by Victor Milán
Then the sky split with a tremendous crack as a pair of assault-class Scytha fighters, extravagantly winged and canarded and bristling with lasers, whipped at hypersonic speed over the city at less than a thousand meters. They flew so fast that their leading surfaces glowed bright yellow from air compression, and they drew glowing lines of ionization far behind their wide-flaming drives. For kilometers to either side windows shattered; the shock wave tumbled pedestrians directly under their flight path off their feet.
Malvina Hazen marked Graus for her own. Were the New Parisians wise, they would feel nothing but gratitude that she settled for doing it this way.
What Star Colonel Watrous, watching from an observation deck of his spaceport command center, thought of the display, his aides wisely forbore to ask.
Even as the Bec de Corbin settled toward the four jaws of the landing cradle, great ports yawned open in her fat flanks. Fast Skadi attack VTOLs swarmed out, followed by a pair of lumbering Cardinal transports. Then came a full Star of elementals, using their jump jets to fly well clear of the drive flames before rotating and using them to brake their descent. Last a mixed Star of light and medium ’Mechs jumped out: two Koshi, an Eyrie, a Gyrfalcon and a Shadow Hawk IIc. As they struck the pavement they spread out as if securing a hostile perimeter.
Braked by retro-rockets, the two aerodyne DropShips separated, curveting down to land flanking BattleMech Fabrication Unit #1 and its neighbor, an electronics plant that made control and sensor components for the giant striding war machines as well as conventional vehicles and even aircraft.
With a roar and a rush Bec’s vast pear shape settled into the cradle’s welcoming embrace. The drive flame went out. Its howl was replaced by almost musical groaning and ringing as metal cooled and stresses eased.
A ramp descended to the scorched and scarred pavement beyond the scarp of the blast pit, whose internal walls glowed yellow from fusion heat. Through the fumarole shimmer strode a mighty figure: a 95-ton Shrike on great clawed feet. Despite the battle damage clearly visible beneath fresh paint it moved with an imperiousness unusual even for one of the most potent ground-borne killing machines ever constructed, its beaked head held at a haughty angle. Upon its right thigh-plate glistened a black rose, on the left a stylized jade-green eye with human shape and a falcon’s vertical stripe. Over the covers of the long-range missile launchers in its breastplate were painted two staring blue eyes: the Eyes of the Falcon, as Malvina and her brother had once been called. Her desant had taken them as its unofficial badge during the Skye campaign; now Malvina, having adopted the Horus eye as the symbol of her Mongol faction, used them to denote veterans of that struggle.
She intended to attract many more followers to her cause. Despite her precipitous withdrawal from Sudeten she had brought some away with her.
The BattleMech stepped onto the paved soil of Graus and paused. From behind its back slowly unfolded a pair of great jagged wings, painted gold and buff on the undersides like the plumage of an adult Jade Falcon.
Watching the display, Star Colonel Watrous scratched his beard with fingers long grown unused to the joystick of a BattleMech cockpit, and fretted. Scientist aides, quietly respectful in white but visibly agitated beneath their studied caste calm, brought whispered word that mixed forces of ’Mechs, vehicles and infantry had occupied the two large factory complexes on the landing field’s far side. His frown etched itself deeper and deeper into his spare sun-darkened face.
It was all correct, if unusual. Malvina Hazen was a ristar, a famous champion of Clan Jade Falcon. More to the point, she and Beckett Malthus were both Galaxy commanders, superior to Watrous, and Bloodnamed into the batchall. If they cared to assume control of Graus with its forests and fields, not to mention its BattleMech plant, that was their right.
The newcomers showed no hostility toward the locals they encountered, whether Clan warriors or labor-class menials. But to Watrous’ mind the crisp, efficient brutality of their actions had the character of armed invasion. If not a rape.
A chill passed through his wiry frame. Not for himself; soft he might have become, and maybe he had always been more bureaucrat than a razor-edged claw of Turkina. But he had been raised to live for glorious self-sacrifice to Clan and Falcon. Rather he feared for the world he administered with all the zeal and precision of a Clan warrior, if none of the glory.
Beyond that, he feared for Clan Jade Falcon itself.
12
The Falcon’s Perch
Hammarr, Sudeten
Jade Falcon Occupation Zone
30 September 3135
‘‘Mobilize the entire Jade Falcon touman immediately, my Khan,’’ said Heinz-Otto von Texeira, his deep voice smoothly matter-of-fact, as though he discussed the morning stock prices from the Lyran Grand Bourse on Tharkad. ‘‘Crush Malvina and her brood of vipers on Graus, where they are concentrated and near to hand.’’
She rules as khan the world on which I find myself, he thought. Ergo: my Khan. Child’s play, as rationalizations go. I can explain away much worse before my morning coffee.
Khan Jana Pryde stared at him through narrowed green eyes. ‘‘Advice most forceful from a Lyran businessman.’’
Hands braced on the silver ram’s head of his cane, he tried to ease himself in the none-too-comfortable chair in the khan’s surprisingly small, Spartan office. ‘‘I may not be a warrior, Excellency, but I must admit to not being a total stranger to combat. In the days of my youth, joyfully misspent as it was, great profit often occasioned great peril. More pertinently: as you perceive, I am a man keenly attuned to the bottom line. Here is yours: act decisively, overwhelmingly even, before the opportunity passes.’’
Julia Buhalin scowled. ‘‘That means embroiling the Clan in a Rending.’’
Von Texeira glanced at her. He was well practiced enough that it took no effort to hide his irritation at her interjection. It took slightly more to hide his amusement at the euphemism.
The fact that they were women gave him no difficulty taking her, or her khan, or that she-devil Malvina for that matter, with utmost seriousness, even though on the surface Recife society was male-dominated. He had grown up in utter terror of his own clan’s matriarch, the fearsome Mamãe Luci, a wizened ebony effigy with a cotton-top like a tamarin, already octogenarian when he was born, even though he was fully as tall as she when he was eight years old. Granted, he’d sprung up quick. . . .
Now Mamãe Luci was over a hundred and thirty and, if anything, more formidable than half a century before. Age seemed to just concentrate her, make her even harder and more obdurate. Nor were the other women of his família in any sense weak, including his adored older sister, Annalise, as fair and golden-blond as he was dark (no uncommon thing in Recife families), a MechWarrior who had died fighting in the LCAF when he was fifteen, or his own dear wife, Irmagilda, true daughter of the San Luca clan of fierce reputation. Even his own daughters had grit enough to defy his wishes.
One of the reasons I consented to this Himmelsfahrtkommando, he thought, if not the most pressing.
‘‘What do you think you have on your hands now?’’ he asked the khan. ‘‘You know Malvina Hazen’s out of control—out of your control, certainly, maybe out of Bec Malthus’. Even her own, so far as we know. If she hasn’t declared herself khan yet, it’s but a matter of time.’’
Pryde frowned. Her eyes slid to Buhalin. The loremaster looked troubled.
‘‘He has the right of that,’’ she said.
‘‘Malvina Hazen is a brilliant commander,’’ von Texeira said. ‘‘You knew that when you appointed her to command a Galaxy in your desant. I suspect you were also well aware that she’s a total monster—by your standards at least as much as ours. What she did to Chaffee was as repugnant to Clan Jade Falcon tradition as to Inner Sphere mores. If you do not crush her promptly the consequences will be disastrous.’’
The khan showed him a lopsided smile. ‘‘You show great solicitude for the welfare of Clan Jade Falcon,’
’ she said, ‘‘especially given the attack on Porrima and the seizure of Chaffee.’’
She has bits of brass, I give her that, von Texeira thought. ‘‘The archon’s response to those attacks is her purview and not mine; I reiterate her express desire to restore and maintain peace between our realms.’’
Uncharacteristically, his smile was strained. ‘‘As for my personal concern, let me say it is first and foremost for all humanity, where Malvina Hazen is concerned. I honestly believe her to be the greatest threat to arise in my lifetime.’’
In the silence the chime from the office communicator rang startlingly loud. Frowning, Jana Pryde said, ‘‘Speak.’’
‘‘My Khan,’’ a female voice said. ‘‘A Falcon merchant JumpShip has arrived at the zenith point from the Graus system. Her commander says she has an urgent transmission for you.’’
‘‘Of what nature?’’
‘‘She declines to specify, other than that she believes it must be seen by your eyes only.’’
Julia Buhalin rose to her feet. She cast a meaningful glance at von Texeira, who stayed with his broad butt planted in his chair and a smile of bovine placidity on his face. The loremaster cleared her throat.
A Jade Falcon hinting? he thought. Truly, will wonders never cease?
A slow, sly smile spread across Jana Pryde’s thin lips. She shook her head slightly. Buhalin looked outraged but said nothing. ‘‘One moment, then,’’ the khan said to the communicator. ‘‘At my command, feed the transmission through to me.’’
Von Texeira raised an eyebrow. Jana Pryde picked up a small control wand from her near-empty desktop. A touch brought the lights low and closed shutters over the narrow arched windows. A second touch made her desk unfold like a plastic and metal flower. In a few soundless moments it had become a small holostage.
‘‘Fox gimmickry,’’ Jana Pryde said, smiling openly. ‘‘The stravags are cunning, one must give them that. And they have their uses.’’
Buhalin’s smooth brow hardened slightly. Here at least was a Falcon undercurrent von Texeria could sense. For all its warrior fanaticism Clan Jade Falcon boasted the most astute and successful merchant caste of any Clan—save Clan Sea Fox. To be outdone by their despised commercial rivals tasted bitter on Falcon tongues.
But nothing to what now literally unfolded before them.
Clad in her midnight-black dress uniform, with its token emerald trim, the jade feathers of her cape scintillating in spotlight beams that converged upon her like lasers, Galaxy Commander Malvina Hazen stood straight as a blade and ominous as a black flame behind a podium draped with the banner of Clan Jade Falcon. The three-dimensional image’s focus was tight; von Texeira felt more than saw a sense of space around her, a vast hall filled with barely pent Falcon emotions and anticipation.
And, falconlike, Malvina stooped straightaway for her prey: ‘‘By her cowardly behavior in failing to send the touman of Clan Jade Falcon to exploit the victories of the desant , for which so many brave warriors gave their lives, and her appeasing of the Inner Sphere by refusing to carry the great Crusade of Kerensky into the heart of The Republic, the woman Jana—so-called Pryde, so-called khan—has shown herself craven and bloodfoul. I name her unfit to bear the Pryde Bloodname. I name her unfit to be khan of Clan Jade Falcon!’’
Instead of bursting with raucous screams, if nothing else at Malvina’s effrontery at uttering the unspeakable, the unseen audience’s silence deepened, perceptibly across astronomical-units of transmission that strewed little pops and flickers of solar wind-induced static through the projection. Von Texeira felt his nape hairs rise. For the first time I begin to feel the hold Malvina has upon her Mongol faithful, he thought.
‘‘As of this day, in Turkina’s name, I declare this Jana deposed. As she has refused to meet my challenge, I claim the right of forfeit. From this day hence, I, Malvina Hazen, am lawful khan of Clan Jade Falcon.’’
A moment’s more silence. Von Texeira felt himself actually squirming in his chair.
A thousand voices screamed as one: ‘‘Hail Khan Malvina Hazen! Hail Khan Malvina Hazen!’’
The cry changed, with an abruptness that seemed rehearsed, although given the fractious Falcon temperament, that struck von Texeira as vanishingly unlikely. Without faltering the chant became: ‘‘Hail to the Chingis Khan! Hail Malvina Hazen, Chingis Khan!’’
Hail to the Emperor of All Mankind.
‘‘She saw me off in such fury, she was frozen white,’’ von Texeira said, accepting a mug of steaming coffee from a hand nearly as dark as his own. A single orange cord encircled the bony wrist. ‘‘As if she had got herself marooned in that God-forgotten waste where the Falcon improvidently keeps her Eyrie. Yet still she equivocates!’’
‘‘Your heart, Margrave,’’ said Rorion, genuinely concerned.
‘‘Bah.’’ He thumped his chest with his free hand. ‘‘In here beats the heart of a lion. A pissed-off lion!’’
Petah traded glances and grins with his equally tall and skeletal twin and fellow bondsman, Nestah. The extravagantly dreadlocked pair, who hailed from some unlikely Periphery planet, were Clan Sea Fox factors for Sudeten. Their bondholder was none other than Master Merchant Senna Rodríguez.
Heinz-Otto von Texeira and Rorion Klimt found themselves seated on a couch in the house the pair leased in The Casts outside Hammarr proper, where the blast of departing DropShip drives shook the walls at unpredictable intervals. The dwelling they themselves had been assigned stood only a few blocks’ walk away through a bright and almost warm morning—for spring, such as it was, advanced upon the capital like a timid army, two days after Malvina’s long-range bombshell exploded in Khan Jana Pryde’s office.
The twin bondsmen murmured oddly accented excuses and withdrew to the rear of the house, from which emerged a low thudding of rhythmic bass-heavy music.
‘‘I believe you had a question for me, gentlemen.’’
The master merchant herself sprawled among some brightly printed cushions piled against a whitewashed wall. Though von Texeira could see she had never been pretty, even before years and hard usage had left their marks, for the first time he became aware that she was nevertheless a striking woman, with long strong legs and full breasts that seemed impatient at being constrained by the white silk shirt whose tails she had tied up above her muscle-ridged belly. A white scar crossed her stomach at a transverse angle. Her manner suggested a great cat in repose.
Von Texeira and his aide had been surprised at how ready Senna was to remain on the surface to play consultant for them. Granted, her fees were good—extortionate might not be too strong a word. But the Sea Foxes were notorious for their preference to live out their lives in orbit, in their cargo ships or vast agglomerate habitats called ArcShips, making only brief forays planetside. Obviously Senna Rodríguez did not: although rangy, she was simply too well muscled and sleek to have spent all her time in orbit, catching exercise on gravity decks and special mechanical-resistance machines. Even though orthodox Sea Foxes kept themselves fit with typical Clan single-mindedness, they almost always had a spindly, almost ethereal look to them. Senna was as substantial as the cement wall surrounding her little villa.
‘‘Yes,’’ Rorion said. ‘‘Why is Jana Pryde so reluctant to pull the wings off Malvina?’’
Senna cocked a brow at von Texeira. ‘‘I notice your aide does a lot of talking for you, Margrave.’’
‘‘He seeks to save me the effort. Part of his job, after all.’’
She laughed.
‘‘We have been together many years,’’ von Texeira said. ‘‘It breeds a certain familiarity.’’ He glanced at his aide. ‘‘No doubt overmuch.’’
‘‘Your caste system.’’ She sipped her own brew. ‘‘Now, if you care to hear the answer you paid for: like all human groupings Clan Jade Falcon has factions. Jana Pryde must contend with two of consequences. Naturally, they hate each other passionately. They require constant refereeing, not just in Council but the
streets of Hammarr, or they will deplete the warrior ranks with incessant duels. Basically, one faction is fanatically traditionalist, while the other seeks to accommodate the modern—some might say the real— world to some slight degree. Both are rabid Crusaders, screeching ultra-conservatives by outside standards. And you can’t call any Falcon moderate.’’
‘‘So what we have,’’ Rorion suggested, ‘‘are the raving fascist zanies versus the totally psychotic.’’
Senna nodded. ‘‘And there you have it. The psychotics, as you put it, the extreme traditionalists, are popularly called the Slips. The merely raving are Jesses.’’
‘‘ ‘Slips’?’’ asked von Texeira. ‘‘ ‘Jesses’?’’
‘‘Falconry terminology. Part of Clan Jade Falcon’s current revival of Crusader zeal manifests as a fascination for the ancient lore of falconry. Back to the roots, as it were. Jesses are restraints, bands which bind falconer wrist to falcon leg. To slip is to loose a bird at prey. Basically, the names reflect the urgency with which the factions seek to prosecute the Crusade: the Jesses wish to gather strength and knowledge, while the Slips want to fall on the Inner Sphere straightaway and rend it like a rabbit.’’
‘‘Delightful,’’ said Rorion. ‘‘So the Slips support Malvina?’’
‘‘If you know everything, what do you need me for? Your mind is obviously too full to hold more information.’’
‘‘Whereas my mind,’’ said von Texeira, ‘‘is empty as a Falcon’s soul. Please say on.’’
Senna laughed uproariously. ‘‘You are an amusing old scoundrel, Heinz-Otto von Texeira. Does playing the fool actually work in Lyran boardrooms?’’
He shrugged. ‘‘I find that ego drives us all to believe that which best pleases us.’’
She chuckled and shook her head. ‘‘I would pay a great fee to watch you in action . . . to business. Khan Jana Pryde initially dispatched the desant to appease the Slips. But now they are outraged by Malvina’s flaunting of custom. Her very unorthodoxy appeals to the Jesses. But they are appalled by her taste for atrocity.’’