"My fear is that you are bait," Focht said, "sent here to lead us into some kind of trap. An action doomed from the start."
Trent shook his head. "I will submit to interrogation if you doubt my integrity."
Precentor Hettig leaned forward to speak. "Perhaps we can simply extract the cipher you spoke of and need not negotiate with you at all."
Trent gave him a thin smile. "You may try. But if I give you the incorrect code, you will lose everything on that diskette." His voice was confident and firm.
"That is not necessary," Anastasius Focht said to his aide. "He comes from the Clans, and I have spent time with these people. His word is his bond. Attempting to spoil what he offers nets us nothing, but we will verify, with his consent, the validity of the data—should I accept his offer."
For the first time since he entered the room, Trent relaxed. This was a true warrior, the man who had led his forces to victory over the Clans. Trent suddenly knew Focht was someone he could trust.
"Tell me, Star Captain," Focht said, "can you be sure that the Smoke Jaguars do not know you are alive and carry this information?"
"Aff," Trent said.
"How can you be so sure?" Hettig demanded sharply.
"Because if they knew I was alive, they would stop at nothing to kill me and destroy this information. There is a fatal weakness in our warrior caste. It is impervious to attack from without But, from within, a lone warrior can break the spine of an entire Clan. If they even suspected I was alive, their Galaxies would swarm across the truce line seeking me out." Another long silence followed his words.
"I understand," Focht said finally. "That is why we placed ROM operatives within the ranks of the Clans. Almost all were rooted out. But it only takes one, a single agent"—he glanced at Judith, who bowed her head in respect—"to bring one warrior to us with the right information, and we knew that the Clans could be bested. It has taken years, but you and Judith have brought us what hundreds in the Explorer Corps could not."
"I am pleased you think the data useful," Trent replied. "But what say you to my request for a command?"
Focht smiled enough for his teeth to show. "I, Anastasius Focht, Precentor Martial of ComStar, hereby extend the offer of a command of a Binary's worth of troops. You would serve in the Com Guards, under my personal command. You shall provide insight and counsel to me and my allies regarding your former Clan. You will see battle, but only when I decide it is to be so."
Trent was pleased at these words. "Well spoken, Precentor Martial. But a Binary is hardly worth the very heart of the Smoke Jaguar. I should think a Cluster would be more worthy of this information I bring you."
"Perhaps so, Star Captain. But you have yet to prove yourself to me as a commander. When that time comes, I will see to it that you are considered for such a command. I can extend to you a Trinary of warriors to lead when you do eventually enter combat. Certainly enough for a warrior such as you to prove your worth to the Com Guards, would you not agree?"
Trent stared at the holographic image of Huntress spinning over the table in front of him. He was thrilled at the prospect of leading warriors into battle once more. But another thought struck him. To turn traitor to a people should never be so easy, yet it is so.
"Well bargained and done, Precentor Martial," he said. He reached over to the controls on the desktop and keyed in the eight-digit code for the cipher. Above them the image of Huntress shrank to a small dot of light and raced upward toward the ceiling. Dozens of other dots of light, star systems, came holographically into view, filling the space between Huntress and the table top. The three-dimensional map shrank as another one took shape. Within moments the vastness of the Inner Sphere was imaged over the table top. A fine red line flickered among the stars, shimmering all the way from the Inner Sphere, through the Deep Periphery, to Huntress, now poised just at the height of the ceiling.
"I give to you the Exodus Road," Trent said as the other two men studied the shimmering red stars, unable to hide their excitement or their awe. "May we follow it in the spirit of the great Kerenskys. And may it one day lead us to victory over those who defy the ways of honor."
Epilogue
JumpShip Admiral Andrews
Zenith Jump Point
Unnamed Planet, The Exodus Road
Deep Periphery
15 November 3058
Russou Howell looked at the new rank insignia on his gray field jacket in its holding rack on the wall. Star Colonel. He had been practically ordered to undertake the Trial of Position, even though he did not know where the command was. Star Colonel Paul Moon had pushed him into it, and he had complied. That was what a warrior did—he followed orders. But he thought he should feel differently about it, prouder, more excited. Instead, winning the new rank felt hollow, as if the Trial had been rigged in some way. As if the command had been bought with Trent's blood.
Once he had won over the other two aspirants in Trials of Combat, he was informed of his new posting—the world of Huntress. They are shuffling me away because of my age, sending me back to Clan space so I will never see action. Russou tried to force the thoughts from his mind, but he was sure he would never see combat again. Not combat as he had known it thus far.
Hovering over the small table in the null gravity of the room was a dark wooden box. All that was left of Trent. He opened it and saw the chess set his friend had been so fond of. As the warrior who killed Trent, Russou had been given his only possession as isorla. He had considered refusing it, but did not out of respect for his longtime comrade. He fidgeted with a black knight and a white bishop, both pieces worn by time.
A slight rapping came at the door. "Enter," he said slowly, lost in memories of the friend he had killed. An Elemental entered, his head nearly scraping the ceiling. "You did not come down for dinner, Star Colonel Russou. I was concerned. Is all well?"
Russou looked up at the muscular officer. "Aye, I am fine, merely spending time honoring the memory of an old friend. I apologize for standing you up, Allen," he said.
The big man smiled and closed the door. "No apologies necessary, Star Colonel. If you wish me to leave, I will."
"Neg," Russou said, motioning to the chair next to him. "Please sit. Since the incident on Maldonado, I have spoken with no one of what happened there. Since Trent's death ..."
"Trent, you say? Star Captain Trent of the Delta Galaxy?"
Russou nodded. "You knew him?"
Allen smiled broadly. "Aye. .We traveled to Huntress and back aboard this ship. He is dead?"
"Aff," Russou replied. "They said that he might be a traitor, that he might have actually turned against our caste." And now he is dead, at my hands.
"That is not possible," Allen said, shaking his head. "I fought next to him on Pivot Prime. He risked his life to save the Clan. Such a man would never turn against our people."
Russou rubbed his forehead where the hairline had receded years before, hoping to relieve the pressure he felt there, to no avail. "I too believe as you do. But others, those caught in the web of politics, do not. They implicated him in smuggling and believed that he might have posed a significant threat to our Clan's security."
"These 'others' ... they ordered his death?"
"Aye," Russou said. "Star Colonel Moon ordered me to do it. And like a good warrior, I obeyed."
"Did Trent die with honor?"
Russou only nodded.
Allen lowered his head. "Then let us talk this eve about the Trent we knew, the warrior we remember. . . ."
* * *
Trent glanced down at his new off-white uniform with blue cape and liked the fit and feel. Only twenty-four hours had passed since his initial meeting with the Precentor Martial and in that time he had attended what seemed like an endless series of meetings and debriefings. The various experts had gone over his data on the Exodus Road and the map of Huntress with a fine-toothed comb, in the process questioning him minutely about every detail.
This was the first time he had be
en alone, if he could call it that. Outside the door was a pair of guards, posted there not to prevent his departure, but to protect him. They had shuffled him to a secure area, elegant by his Clan standards. If the room lacked anything, it was a window, but Precentor Hettig had explained that Trent needed the protection of guards because he was now a "threat" to the Clans. I do not feel like a threat. Nor do I feel like a traitor.
What he did feel was a sense of release, as if he had finally dropped a burden he had carried for too long. There was a pang of regret as well. Paul Moon had not died on Maldonado. Or so said Precentor Karl Karter, who reported hearing Moon barking curses and final challenges to the Com Guards even as his force was withdrawing. The raid had been a failure for the Jaguars, but Trent was sure Moon would find a way to twist the truth to his advantage. And if the Jaguars had been forced to withdraw from Maldonado, Moon would probably still find comfort in the fact that he believed Star Captain Trent had died there.
That, perhaps, was Trent's only regret. Russou was still alive somewhere believing that he was responsible for killing his closest comrade. Knowing Russou, Trent was sure the guilt was burning like hot coals in his mind. He wanted Russou to know that he was very much alive, and that he preserved all that was the spirit of Clan Smoke Jaguar—honor, duty, obligation. But that was not to be. And in the end, Russou would end up a victim of politics as well. One day, men like Star Colonel Paul Moon would discard Russou as old and worthless, shuffling him off to the solahma trash heap as he had tried to do with Trent.
But what Paul Moon had done or did not do no longer mattered. Trent had beaten him at his own game. And that was enough.
A knock came at his door, and he went to open it. Standing there was Judith. She stepped in as the guards gave her a nod and then closed the door. At first she said nothing, looking at Trent in his new Com Guard uniform with pride, and something more .. .
"It is pleasing to see you, Judith—Faber," he said, attempting to make use of her surname.
"It has been so long since I heard that name that I hardly recognize it. But between us, it isn't required." Trent noted her use of a contraction but made no comment.
"Aye," he said, putting his hands on her shoulders and holding her in front of him. "I did not see you in my meetings. Where have you been?"
"Debriefings, just like you. The Precentor Martial has told me that I will be given a new posting in ROM, but thus far I don't have any specifics. It is a 'reward for service above and beyond the call of duty.' But I did what I did because it was the right thing to do. Not just for ComStar, but for everyone."
Trent nodded. "In the end, what matters is not rank, position, or place. What matters is what is in here." He tapped his chest twice, then his temple.
"Affirmative. But our new places in the universe mean that we will be apart. In the last few years, I have come to depend on you, to need you. And now that we are both being reassigned, we'll be separated for some time."
Trent smiled, but he did not know how to respond to that. "You have not seen your family in some time," he said instead. "You spoke of them before. Perhaps you could go to Terra and see them, quiaff?"
"Neg," she replied. "News did not travel well into the occupation zone. We did not learn what has happened to ComStar. Apparently the Word of Blake splinter group seized Terra earlier this year. Travel there is prohibited to anyone who serves ComStar."
Trent bit his lower lip, not just for Judith but for himself as well. He had hoped to visit Terra, to stand on the soil of the mother world of humankind. Now that was not to be. Instinctively he pulled Judith closer to him, hugging her stiffly, but firmly. He felt her warmth against his chest, her breathing matching his own. "I am sorry."
She pulled back. "You have nothing to be sorry about. I had a mission, and together we completed it. What happens next is left to those with more power than either of us would ever want to have. But in the end, we did what was right."
"Affirmative," Trent said, pulling away from her slightly, allowing his hand to graze her dark hair as he did. "Here I am now, a Demi-Precentor in rank. But in my heart, I am the last of the Smoke Jaguars. The others are lost, corrupted by men like Paul Moon. As long as I live, I will continue to serve the wisdom of Nicholas Kerensky."
Judith shook her head in disagreement. "You are wrong, Trent. You are not the last of the Smoke Jaguars. I think of you as the first of a new breed." Her words pleased him. Bending forward he pressed his lips against her warm mouth. They kissed slowly, then furiously, their bodies pressing tightly to one another as if they were clinging for life itself. Then she pulled back and looked into his face, running one hand along the synthetic skin on the right side, caressing him.
"I have waited a long time for this," she said.
Trent looked down at the lone gray cord on her wrist. He reached to touch it. "This is no longer required. You are not my bondsman, Judith Faber. We are now equals."
She tugged at the cord and let it snap back against her wrist. "We will be apart for a long time, Trent. I will wear this as a reminder of my precious time with you." Then she put her arms around his neck and pulled him close. They held each other for a long time, not knowing when or how they might ever be together again . ..
About the Author
Manassas
The Old Dominion
Terran Hegemony
United States of America, Terra
14 October 1996
Blaine Pardoe was born in Newport News, Virginia, Terra, pre-Star League 1962, but grew up in Michigan. He attended Central Michigan University, where he earned his undergraduate degrees. BattleTech® is one of his true loves, next to his family. He has written a number of books for the game line, as well as his two BattleTech® novels, Highlander Gambit and Impetus of War, published by Roc Books.
He also has written a number of computer game books for the Brady Brooks imprint MacMillan.
In his "day job" Blaine is an Assistant Director for one of the "big six" accounting firms outside of Washington, D.C., where he is in charge of national technology training for the technology support staff.
He and his wife Cyndi have two children, Victoria Rose and Alexander William, who lovingly tolerate his nightly trips into the 31st century, where most of his writing takes place. He resides in Manassas, Virginia just outside of the Bull Run battlefields where he often stands in the footsteps of Stonewall Jackson and contemplates battles of the past and those of the far-flung future.
For those who wish to contact him, he can be reached at [email protected].
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