BattleTech

by Loren L. Coleman

  “You were praying for strength,” Berg said angrily. “Praying in her name. Strength for what, Arissa?” He held up the copy of Negdren’s crystal. “Strength enough to betray Thor’s Army and Illyria?”

  “No,” she whispered. “Strength enough to pretend I didn’t want you. You know how long it’s been since a man wanted to talk to me?”

  Berg’s heart melted.

  And then he remembered her sleeping innocently in the bed. And Negdren arriving at her room not ten minutes later. “You tell a pretty story,” he said coldly.

  She tilted her head, an expression of hurt sketched across her face. “Please, Douglas—”

  Berg’s hand slashed through the air, cutting her off. “No. You came to me because Negdren sent you to me.”

  “It’s true that Negdren wanted me to come to you. It’s not true that’s why I came.”

  “I have the crystal, Arissa.”

  “Have you read it yet?” she asked sharply.

  Berg opened his mouth, but before he could say anything she bent down and retrieved a reader from the table. She thrust the hand device at him.

  Berg slowly took it from her, attached the crystal, and began to scroll down the small screen. “I never told you any of this,” he said slowly. “And . . . this is wrong. There aren’t three lances of ’Mechs on Reykavis, only one. And there isn’t a reinforced battalion on Trasjkis. That force is no more than company strength. And . . .”

  He looked up. “These are all lies.”

  She nodded. “Lies that Negdren will believe. Because he thinks I got them from you.”

  “They make us look much stronger than we really are.”

  “Yes, they do,” said Arissa tightly. “And so there will be no war. Little Bob will look at this intel and he’ll think twice about attacking Illyria.”

  Berg swallowed. “I—”

  “Don’t bother to thank me,” she snapped. “I did it for Katrina. Not for you.”

  He reached for her, gathered her into his arms. She pulled back for a second, then collapsed against his chest, her body shaking softly with silent sobs.

  “It’s OK,” Berg whispered. “You sell your body and I sell my life. But there is a part of us—”

  “Yes,” she whispered back to him. “A part of us that cannot be sold.

  EN PASSANT

  by Phaedra M. Weldon

  Draconis March, Federated Suns

  7 October 3065

  The click of Päl Wyndham-Sandoval’s polished boots echoed off the corridor walls leading from Duke Sandoval’s library and study. The braid from his top-knot swung around to brush his cheek. He moved it away with an impatient hand. The sword, which went with his dress uniform, bumped against his left thigh, and with every determined step he ground another piece of his own frustrations beneath a heel. Within an hour of his arrival on Robinson the world had turned one-hundred and eighty degrees.

  Servants stood aside in the wide hall to let him pass. He acknowledged them with barely a nod. Broad events preoccupied his thoughts: James Sandoval no longer directed the course of the family dynasty. Mai Fortuna no longer led the Robinson Rangers. Tancred Sandoval now bore the ducal title, and he had shifted Robinson’s support in the ongoing civil war away from Katrina Steiner-Davion to her brother, Victor.

  Päl’s life had been altered by events beyond his control. Just as it had when Arthur Steiner-Davion was assassinated. Päl had been in that stadium, listening to Arthur’s address, seated with other cadets of the Battle Academy when explosions rocked the proceedings. Events born of that calamity played out at an alarming speed, enveloping him each time he caught his breath. Then-Duke James Sandoval, blaming the attack on the Draconis Combine. Tancred, choosing not to rejoin with the Rangers. Päl had been tapped to take his place, promoted to Leftenant. The young scion, feeling like a chess piece being shifted about a board.

  Returning to his family’s estates on Exeter, saying goodbye to his wife and newborn son, and leaving to join the First Rangers for their ill-fated assault on House Kurita.

  However, no matter the whys or the what-happeneds since his last visit to Robinson; Päl was excited to see his parents. They had been in the room earlier, when Tancred arrived to accept the mantle of dynasty leadership, but not for the military planning session that followed. Päl had so far managed only a handful of words with them.

  Turning a corner in the spacious Sandoval Castle, he found them waiting just inside the foyer doors. His father, a roundish man of medium height and receding hairline, had once served with the Rangers. Päl had grown up on his father’s stories of ’Mech battles, and considered it destiny that had stepped in to make of the Baron’s son a MechWarrior and an officer.

  The Baron Exeter took a few steps toward Päl, his expression dark and his mouth open to speak, but the Baroness stayed him with a hand on his left arm and a calm smile to her son.

  Baroness Margarette Wyndham-Sandoval was a proud woman, rich in the heritage of the Sandoval family. Päl had always seen his mother as one of the braces of the family, the one whom others looked to for guidance. As her son, he had always done as she wished, and she had never guided him wrong. The Baroness was a strong and silent partner beside his father, and he loved them both. He only wished, at times, his mother’s stolid and stoic appearance in court had not carried over into her duties as mother.

  Päl pulled the dress-white gloves from his hands as his mother directed them with a nod to the doors, and beyond to the waiting Avanti stretch hover sedan. He opened the car’s door for his mother and gave her his hand as she gracefully stepped in. His father gave him a tight smile, placed a hand on his son’s arm, then bent down to enter as well.

  After the doors were closed and the car was underway, the Baron could contain his curiosity no longer.

  “Well?” He raised a graying eyebrow at his son.

  Päl shrugged. Tancred’s loyalties were no secret, although the particulars discussed behind closed doors might be. But Päl had never kept information from his father. In only a few sentences, he relayed the meeting’s proceedings—including Tancred’s plan to ease relations with Theodore Kurita.

  His words garnered exactly the reaction he’d expected from his father.

  “What?” the Baron’s voice boomed inside the sedan’s doors. “Is the man mad? How can he give up those worlds to the Dragon? This is outrageous.” He traded a glance with his wife, who nodded. “Unacceptable!”

  Päl was no longer so certain. He turned his attention to the passing scenery, considering.

  It was early autumn on Robinson, and the display of browns, oranges, yellows and reds reminded him of fall evenings at home, spent with Khim. He missed her terribly after almost three years apart, and felt guilty for abandoning his son at such an early age. After the unit’s disastrous retreat from Ashio, Päl had remained on Mallory’s World with the rest of the regiment. He’d sent word to his mother, asking if he should request leave to return home until the First received new orders.

  His mother advised him to remain on Mallory’s World. She had taken a lead in his son’s education, and Päl shouldn’t worry himself with such details. According to the Baroness, Päl was where he needed to be, in support of the Duke’s orders. And so he’d remained with his regiment, wrote letters to his wife Khim every day, and practiced with his knives.

  Until Mai tapped him to accompany her here to Robinson for a meeting with the new Duke.

  He sighed as he finally looked back at his father. “That’s the way it is, father. And truthfully, I see no flaw in what Tancred proposes.”

  The Baron’s eyes widened. “You support Tancred in this nonsense? Turning the loyalties of Robinson toward Victor.”

  “I support the decisions of my commander and Duke, sir, as any good soldier would. You taught me that.” Päl clasped his hands in his lap. The filtered sun glinted off the gold of his Battle Academy ring. “Tancred feels our attentions are wasted attacking the Combine.” He paused for a beat. “I agree
.”

  “You can’t be serious…” the Baron began. “James would never have allowed such a thing.”

  Päl kept silent. The young Wyndham-Sandoval knew not all decisions were the right decisions—and sometimes one had to make a choice on his own. That much he’d learned during the battle on Ashio, when choices in battle saved or destroyed lives. Where officers played their soldiers and their regiments like pieces on a chess board. After the retreat, he had begun to see himself and his fellow soldiers as the pawns—those pushed out in front—expendable to protect those with the power.

  And there might come a time when Päl would need to make a choice with his loyalties, but now wasn’t it.

  “Päl, answer me. Are you serious?”

  Päl leaned forward. “Yes. I am. Father, I’m a MechWarrior, and a son of the Sandoval dynasty. I supported the former Duke in his decisions, and I will support Tancred’s orders as well.” He wanted to add how he knew that his cousin had warned Mai not to lead the Rangers into Combine territory. Tancred’s reasons had been sound, and proven right in the end.

  “In support of Victor? Päl, have you not been paying attention? He’s in league with the Draconis Combine. Everyone knows he’s sleeping with a snake. How can you trust a man who’s in bed with the enemy? How can Tancred know Kurita will accept concessions and not wait until our forces are drawn elsewhere on foolish attacks against our own people then attack our worlds, murder our children and rape our worlds for their own—”

  The Baroness calmly reached out and put a firm hand on her husband’s knee. She gave no other sign, her gaze drawn out at the passing scenery as the Avanti stretch-sedan began its crawl along the drive to the Wyndham-Sandoval estates.

  The Baron became silent.

  • • •

  Chill wind caressed the beaded sweat on Päl’s forehead as he closed his eyes and opened wide his other senses. He smelled the crisp decay of autumn leaves, heard the soft, whispering shuffle as the wind tossed them about on the grounds of the gardens. He cocked his head to his right shoulder, felt the bite of steel between the index finger and thumb of both hands.

  With a spin he directed and controlled the blade from his right hand to the top of the target, then followed the release of his left blade to the bottom, forming in the air a double-strike he’d perfected years ago. He saw in his mind’s eye where the blades would strike the target. That was the key—to know the direction and visualize it.

  The spin completed, Päl came to land in a crouch, the thrown blades now replaced by new ones pulled from hidden sheaths beneath his clothing. The simultaneous thwack as the blades hit the tree twenty meters away brought a smile to his face. The first of the afternoon.

  My son doesn’t know me.

  Again the realization yanked away his momentary glee and he lowered his arms and straightened. He recalled the young boy’s formal bow—his son’s dark, even gaze that measured and sized up the room, analyzed things in an almost combative style. Much as his mother did at times when she entered a room.

  I don’t know my son.

  “Päl?”

  The familiar voice of his wife brought his thoughts into a happier place as he turned to see Khim and Chauncy approaching. Khim held a large ceramic mug with the Wyndham-Sandoval crest painted on the side. She was just as beautiful now as the day he’d met her. Her dark, raven hair contrasted with his own blond tresses now held back in a single ponytail at the base of his top-knot. She was the night to his morning. She was his place to run to when the world turned chaotic and cruel.

  And he loved her unconditionally.

  Chauncy’s stately form was the opposite of Khim’s. She was a short elderly woman, rising to Päl’s shoulders, with wiry gray hair and a cherub face. His former nanny and foster-mother had lost weight since he’d seen her, and her skin, though usually pale, seemed much more so in Robinson’s evening light.

  He retrieved and resheathed his knives and stepped toward them.

  Other than Khim, Chauncy had been the only member of the house to greet him with a smile and a warm embrace. Just as she did now. “What are you two doing out here?” he took the offered mug from Khim and kissed her cheek. The cup warmed his fingers as he inhaled the aroma of spiced wine.

  “Com’n to fetch you in to get ready. Guests are already arriving.” Chauncy clasped her thick hands in front of her green skirts.

  Päl had completely forgotten about his parent’s social event to supposedly welcome their son home from the war.

  He groaned.

  “Forgot, didn’t you?” Khim’s voice wasn’t as light as it had been earlier when he’d arrived home. They’d spent most of the first hours of his homecoming in private, rediscovering each other again.

  Päl nodded. “This party is little more than an excuse for my mother and father to renew their presence within the family. It’s all politics—in which I will never participate.”

  Chauncy gave him a light laugh. “You’re a Sandoval, Päl. It will pull you in anyway.”

  “Not if I stay with the Rangers,” he sipped the wine and felt its warmth spread through his extremities. It was indeed becoming colder in the advancing evening. “I’ve no time to worry about the larger picture there.” He flashed back to the last battle on Ashio and then quickly tucked it away. I can’t think of fallen friends now.

  “And why the long face?”

  He shrugged.

  Chauncy put a hand on his shoulder. It felt warm and comforting. There was so little contact outside of private rooms in this house, or on his family’s estates on Exeter.

  Päl handed the mug to Chauncy. He absently pulled his knives from their sheaths and in unison began weaving their blades between his fingers. He looked at his wife, whose own gaze was locked on his hands and their movements. She looked extraordinarily pale in the waning light and her eyes were wide holes filled with shadows.

  “Khim?”

  She looked up into his eyes.

  It was the knives. Khim had always hated his knives.

  “I’m going in, Päl,” she turned and then paused. “You need to get changed.”

  He watched her walk away as he continued to move the blades between his fingers.

  “She’s not much into your choice of weapon, is she?” Chauncy shifted her position and set the mug on a nearby garden bench.

  He shook his head. “No. And with our earlier discussion of our son’s education…” He let the sentence trail off as he turned and abruptly threw the knives into the dark. He spun, retrieved his second set in a fluid movement born of practice and control, and threw again.

  Chauncy followed him to the tree and stood beside him as he judged their placement.

  Four blades in a cross pattern. Shoulders, neck and lower abdomen. He pulled them from the tree and resheathed them before reaching deep into his trouser pocket to retrieve his Battle Academy ring.

  “You still have that thing?”

  Päl nodded. It had been a gift from his father. Päl’s abrupt promotion and draft into service had precluded his official graduation, and so Marquin believed it was right he have one. “Yeah, but I learned knives from Master DeGigli before I had the ring. I can’t wear it and throw. Disrupts my aim.”

  He gestured for her to step toward the house and he followed. “I’m sorry I’ve been away so long, Chauncy.”

  “If you’re thinking of me in that, and hurting my feelings—please don’t. You’re my life’s work, child. And even if I didn’t give you life’s first breath, I was there when you learned your greatest lessons.” She gave him a sideways look. “But if you’re fretting about your son, he’s a Wyndham-Sandoval, Päl. Keep that knowledge close. He’s the Baroness’ pet project.” Chauncy pursed her lips. “I think at times she sees him as her own.”

  Päl nodded as the two trudged up the hill and through the gardens to the estate. Another pawn for the board. And yet, as they walked, Päl didn’t know where that thought had come from.

  • • •

 
Khim’s ire eased as she helped him get dressed. Layering on bit after bit of his dress uniform became almost a game between them, and Päl believed they might not make it to the party.

  Khim left first, answering a summons from the Baroness. Päl finished the final touches and checked himself in the mirror. He looked presentable enough, an officer of House Davion.

  Päl moved to the bed where his knives and their sheaths lay. He yearned to put them on, but did not want to anger Khim. If she saw them or suspected he wore them at a social event, his nights afterward could be…uncomfortable.

  With a sigh, he wrapped them in their case of black velvet and placed them within the drawer of his nightstand.

  The murmur of voices and laughter filtered up from the downstairs to the family’s apartments. Päl left the suite and walked to the stairs.

  A movement to his right stopped him at the first step. A figure in dark clothing stood near the door to his father’s private study. The figure turned and froze when he saw Päl, then moved away from him and down the opposing hall. Päl chased after the man. He didn’t know if the dark-clad figure belonged in the estates or if he was an intruder.

  Although, guests usually didn’t run away.

  He rounded the corner of his father’s study to face an empty corridor. The intruder had vanished.

  Päl concentrated on the hallway, and pushed aside the ambient noise from the party below. He calmed his breathing and sought out each nearby sound.

  A door opened behind him. Päl dodged back behind the bend in the hallway. He peered around the corner to see several courtly dignitaries, family and close friends, file into his father’s study.Curious, the Baron’s son tiptoed back down the hall to the side door he’d discovered as a child. It was hidden deep within the ornate decoration of the wall. He had found it once while following the Baroness about the halls. His mother had used the small door several times—yet its existence had never made him wonder why.

  Until now.

  Dust tickled his nose as he eased in, careful not to allow his sword to clang against the floor or walls. Gray smudged his white dress-gloves and he brushed them on his pants. There was only a bench and when he sat, the walls pressed in on his knees and back. His dress sword made stealth difficult, but he managed to sit and look out through the room’s peephole.