"Bound for Thorin?"
Morgan shook his head. "Tharkad. I must speak with the Archon." Morgan's face had changed, his expression became remote. "Now, if you will excuse me, I wish some time alone."
Dan nodded. "Morgan?"
"Yes?"
"Though I deeply regret the circumstances," Dan said in a low voice, "it feels so right to have you back."
7
New Avalon
Crucis March, Federated Suns
22 October 3027
The Davion Heavy Guards troopers who had gathered at the Fox Den Tavern cheered as Morgan Hasek-Davion's image again appeared on the video screen. Morgan, as he had done in the ten previous replays of the news segment, shook hands with Hanse Davion on a balcony overlooking a cheering throng. "It is a great honor to be asked to serve as best man at your wedding ceremony, Prince Hanse, and I gladly accept the duty and responsibility that goes along with it."
Seated deep in the tavern's darkest corner, Morgan Hasek-Davion watched his own image on the screen. Part of him recognized that he was the tall Mech Warrior with flowing red hair and the broad, strong build that many called his Davion traits. It was true, he thought, that he and Hanse Davion looked more like brothers than uncle and nephew. Morgan shuddered as the image froze on the screen, then blurred away as the helpless tavern keeper rewound the tape once more in response to the Heavy Guards' demands to see the segment again.
Morgan shook his head and looked down at the half-drunk beer in his hands. I know that was me on the screen, but at the same time, it's not. Looking up at the screen again, he sighed. That Morgan Hasek-Davion harbors none of the doubts and concerns I have. Morgan pushed his chair back from the table and slowly waded through the crowd toward the door.
One of his lancemates, Leftenant Ben Colson, spotted him and called out to him. "Hey, Major, where are you going? We're not done toasting you yet."
Morgan smiled broadly. "Just want to get some air, Ben. I'll be back." He looked around the room, then pointed to the holovid screen. "Been in crowds all day ..."
Colson nodded and winked conspiratorially, then turned back to the screen. Morgan wormed through a couple of tight spots, then escaped into the cool night air. The Fox Den's door shut behind him, and except for the hum of the sodium streetlights, silence enfolded him.
Morgan began to walk. Though he had no conscious destination, his feet soon took him to the Davion Peace Garden. The huge trees arching overhead formed a dark, solemn tunnel. How odd to find myself here, for I feel in no way at peace.
Morgan remembered his image on the holovid screen and the commentary of a woman from the Social Functions Administration. "Morgan Hasek-Davion is Prince Hanse's nephew," she had said, "the son of the Prince's half-sister, Marie. You can see how much he resembles the Prince. He has the broad shoulders and that characteristic red hair of the Davions." Well, she got it half-right, at least.
A slight breeze plucked at Morgan's long hair and blew a lock of it across his face. He pushed it away and unconsciously coiled the strand around one index finger. She never mentioned how I wear my hair long, as does my father. Nor she did point out that I have my father's green eyes, or that my muscular build was inherited from the Haseks. In seeing so much Davion in me, she's as blind as my father. Morgan again looked around and saw that his wandering had carried him deeper into the park—almost halfway to the NAIS. Off to the left, down in the bowl of a grassy amphitheatre, he saw the dark silhouette of the park's latest monument. Morgan stepped over the walkway railing and approached the stone and steel statue.
The flickering golden light of a memorial flame flashed highlights across the trio of figures that comprised the tableau. On the left was a panther—stylized enough to reflect oriental origin—as it recoiled from the middle figure. That figure, a wolfhound already torn and bleeding from several wounds, bared its fangs and lunged at the big black cat. The dog's defiant spirit was expressed in the suicidal assault, for its injuries were portrayed as nearly mortal. Behind the dog, crouching in horror, a child peeked at the warring animals through splayed fingers. A rope bound around the child's waist extended enough above the sculpture to suggest the child's imminent rescue and to validate the hound's courageous sacrifice.
Morgan looked down at the bronze plaque set before the burning flame, and read aloud: "In Memoriam: For those who gave their lives to save the hijacked DropShip, Silver Eagle, 26 June 3027. The fruits of your sacrifice will live forever." Morgan listened to the echoes of his words drain away into the darkness, then glanced at the list of names immortalized on the plaque. Heading the list was the name of "Lieutenant Colonel Patrick M. Kell."
Morgan shook his head. I mourn your loss, Patrick, but how I envy your sense of duty. You suffered no confusion. You knew what had to be done and you did it. Morgan again looked up at the steel wolfhound. I feel as torn and battered as that dog, yet I cannot see my duty as clearly.
But you, Patrick Kell, you had it easier than I did. Once you learned that your cousin Melissa Steiner was trapped within the Silver Eagle, your duty was clear. You only faced a superior Draconian force. You shed your blood to save your blood, but I am trapped between my two halves.
Morgan turned from the memorial and trudged across the grassy field toward the walkway and the NAIS. I am a Davion. First and always, my duty is to my Prince and the Federated Suns. I know Hanse originally brought me to New Avalon to guarantee my father's good behavior, but it didn't matter to me. He brought me home! I respect him as my leader and my kin, and I cherish him as a friend.
At the same time, though, I feel as though I am betraying my father. I know that he and Hanse fought a secret but no less nasty battle to see who would become Prince after Ian died on Mallory's World, and my father lost. What's worse, though I love him, I know my father was wrong. I want to bring the two of them back together again, but I fear that accepting the request to be the Prince's best man will only drive them further apart.
A woman's loud squeal of fear came suddenly from the darkened grove to Morgan's right, shocking him from his brooding. He vaulted the walkway railing and burst through the shrubs at top speed. Swerving at the sight of the woman and her three assailants, he tackled the tallest of the men. Slamming his shoulder into the man's stomach, Morgan knocked the wind out of him. They both went down hard, but Morgan rolled to his feet instantly and whirled to face the other two muggers.
The blond woman struggled and broke free of her captors. Clutching torn clothing, she cowered as the hoodlums turned with evil grins toward her rescuer. The one closest to the girl— his right eye already blackening where she'd hit him—taunted Morgan, "Ain't got your machine, robogrunt. . ."
Morgan roared defiantly and lunged forward, stabbing a stiff-fingered hand into the other man's stomach. When the hoodlum folded around the blow, Morgan straightened him up with a knee to the face. The thug jackknifed backward and out of sight into the shrubs.
The last man swung a roundhouse left to the side of Morgan's face, snapping his head around. Morgan half-stumbled, then caught himself and rose grinning. "Is that the best you can do, little man?" Balling fists the size of grapefruits, Morgan towered over the mugger. "I don't need a machine to take you apart."
Morgan took a single step forward, which instantly inspired the thug to turn and attempt to run off. He slipped first, giving Morgan the chance to administer a savage kick to the man's posterior, ejecting him from the grove through a thornbush. Screaming more from terror than pain, the man vanished into the night.
Morgan spun, but the other two hoodlums had by now also made good their escape. Knowing that he was safe for the moment, Morgan crossed to where the woman crouched. He dropped to one knee beside her. "Are you hurt?"
She looked up at him and stared as though not understanding his words. She hugged herself tightly and shivered. Fear shot through her blue eyes like laserfire, but then her eyes cleared. "My God, they were going to . . ."
Morgan settled his huge hands on her shoulders.
"Take it easy. They can't hurt you now. Are you all right?"
She swallowed and shook her head. Her blond hair, a bit shorter than Morgan's own red locks, brushed the backs of his hands with the movement of her head. "I, I think I'm fine— physically, I mean. They didn't hurt me, really, just tore my chemise."
Morgan instantly unzipped his uniform jacket and swung it around to cover her. As the blue woolen coat settled over her shoulders, she pulled it tight. "Thank you. It's so warm." She looked up and saw that Morgan now wore only a sleeveless t-shirt beneath the jacket. "No, you mustn't. You'll be cold."
Morgan shook his head and pulled the neck of the shirt down so that she could see the thatch of thick red hair covering his chest. "It's like wearing a sweater all the time. In fact, it's hell in an overheating 'Mech. I'll be fine. Do you think you can walk?"
She nodded, and Morgan helped her to her feet. Leaning heavily on him, she smoothed out her plaid woolen skirt and brushed away some leaves and twigs that clung to it. Smiling, she took one step forward, but her right ankle collapsed. "Oh!" she cried out, falling against him.
Morgan caught her easily. "Did you twist your ankle?"
She nodded ruefully. "Actually, I injured it two weeks ago while fencing. I must have reinjured it."
"Well, you're not walking anywhere on that ankle tonight." Morgan smiled broadly. "Put your arms around my neck."
She frowned but complied cautiously. Once Morgan felt her hands on his shoulders, he dipped and scooped her up into his arms.
"Wait a minute, mister," she began. "I don't just let strange men carry me around . . ."
Morgan laughed. "I saw that earlier, remember? Come on, I'm in Davion's Heavy Guards. You can trust me."
She raised an eyebrow. ". . . said the spider to the fly." She studied his face, then smiled. "I'm sorry. You're right. You did save me ..."
Morgan nodded and walked them both from the grove. "Well, just so you won't think of me as a strange man, permit me to introduce myself. I'm Morgan." He half-expected her to recognize him, but somehow he was pleased when she didn't.
She smiled warmly. "Well then, Morgan, introductions all around. I'm Kym Sorenson, and I'm very grateful for your help."
"Where to, Kym?"
Kym pointed off toward the NAIS lights. "My apartment is just this side of campus. If you want to put me down, I can probably limp along to it."
Morgan shook his head firmly. "None of that. We Heavy Guards are known as 'The Strength of the Davions,' and this is my chance to prove it." Holding her tightly, he thought about his ruminations of only a few minutes before. "Would that all my duties were so sweet..."
8
Nashira
Dieron Military District, Draconis Combine
23 October 3027
Chu-sa Narimasa Asano and Sho-sa Tarukito Niiro bowed deeply toward their leader. "Konnichi-wa, Tai-sa Kurita Yorinaga-sama," said Narimasa as he led his subordinate toward the white satin cushions opposite the low desk. Each man had removed his shoes at the door to pad silently across the polished wooden floor.
With a wave of his hand, Yorinaga Kurita wordlessly invited his junior officers to be seated. Setting aside the report he had been reading, he respectfully bowed his graying head toward them. Folding his hands into his lap, he waited for Narimasa to begin the briefing.
Having been raised to be polite, Narimasa avoided staring at Yorinaga. "The Genyosha is now up to the full level of strength you have requested, Tai-sa, with the exception of one staff officer. We have replaced the men and machines lost in the battle against the Kell Hounds on Styx, and additional recruiting has brought us to forty-eight individual MechWarriors. This fulfills the Coordinator's desire for us to be a reinforced battalion of four companies."
Sho-sa Tarukito nodded as Narimasa turned toward him. "The Azami company is fully operational, though some friction exists between them and the two mainline companies. The Azami jealously cling to their Islamic beliefs, which has led to some misunderstandings with our own citizens. I believe, however, that this reaction to the Azami is based on the superior scores they have achieved in all exercises.
Narimasa nodded at Yorinaga. "I have instructed our officers to let their MechWarriors know that we should all strive to equal or best the Azami scores. Perhaps it was this that brought a marked improvement in performances by the two Kurita companies, and even from the Rasalhague company. Still, the Azami commander, Chu-sa Saladin Bey, believes that the situation would calm down if you would consent to dine in his company's area from time to time."
Yorinaga nodded, then looked to Tarukito. The Sho-sa cleared his throat. "The Rasalhague company is shaping up well, but the lack of leadership hurts them in two ways. Obviously, they have no one to direct them, and so their training lags. Those of Chu-i rank are, however, working hard with their men."
Tarukito paused for a moment and looked around the paper-latticed walls of the room. He stared at a waterfall that Yorinaga had created with a few brilliant strokes of a brush, and seemed to drink peace and strength in from it. Smiling self-consciously, he shot a glance at Narimasa, then continued.
"Worse yet, Tai-sa, those of Rasalhague believe themselves somehow diminished because they do not have a Chu-sa to put them on equal footing with the Azami or mainline companies."
Narimasa picked up the discussion as Tarukito's voice failed. "We know that you are as concerned about this situation as are we. All our companies consist of elite MechWarriors, and along with their incredible skill, we get their fragile egos. Though disciplinary measures have spurred the Rasalhagian MechWarriors on to greater efforts, the lack of leadership has left them behind the other three companies."
Narimasa allowed himself to return the sly grin with which Yorinaga honored him, and then went on. "Tarukito and I have interviewed a young man whom we believe is well-suited to the slot open in the command structure. His is a rather remarkable story. Despite a lack of formal training and the best efforts of the ISF to destroy his career, he has succeeded incredibly."
Tarukito nodded nervously at Narimasa's accounting of the new Genyosha recruit.
"Because of his mixed blood, the ISF deemed him unworthy of any Mech Warrior schooling. In spite of their wishes, however, he was determined to learn how to pilot a 'Mech. He got a job driving 'Mechs off an assembly line on Alshain. That job enabled him to learn to operate a 'Mech, and within a year, he became a test-pilot for running 'Mechs through their paces. Some say his skill at piloting the machines is 'intuitive' because he understands the machines with his soul and can coax them into performances that confound even the designers."
Narimasa looked toward the door. "He waits without."
Yorinaga clapped his hands once, sharply, and a silhouette framed itself against the wood and paper door. The huge figure knelt and slowly, respectfully, slid the door open. Still on his knees, he levered himself into the room and closed the door. Cloaked and hidden in a green silk robe with a cavernous hood, the newcomer bowed deeply to Yorinaga, then walked over to kneel between Tarukito and Narimasa.
He bowed again deeply, and the hood fell away from his head as he raised himself. The man's face was strong-boned and handsome, his brown eyes flecked with gold, and his hair was only a shade lighter than his bronzed skin. His eyes showed the barest hint of almond shape, but his features clearly announced his Rasalhagian-Scandinavian heritage.
The man smiled coldly. "Konnichi-wa, Tai-sa Kurita Yorinaga-sama. It has been a long time, father."
Yorinaga looked sharply at his two junior officers. "Leave us."
Yorinaga's son shook his head. "No, please do not make them leave. I do not ask this as your son, but as Chu-i Akira Brahe. I have formally applied to enter your service, and I wish these two officers to be present during my interview, as they would during any other interview." Akira's glance flicked toward the floor. "I will not embarrass you, sosen."
Yorinaga nodded solemnly. "I will take you at your word, Chu-i Brahe." He set his face into an impassive ma
sk.
Akira Brahe swallowed hard. You have changed much on the outside, Father, but have you changed inside as well? "I am Chu-i Akira Brahe of the Eleventh Legion of Vega." Akira saw his father recoil as he heard the name of the unit that had accepted his son. Yes, Father, I belong to the lowest of the low.
Akira straightened up and held his head proudly. "I was born in the Year of the Dog, 3001, to Sula Brahe Kurita on Rasalhague. Because of my father's skill as a Mech Warrior and military commander, I was destined for admission to Sun Zhang and had enrolled in a preparatory school to ensure my acceptance. In 3016, however, I was expelled as unworthy and dishonorable."
Akira's eyes met his father's, then he politely looked away. Yes, Father, after your disgrace on Mallory's World in 3016, I suffered. I know you only did your duty, and so it is that I have done my duty: I have survived.
Akira's rich voice again filled the office. "I was sent to Alshain and there obtained a job in a 'Mech factory. I avoided all contacts with the dissident elements and concentrated upon learning how to pilot a 'Mech. In the course of this training, I also learned how to repair and maintain the machines. Eventually, after three years, I was allowed to become a testing pilot and to operate a fully armed 'Mech.
"Yakuza came to raid the plant and steal several 'Mechs. Working with traitors, the rebel bandits obtained the operation codes for the 'Mechs so that they could march them off the lot. It just so happened that I was in the factory complex and that the Grand Dragon I piloted had just been armed in preparation for a run the next morning."
The young Mech Warrior closed his eyes for a moment, remembering. "I have no need to tell you, Tai-sa, of battle. This was my first engagement. The Yakuza had only poorly trained pilots and were relying on stealth to succeed in stealing the four Panthers they wanted. I listened to them over the radio, but gave no indication they had been overheard. It was not until they moved toward the factory gate that I opposed them.
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