Warrior: riposte

by Michael A. Stackpole

  "I struck their flank from the darkened alley between two office buildings. I loosed a flight of LRMs at the furthest Panther, which seemed to do an awkward dance in the explosions. With pieces of armor whirling away on fiery jets, it staggered like a drunkard and fell to its knees. The pilot screamed some garbled words about an ambush, and the other three Panthers turned to defend their fallen comrade. They mistakenly believed that the attack had come from their rear, and so their defensive maneuver exposed their backs to me."

  Akira opened his eyes and looked down. "They paid the price for their audacity, and I paid for mine as well. The ISF, embarrassed at the success of one whom they had deemed unworthy for MechWarrior training, rewarded me with a transfer directly into the Eleventh Legion of Vega. They even mocked me further by assigning me a broken, half-operational Dragon."

  Yorinaga narrowed his eyes. "The Eleventh Legion's commander is Theodore Kurita, the Coordinator's son."

  Hai. The ISF gathers disgraced sons into one spot so that they may watch them easily. Akira nodded slowly. "He is a good commander, despite his disgrace. The unit is riddled with ISF informers, and Theodore at first took me for one. He decided that my history was too good to be true, but he soon discovered I was not a mole sent to spy. Though he never trusted me fully, he respected me for my skill. Were he not as secretive about some of his dealings, I believe that we could have been friends.

  "I started in a lance of other Rasalhagians of mixed birth and deposed the Corporal leading it. I made a rough agreement with the others in my lance that we would try to work together, and they accepted the wisdom of such an approach. I know they meant to get rid of me the first time the whim struck, and so I worked hard to make sure they would never feel so inclined. Soon, by salvage, trading, and outright theft, our lance's 'Mechs were fully operational."

  Akira shrugged wearily. "During my assignment with the Eleventh Vega, I manipulated ISF informers and other Mech-Warriors to solidify power. I never refused an order to doom a rival, but I did not hesitate to act whenever I could rescue someone from a dangerous situation and profit in that manner."

  Muscles bunched at Akira's jaws. "During a raid on the Lyran world of Ryde, I did directly disobey a suicidal order by my Chu-i, but I did so because the order made no tactical sense. Instead, my lance hit the advancing enemy on the flank and opened a line of retreat for the rest of the company. The Chu-i died during the retreat and I was elected to replace him."

  Akira exhaled slowly. "My career is not one that will be held up as an example to cadets at Sun Zhang, unless it is to note how an officer must be careful of ambitious subordinates. Perhaps my career would seem more spectacular today if the Combine did not ignore recommendations for awards from the Legion of Vega or if the Legion was able to procure anywhere near the level of supplies needed to keep a regiment working. All I know is that I am no more and no less than a MechWarrior. I come to serve you, House Kurita, and the Draconis Combine."

  Yorinaga glanced idly at his desk. "As you have said, yours is not a shining example of a military career. What would you do, Chu-i Brahe, if your commander were to give you an order that conflicted with what you felt was best for the Draconis Combine in a particular situation?"

  Akira brought up his head. "I would obey instantly, though I would also stand ready to obey another order if my commander chose to reconsider."

  Yorinaga nodded. "And if your commander asked you to commit seppuku, here, now?"

  Akira stripped his robe back to bare his chest and abdomen. "I would only ask that my father stand as my second to ease my pain so that I would not dishonor myself or my family."

  Yorinaga smiled. "It is clear you would dishonor neither." He looked up at Narimasa and Tarukito. "Please prepare a place for Chusa Akira Brahe in the Officer's Quarters. He will join you shortly." Yorinaga bowed as his subordinates left his office, then turned back to his son.

  "How is it, Akira, that you bear your mother's name?"

  Akira paled and glanced at the matted floor. "You do not wish to know."

  Yorinaga passed his right hand back over his closely cropped gray hair. "I would not ask the question if I did not want the answer."

  Akira swallowed hard. "It is the name of my 'legal' father, Gustav Brahe."

  Yorinaga frowned. "But he is your grandfather . . ."

  Akira nodded. "When you fell from grace, your wife asked if she could commit seppuku to redeem the family's honor. Mies Kurita, acting on direct orders from the Coordinator, refused her request and had her sold into slavery. She threatened to kill herself anyway, but she was told that a slave who did such a thing without the permission of her master was defective, and that her child—me—would suffer for it. Then they set a price of 20,000 ComStar bills for her."

  Yorinaga shook his head. "But it is impossible for a citizen to adopt a slave's child."

  Akira shook his head slowly. "Not if the child is an orphan." As tears filled his eyes, one drop escaped to roll slowly down along his nose. "You had been declared a non-person and exiled. My mother could not live with the thought of you suffering in disgrace. Her master allowed her to kill herself."

  Yorinaga swallowed hard. "It takes an extraordinary man to allow so valuable a slave such release. Her master must have been very special."

  Akira nodded. "He is. And after he watched his daughter die, he adopted me and saved me from following her into death."

  9

  Kittery

  Capellan March, Federated Suns

  20 November 3027

  Captain Andrew Redburn smiled gratefully at the Capellan waiter who was pouring more tea into Redburn's cup. "Thank you, xiexie. The dinner was excellent." The Capellan bowed and retreated through the beaded curtain that cut off the small alcove from the rest of the restaurant. As Redburn watched light flash from the beads, he enjoyed the gentle tinkling against the buzz of conversation from the larger dining room.

  Taking a sip of tea, he let its warmth radiate out to relax his body. I think I begin to understand why this was one of Justin's favorite haunts. Redburn breathed in through his nose and smiled. Though he was pleasantly full, the scents of the many dishes being served to other patrons were appetizing.

  The auburn-haired Mech Warrior returned his attention to the seven other men sitting at his table. He set his tea cup down on the table and then hoisted a glass of beer into the air. "To Walter de Mesnil, the best Sergeant the First Kittery Training Battalion ever had. Without you, this unit would have fallen apart long ago."

  De Mesnil chuckled to himself as his fellow non-commissioned officers raised their glasses in a salute. "I remind you, Captain, that I was the only Sergeant in the First Kittery." He smiled and mirth gleamed in his single brown eye.

  Redburn chuckled. "Hell, if the unit had been in real trouble, we'd have gotten a Sergeant with two eyes. We'll miss you, Walter. Sure you won't reconsider leaving the unit?"

  De Mesnil shook his black and gray-maned head, his left hand straying up to touch the patch over his left eye. "Sorry, Captain. I gave my word." The Sergeant looked around at the rest of his comrades. "I promised Morgan Kell I'd ship out and rejoin the Kell Hounds whenever he gave the word." De Mesnil smiled and nodded at the lanky, fair-haired man sitting across from him. "Besides, you'll not miss me. You've got Robert Craon to take my place. He'll be enough to get you guys into trouble."

  Craon smiled. "I believe that's what they're afraid of, Sarge."

  De Mesnil shook his head. "It's Walter now, Robert." De Mesnil took in the other NCOs with his glance. "We all knew a couple of you recruits would make Leftenant and assume command of lances, and we all hoped you'd be one of them."

  A maudlin silence settled over the MechWarriors for a moment, until Andrew Montbard, the brown-haired Corporal at the far end of the rectangular table, shattered the stillness with a loud belch. He blushed in embarrassment, then lowered his head like an angry bull, silently challenging anyone to comment. In his own defense, he said, "Well, consider that a complim
ent to the chef." He pushed himself back from the table and rested his chair against the alcove's dark wooden wall. "All right, Captain, now that we've wet-nursed these recruits through two years of training, what's next? I know you've got our assignments. Spill it."

  Next to him, Archie St. Agnan frowned and nervously twisted his black mustache. "Drew, is that wise? We're sitting in a restaurant run by the Yizhi tong in the middle of Shaoshan. The place is probably riddled with spies for House Liao. Technically, according to CID directives, we're not even supposed to be here."

  Redburn shook his head. "Don't worry about that, Archie. We won't be on Kittery long enough for disciplinary action to come down the line if we get caught. The word's already on the street. My houseboy, Li Chung, has already presented me with a blanket his grandmother embroidered. It contains the emblem for our new unit. I often think our orders are sent via House Liao before they come to us." A wry grin spread across Redburn's broad features. "You've got a pool riding on this, don't you?"

  Drew nodded his head enthusiastically. "Well, yes, sir, but don't worry. We all chipped in and bought you a unit just so you'd not be left out."

  Redburn shook his head. I'II bet you did cover me, you fiends. No way to write you up if I'm in on it, eh? "What did you get me—Kurita's Second Sword of Light or Count Vitios's personal bodyguard regiment?"

  Archie chuckled. "Well, sir, strictly speaking, neither of those units were considered fair. We restricted the pool to regiments we consider on our side."

  Drew nodded solemnly. "Don't worry, sir, we'll let you know if you won. So, what is it?"

  Corporal Payen Montdidier, seated between de Mesnil and Archie, glared at Drew. "Can't wait to lose your money, can you?"

  Before Drew could answer, however, the MechWarrior with gray-streaked hair sitting across from him grinned like a fox. "Nor can I wait to win it." Hugh de Payens looked back at Redburn. "Do you care to tell us what the verdict is?"

  Sandwiched between Drew and de Payens, Geoffrey St. Omer shook his head. "No, Captain. Don't. If one of us wins, he'll have to pick up the tab for this dinner." St. Omer smiled broadly and raked fingers back through his shock of blond hair. "Not that I'd begrudge paying for a fine meal with such fine company, but. . ."

  De Mesnil laughed. ". . . But you need the money for your grandmother's operation."

  Craon shook his head. "No, Sar . . . Walter. That's where his poker winnings go. This money is for his sister's brood of halfwit children."

  Redburn joined in the laughter. "Well, gentlemen—and you, too Drew—we're being posted to the Davion Light Guards."

  Redburn smiled as his subordinates stared at him in disbelief. Yes, men, we've been assigned to one of the premier units in the Federated Suns. "We apparently attracted some attention during Galahad '27."

  Craon frowned. "We're a Capellan March unit, sir. Why would the Prince want us to move into one of the Davion House units?"

  Redburn shrugged. It was a question he'd already asked himself many times. The boys in the Light Guards would have trouble accepting a training battalion, and their being from the Capellan March would just compound the difficulty. "I don't know, Robert."

  Drew drained his beer and set the glass down on the table. Foam slid down the inside of the glass to pool at the bottom. Redburn watched it with a shiver. Everything's being drawn together. Something big is up. I can feel it. Yorinaga Kurita has a unit that no intelligence sources knew anything about until last summer. Morgan Kell has returned from his self-imposed exile, and the Prince has publicly announced his marriage to Melissa Arthur Steiner.

  Drew belched lightly. "Chances are the Prince's brains have been addled by his upcoming wedding!"

  Montdidier shook his head. "You buffoon." He shot a glance at Redburn. "The Prince probably remembered the Captain from when they met last summer. Saw his name on the lists and decided to honor him with this assignment."

  De Mesnil, his voice rumbling like distant thunder, concurred. "Remember, my friends, the First Kittery did escape a Liao ambush and inflicted some heavy damage only halfway through their training period. That makes the lot of you impressive. I'm sure the Captain's part in the Silver Eagle rescue helped, but the First has seen more action than the NAIS cadres."

  St. Omer slowly poured more beer into his glass. "Walter's right. The Davion Light Guards specialize in fast strikes with light 'Mechs. Most of the academies turn out pilots who want to jockey the heavier machines."

  Archie nervously twisted his mustache. "I smell politics in this. Face it. Duke Michael and the Prince haven't exactly been getting along lately, and Major Allard's trial last year didn't help matters. Now the Prince has chosen Morgan Hasek-Davion as his best man, and he moves a Capellan March unit into one of the Davion Guard Regiments? I'd say he's trying to smooth some ruffled feathers."

  Craon smiled. "What's the problem with that, Archie? One of the problems with relations between folks from the Capellan March and the Crucis March is that those from Crucis think we're savages with a frontier mentality. You've seen some of the rivalries between the Davion Assault Guards and the Fifth Syrtis Fusiliers since they both got posted here to Kittery. The Guards treat the Fusiliers like poor relations."

  Andrew smiled bravely. "No one says the normalization process won't be hard, but I'm confident you'll shepherd our people through it." And I hope I can guide all of you through it as well. Perhaps posting us to service with the Second Sword of Light would have been easier.

  Redburn nodded. "I seem to recall that's how they treated the First Kittery until we drove off those Capellan Cicadas. Leftenant Craon has a good point. We'll normalize relations when we get to know each other and earn each other's respect."

  The waiter's arrival forestalled any further commentary. The oriental man smiled nervously and placed the bill beside Redburn, then withdrew silently. Redburn glanced over at the bill, then looked up at his friends. "So, Geoff, did you win the pool? Are you buying?"

  St. Omer hung his head and Payen Montdidier—in contrast to his usual nature—smiled. Archie, Drew, and Hugh de Payens all smiled and suppressed laughter. Craon stared innocently at Redburn, so the Captain turned to de Mesnil. "Did you win, Walter? Because I won't let you pay. Not just before you ship out."

  The one-eyed Sergeant smiled. "Nope."

  Redburn raised an eyebrow. "Confess, gentlemen . . ."

  Drew cleared his voice. "Well, sir, you'll recall I said we'd covered you?"

  Redburn nodded. "And you chose a unit to which you knew we'd never be assigned just to keep me in the pool, right?"

  The NCOs nodded solemnly. Redburn held out his hand, and Archie handed him a fat sheaf of Davion pound notes. "How much did I win?"

  Geoff smiled sheepishly. "One hundred and forty pounds. I bought two chances . . ."

  Redburn smiled and flipped the bill over. "I think that should cover . . ." What in hell? He tossed the bill over to de Mesnil. "Walter, the chop on that. Is it who I think it is?"

  De Mesnil studied the red waxen seal for a second, then nodded. "Shang Dao."

  Craon stared at both men. "The leader of the Yizhi tong? What's going on?"

  Redburn shook his head. "No time. Are any of you carrying a gun?"

  Everyone but Montdidier shook their heads. The small, slender Corporal grinned again and reached into his olive green uniform coat. When his bony hands returned to view, they held two automatic pistols. He passed one to Redburn and quickly followed it with two clips of spare ammo. Then, reaching down below the table, he produced a small laser pistol and a knife.

  The others stared at him, but he just shrugged. "You don't catch me strolling naked into Shaoshan."

  Horrified, Hugh de Payens swallowed hard. "I'm glad this wasn't a formal occasion."

  Montdidier winked. "Damn right. My chrome-plated magnums are damned heavy."

  "Enough!" Redburn commanded harshly, though his voice rose barely above a whisper. "Shang Dao, for reasons I don't understand, expresses his pleasure at being abl
e to buy our meal. His little note also says there is a Liao Maskirovka strike team out front just waiting to get us. He suggests we withdraw through the rear."

  Drew narrowed his eyes. "Can we trust him?"

  Redburn hesitated. "Justin did. That's good enough for me." Redburn stood and cocked the pistol. "Payen, give Robert the laser. Move."

  With smiles nervously pasted on their faces, the eight Mech-Warriors wove their way through the main dining room. Craon glanced through a window in the kitchen door, then dove to the floor. "Down!"

  An uneven line of holes exploded across the kitchen door and sprayed splinters into the room. A second line cutting up at a sharp angle to the first ripped half a dozen holes into the hand-woven carpet and shattered the door's round window. Patrons hit by the two bursts reeled from their chairs and collapsed dying to the floor. Screams filled the restaurant, almost drowning out the cacophony of falling tables and breaking china as others dove for cover.

  Montdidier levered himself upon one knee and pumped two bullets back through the intersection of both bullet lines. A scream and the clatter of a fallen gun rewarded his effort as the ejected shells bounced soundlessly on the carpet. Craon spun himself around, and while lying on his back and aiming the laser down toward his feet, he kicked open the door.

  Redburn caught a glimpse of a dying gunman slumped against a gore-spattered tile wall, but then movement in the restaurant's vestibule attracted his full attention. A Maskirovka gunman boldly burst into the room. He framed himself in a doorway between two huge golden dragons, but before the beaded curtain's amber strands could roll off him, Redburn had fired twice.

  The first bullet smashed into the gunman's shoulder and half-twisted him back into the alcove. The second bullet lanced sparks from the assassin's assault rifle. The malformed bullet ricocheted up and snapped the gunman's head back. A red wound appeared on his temple as he stumbled back into the darkened vestibule.