“Surely you have another reason for your visit?”
The Precentor smiled blandly at what they both knew was a statement of the obvious.
“Is this man to be present?” Kalafon said. His eyes never left Samsonov and he made no motion, but there was no doubt he was referring to Akuma, who still lounged near the door.
“Certainly. He has earned my trust many times over in loyal and discreet service.”
“As you wish, Warlord. I am sure you are a good judge of your men. One who enjoys your trust would never need to fear the punishments House Kurita reserves for those who betray its secrets.” On that ominous note, the Precentor began to speak of the rigors of his journey to Galedon and his pleasure at the mild weather that met his arrival.
Samsonov knew that the man was filling the air with nonsense in the approved Kurita fashion of chitchat before business. Samsonov also knew that the first to get to business lost face, according to Kurita custom. It was another of the nuisances he faced every day. Unlike many in the Combine's power structure, he did not feel himself bound by formal ritual and notions of honor. Such things were only of use to him when they could advance his cause or trip up a rival. The Precentor was not of House Kurita and he was annoying. The sooner the man was gone the better.
“You must be a very busy man, Precentor,” Samsonov interrupted. “As am I. Let us dispense with the formalities and speak as old friends do, without preamble and going directly to the business at hand.” The Warlord leaned forward and said earnestly, “What do you want?”
“It shall be as you wish, Warlord,” Kalafon agreed.
Samsonov could detect no sign that the Precentor was disturbed by the Warlord's breach of etiquette. Perhaps this was a man with whom one could do business.
“I fear that you misunderstand the purpose of my visit,” Kalafon continued placidly. “I want nothing from you. Rather, I have something to offer to you.” He paused and smiled benignly. “I have by chance come into possession of information that may be of value to certain of your current undertakings.”
Samsonov's suspicions were immediately roused. What did this old man know about his “undertakings?” The Warlord's eyes narrowed. “What kind of information?”
“Let me tell you about a soldier. A ‘Mech Warrior by the name of Fadre Singh.”
“I'm not in the habit of buying soldiers, Precentor,” Samsonov snapped. “I thought you had information.”
“MechWarrior Singh is a most interesting fellow, Warlord. Do you know his recent history?”
“No,” Samsonov grunted in irritation. The Precentor was not responding to intimidation and seemed determined to run the conversation his own way. So much for him being a likely business partner. The sooner the old man finished with his prepared babble, the sooner he would leave. “I am sure you can tell me all about it.”
“To some degree I can,” Kalafon replied, his tone still placid. “Singh's most recent success was with Wolf's Dragoons. He produced a brilliant performance in the Hoff raid of 3023—one worthy of a Kurita samurai. I am told that he led a charge from which his superior quailed and thus turned the tide of the battle. The raid on Hoff ended well for the Combine, did it not?”
Samsonov was silent. He let Kalafon take the silence as assent and confirmation of his sources.
The Precentor continued, “Alas, the unfortunate Singh was ill-treated. The embarrassment he had created for his commander seemed to weigh more heavily than his military success. The jealous officer had poor Singh disgraced and dismissed from the unit.
“His next assignment was a lonely outpost on Misery. It is a bleak world, cold and unforgiving over most of the continents, but hot and vile in the active volcanic zones. It was a virtual exile, totally unsuited to a hero.
“On Misery, he met a fellow ‘MechWarrior. A mercenary, I think. She was sympathetic and greatly soothed his mind. It was from this wandering Samaritan that I learned of the unfortunate Singh's plight.”
Kalafon stopped, waiting.
Samsonov took time to consider just how a disaffected Dragoon could be useful. This was bait, he decided. Still, a smart fish can steal the bait and leave the hook untouched. “So, this Singh is unhappy with the Dragoons,” he said.
“That is what I have been given to understand,” Kalafon replied noncommittally.
“Why should I be interested?”
“Ah, of course. You do not buy soldiers. Forgive my failing memory. There was something else.
“Once of a long, dark night on Misery, ‘MechWarrior Singh had a lengthy talk with his friend. In the course of it, he mentioned something to this lady, something he called the Hegira Plan. He claimed that this plan involved a full-scale exodus of Wolf's Dragoons from Kurita space. Would that be of any interest to you, Warlord?”
“That is a foolish question and you are not a fool, Precentor. What's the price?”
“Do not speak of price, Warlord.” Kalafon spread his hands in a gesture of openness. A smile emphasized the wrinkles in his face. “I cannot sell you anything. I merely offer a gift out of good will.”
“Good will is maintained through further good will, isn't it?” Samsonov said, staring into Kalafon's dark eyes, which shone with cool and calculating intelligence. There is a dangerous man behind this well-mannered facade, Samsonov told himself. Caution and circumspection would be required.
“I am pleased to see that you are as wise as I have been told, Warlord.”
“Wisdom is slow in coming sometimes,” Samsonov said, joining the game of politeness and euphemism. “You must let me meditate on this ‘MechWarrior's sad story. Perhaps I can find a way to ease his burden.”
“The Blessed Blake looks kindly on generosity.” Kalafon rose. “I shall leave you now, Warlord. There is much to be put in order at our compound. You may, of course, reach me there. The blessings of Blake, my son.”
With that formality, the Precentor moved toward the door, which Akuma opened for him. The ComStar official strode past Akuma, ignoring the Sworder's open stare.
“A most interesting man, Warlord,” Akuma offered. “He shall be much more entertaining than Phud.”
“More dangerous, too.”
“That's what will make it interesting.” Samsonov searched his aide's face and found nothing but confidence. “You'll stick your hand into the fire too long someday, Akuma.”
Akuma's eyes glittered. “I assure you that I am always careful when I play with fire.”
Akuma's words set Samsonov to considering what he knew really of his aide. The man had first come to his attention after he'd requested a transfer into the Eighth Sword of Light Regiment. There had been a rumor of reprisals being planned against the young officer because of his small part in the disgrace of a commanding officer. Normally, that would mark him as a dangerous subordinate, but the ISF had assured Samsonov of Akuma's devotion to the Combine. They attributed the problem to Akuma's rejection of the hard-line code of bushido. Now, that was an attitude Samsonov understood. He considered that outmoded code and its devotees to be so many nuisances. They got in the way of business. If Akuma shared that attitude, a man who understood business could be useful.
Besides, Akuma had disgraced one of Warlord Yorioshi's officers, and the disgrace of the subordinate had reflected on the superior. Samsonov had decided to reward Akuma for his inadvertent aid. He had approved the transfer to the Eighth Sword of Light.
Once on Galedon, the Sworder had shown traits that reminded Samsonov of himself in younger days. Akuma was efficient, smart, and ambitious, and his only scruple was a sense of debt. He repaid those who touched his life, for good or ill. Such a man is a boon to one who has earned his gratitude, and so the Warlord arranged for Akuma to be grateful to him.
That done, the Warlord promoted Akuma and made him an aide. A fortunate decision, for Akuma served well as an advisor and agent. He was loyal and productive.
Yet, the glitter in Akuma's eyes worried the Warlord. A strong hatred fueled that fire, and it hin
ted at fanaticism. Samsonov believed that a fanatic was a dangerous man. In his obsession, a fanatic might forget the importance of anything else. Perhaps it was time to abandon this pawn. It would all depend on how well Akuma still responded to the demands on him. If he had stopped thinking clearly, he would be a liability. “What do think about this Hegira Plan?” Samsonov asked. “Is is real? Can we use it?”
“Let us leave aside the question of the reliability of the Precentor's source,” Akuma began, almost pedantically. “If it is an escape plan, we would do well to learn its details.
Were the Dragoons to learn of our arrangements, they might decide to leave. Knowing where they would go could be invaluable.”
“And if they don't go, worthless.”
“Of course,” Akuma agreed. “Did not the Coordinator ask for 'insurance' against just such an eventuality?”
“He did.” Caught up in his concerns over the mercenaries, it did not occur to Samsonov to wonder how Akuma knew what the Coordinator wanted. “How do relations with your charges progress?”
“As per your orders, Warlord. I am pursuing all avenues of legal harassment open to me. The Dragoon position steadily weakens. Battle losses rise and certain members of their forces have been left behind on enemy planets, missing in action. Regrettably, timetables have often forced the abandonment of those unfortunates on enemy planets before a proper search could be performed. It is most unpopular with the Dragoons. I have regularly expressed my condolences, but in each action, I have been forced to point out that the orders to depart were completely legal, by contract. Thus, the Dragoons were required to obey, by contract. Some of these unlucky warriors have been subsequently recovered by the Dragoons, but such rescues are expensive.
“They are less and less able to afford the expense because they are having monetary concerns. Though their pay is supplied strictly according to contract, revenues from An Ting are, regrettably, down. There seems to be little interest in the Combine marketplace for products from that planet. Then, too, there is the high cost of supplies. It is most distressing, but unavoidable because of the economic pressures our enemies place on the Combine. I have offered the Dragoons military sources, but they seem to prefer other suppliers. They may soon find that certain vital supplies have become totally unavailable from conventional sources beyond our borders. I will have warned them. Other plans, too, are coming along as well.”
“Such as?” Samsonov prompted.
“Such as getting their staunchest defender removed from the field.”
Akuma could mean only one man. Since joining the Warlord's staff, the Sworder had shown an unreasonable, but not unreasoning, hatred for Tetsuhara. Had the cold calculator succumbed to a hot-blooded impulse? “Have you assassinated Tetsuhara?”
“Assassinated Tetsuhara?” Akuma repeated indignantly. “I am no crude killer.”
No, Samsonov thought, not crude.
“I was about to inform you before the Precentor arrived,” Akuma said, his calm restored. “One of your most loyal officers, Elijah Satoh, now commands the Ryuken. It seems Tai-sa Tetsuhara was involved in a skimmer accident.”
“Killed?”
“Badly injured only ... unfortunately. The Brotherhood physician aboard the Dropship was very loyal to his professional code of ethics,” Akuma said. One corner of his mouth twitched, as though in irritation at some annoying memory. “The physician was very skilled, and Tetsuhara has survived. He may be able to return to duty after his convalescence.
“The Barlow's End operation was not compromised, however. Satoh was left with an excellent plan, which he should be able to execute and so return with glory. Even a healthy Tetsuhara will be hard pressed to oust a hero,” Akuma concluded.
“Let us hope you are right. Satoh is unimaginative but devoted. Through him, I can control the Ryuken. They will be a lever in the days to come. The Dragon's Sword might even provide me with a counter to the Dragon's Shadows, should that become necessary.”
Akuma sat back in satisfaction, watching the Warlord take in the success and consider the possibilities. Samsonov was a rising star that could be directed to carry a clever man quite high. Better than anyone. Akuma knew himself to be a clever man.
After a tactful interval, he reminded the Warlord of the waiting message pouch, which should contain dispatches on the outcome of the Barlow's End raid.
“The timing would be right,” Samsonov agreed, opening a panel on his desk to access the computer console within. As the screen rose from its recess, the Warlord keyed in his request for the appropriate message texts. “They are here,” he said.
Amber light flickered over the Warlord's face as words scrolled over the screen. Akuma watched as the muscles of Samsonov's jaw twitched, his eyes going wide, his face reddening. Something had gone wrong.
“Betrayed!” The storm broke. “The spineless mercenaries ran from battle!”
Samsonov started to rant about the Dragoons, but Akuma didn't listen. He swiveled the screen to face himself and read the text. A retreat by the mercenaries was the last thing he had anticipated. Frackencrack! It was hard to think about what all this meant with the fat old fool raving. The man really had little self-control, Akuma thought, much like himself a few years ago. At least Samsonov wasn't pointing the finger at Akuma's actions. He would have to calm the Warlord before they could deal with this disaster.
An hour later, Samsonov sat with hands clasped before him on the desk. His rage had subsided for the moment, but it still burned below the surface. “Wolf's Dragoons have embarrassed and insulted me too many times,” he said. “I will see them destroyed.”
Akuma drew back from the Warlord's coldly spoken resolution. He too wanted the Dragoons destroyed, but to him, it was not personal. Their destruction was a way to hurt Tetsuhara. Such a destruction was a thing to be carefully planned. It was a step-by-step process. A thousand little details orchestrated until there was no escape. Small bits might go awry, but the gathering momentum had to be nursed until nothing could stop it. Rash actions taken in a fit of anger were more likely to go wrong and upset the plan. Such actions could be as dangerous to the destroyer as to his target. If Samsonov did something foolish, the two of them could get “invited onward.” Akuma had no intention of slitting his own belly. He sought to caution Samsonov. “Is that wise without the Coordinator's leave?”
“No,” the Warlord said. “No, it isn't.” -A rare smile of pleasure creased Samsonov's face. Akuma hoped that it signified the dawn of a brilliant plan and not simply the anticipation of bloodletting. “We'll just have to be subtle about it.” He laughed harshly. “Call the Precentor back.”
Though Akuma feared that he had lost control of the Warlord, he had no choice but continue to do his bidding.
27
Royal Court, Avalon City, New Avalon
Crucis March, Federated Suns
15 November 3026
Quintus Allard passed the guards at the entrance to the private wing of the palace, giving them no more than a friendly greeting. The old man and the worn, slightly oversized business suit he habitually wore were well-known to the Royal Guard, who served Prince Hanse in his palace in Avalon City. The guards sent word ahead to the Prince that his Minister of Intelligence, Information, and Operations had arrived.
As the heavy door to the private audience chamber slid open, Hanse Davion looked up at his visitor with a smile of welcome. “Special delivery, Quintus? Not bad news, I hope.”
“I am not sure whether it is news at all, my Prince.” Allard drew a green and gold holodisk from his pocket and held it up.
Hanse was puzzled. If Quintus Allard wasn't sure, circumstances must be confusing, indeed.
“It's not that the circumstances are confusing,” Allard continued, as though reading the Prince's mind. “What confuses me is the motivation that urges your beloved brother-in-law to send this message. I am wondering what he hopes to gain.”
“Well, you've got me wondering as well. Let's see this message.”
Allard nodded and placed the disk in a slot on the viewer. The lights dimmed as the viewscreen came to life. The first image was that of Michael Hasek-Davion's personal heraldry, a golden lion against a green field. The artwork then dissolved into an image of Michael seated at his desk. The holotech had carefully composed the shot to place the lion's eyes where Michael's own green ones would appear. The conceit identifying Michael with the noble beast was marred by the restlessness in the real eyes. The voice that came from the speaker was a better match. It was a politician's voice, deep and sonorous.
“Salutations, brother. I hope that these greetings from Marie and myself find you well. I know what a tiresome job it is to rule the Federated Suns, and so I will take little of your time.”
Hanse and Allard exchanged glances at that. Both knew how quickly Michael would grab that “tiresome job” if he could. In the holofilm, the Duke of New Syrtis twitched his long braid of black hair off the shoulder of his spotless uniform. “I have recently come into a bit of information that might interest you,” he said.
Michael flicked his hand at someone out of the recorder's view. The holo image changed, flattening to an ordinary black and white video. The scene thus revealed was a darkened room, lit fitfully by a flickering blue glow-globe on the center of a table. A small, rumpled man sat at that table, the light throwing strange shadows across his sharp features. The man's shifty gaze ran about the room before focusing on something or someone not in the picture.
The sparse furnishings and grubby walls were little help in identifying its location. Alcohol advertisements proclaimed it as belonging to a drinking establishment, and so it was probably the back room of a seedy bar that could have been almost anywhere in the Inner Sphere.
Michael's voice explained. “My agent intercepted this on Le Blanc. It was addressed to a certain Sten Weller, a notorious freelance hunter. I believe it was data intended to accompany an invitation to partake in some work.”
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