing armor of friend and foe alike. Only Hanse, fighting alone, could strike without fear of damaging an ally.
Twisting and turning with an agility that only a master Mech Warrior could wring from his machine, Hanse repeatedly presented himself as a target, only to fade before an assault. Wielding the Marauder's arm like a club, he laid about with it mercilessly. An overhand blow crumpled the right side of a Centurion, spinning it into the arms of a Crusader. Whirling, letting the blow's momentum carry him full circle, Hanse brought the arm up, catching a Cicada beneath its chin and dropping it onto its back.
The BattleMaster's canopy shattered as an SRM burst against it. Hanse felt the stinging fire of shrapnel as pieces of the polarized glass sliced into his left arm. A trickle of blood slicked the command couch's left arm. Hanse narrowed his eyes and tightened his grip on the left joystick control. There it is, Mr. Green. I bleed for the Federated Suns. Is it not my right to demand the same from my people?
Hanse lashed out with the club, bringing it down like a fly swatter on the Liao Scorpion off to his right. The blow flattened the quadruped 'Mech, crushing its missile launcher and splaying its four legs out in different directions. Missiles damaged in the magazine began to explode, jetting the canister into the sky.
Horrified, Hanse stared down as fire spread through the Scorpion's boxy body. Punch out! Punch out! His heart leapt as the cockpit canopy sailed into the night, but instead of a command couch rising up on escape jets, an incandescent flamespear shot out through the cockpit opening. It imploded, leaving only a thick, oily, black column of smoke to mark the pilot's passing.
Hanse looked up and saw explosions from behind the Death Commandos pressing toward him. He saw Liao BattleMechs turn away from him to face this new threat. Relief flooded through him, but he suppressed it. The battle's not over until it's over. Searing another Liao 'Mech with his lasers, Hanse Davion fought on.
* * *
Hanse frowned as the doctor buckled the sling's crossband snugly around his bare chest. "Doctor, you yourself said the glass did not damage my muscles. You've stitched the cuts, packed them in salve, and wound enough gauze up and down my arm for it to be mummified." Hanse winced slightly as a tongue of pain lanced down from his shoulder. "It does not hurt, and I do not need a sling. The sling suggests I suffered much more of an injury than I did."
Doctor James Thompson pushed his long, slender fingers back through his sandy hair. "No disrespect meant, sir," he began forcefully, "but I'll tell you again what I told you before. While you and the Hong Kong Cavaliers were out there repulsing those 'Mechs, Death Commando infantry ran riot through the research and medical centers." Thompson pointed to a ragged line of bullet holes running along the wall behind the Prince. "They damaged diagnostic equipment I would have liked to use
on you to make sure everything is all right. Furthermore, I've got Team Banzai pilots stacked up like cordwood out there, so I don't need static from a surly patient who's more in need of a seamstress than a doctor. Got it, Highness?"
Hanse saw the doctor's concern that he might have spoken out of turn, but the man's greater concern for his other patients swallowed it. By rights, in a battlezone, I wouldn't have been seen for days with these minor wounds. He's doing his job. Hanse nodded and extended his right hand to Thompson. "You are correct, of course, Doctor. I apologize."
The anger in Thompson's look melted. He shook the Prince's hand, then loosened the sling's strap. "You can raise your arms victoriously for the holovids once, then get someone to strap you back into this thing. I don't want stitches ripping out, because I don't want you back here before I've dealt with the others."
Hanse slid from the examination table. "Once only." He reached out as Thompson turned away. "And, Doctor, thank you."
Thompson smiled, nodding once, then left the emergency room through a door marked "Surgery." Hanse slung his bloodied cooling vest over his right shoulder, then marched into the hospital corridor. At the far end, behind two closed doors set with large glass panels, he saw a throng of reporters and cameramen. Halfway down the corridor, seated on a couch until they saw him emerge through the alcove's curtained opening, three men waited to greet the Prince.
Quintus Allard hung back as the other two men approached Hanse Davion. The Prince read their haggard faces like advertising broadsheets. They're worried and frustrated because of the injuries their men and women suffered fighting against the Death Commandos. How ironic that Team Banzai came to New Avalon to recover from the devastation of Northwind only to find the front had followed them here. But if they'd not been there ... He shuddered at the thought.
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