by Victor Milán
Malvina Hazen’s victory meant she would certainly be khan of Clan Jade Falcon now. That made all right. Quineg?
Now her face appeared in flat projection, pale and aglow in darkness broken by a handful of blackout lights the color of dying suns. No air remained in the violated command center; he must strain to hear his superior’s whisper over crackling star-song and the buzz of energy weapons as a few diehards continued to fight in space nearby through his pressure-helmet speaker.
What she said horrified him.
Yet that final directive exalted him as well. For good or ill Emerald Talon, and he himself, would win prominent place in the Remembrance of Clan Jade Falcon.
The corpse of a young yeoman, eyes bugged out and blackened tongue protruding from his green-mottled face, floated through the beautiful face of Malvina Hazen. Dolphus Binetti recoiled.
‘‘Admiral?’’ His khan’s voice was actually solicitous.
That snapped him to: the last thing he could abide was pity from his khan. And what he experienced now was indeed the last thing.
The dead body had floated from his vision’s field.
He forced his gloved hand to snap to his helmeted brow in a machine-precise salute. It sent pain lancing up his right side. The pain was good: it helped him focus.
‘‘I hear your command! I obey.’’
She smiled. ‘‘I knew I could count upon you, faithful Dolphus Binetti,’’ she said. ‘‘You have always done your Bloodname great honor. Out.’’
The image vanished. The screen darkened, plunging the death-filled compartment back into deepest gloom. Or was that only behind his eyes?
Ignoring fresh agony, he twisted his body until he could grasp a handhold and pull himself to a console. He had orders of his own to give.
The first was Abandon Ship. He owed his surviving men and women, however few, that much. His khan had not forbidden it.
The second he would key in himself, however sorely the concentration cost him. Then, truly alone in a way few Falcons ever were, he would initiate the sequence to wake the still-functional main drives to carry him with the ancient WarShip Emerald Talon on her final sortie.
‘‘You’re awake,’’ Rorion Klimt said.
Cocooned within the bed in Gypsy Tailwind’s sickbay, Heinz-Otto von Texeira groaned.
‘‘Evidently you lacked the simple human decency to let me die back there on Sudeten.’’
Rorion felt a stab of encouragement. The old man has enough of his fabled wits about him to know we’re in space and under way. He shrugged.
‘‘Lack of basic decency’s a useful trait in a Loki operative, as you no doubt remember. It’s often said to be one in business as well, not that I’ll ever know.’’
‘‘Not the way I do business,’’ von Texeira grumbled.
‘‘We’re Clan,’’ said a voice from the entryway. ‘‘We have no sense of decency anyway. So I wouldn’t know, myself.’’
Rorion rose. ‘‘Master Merchant.’’
She showed him a lifted eyebrow and came into the small compartment. ‘‘Sit down. No need for Spheroid formality here, and our Clan rituals mean even less to you than they do to me.’’
‘‘A gentleman rises when a lady enters the room, Master Merchant.’’
‘‘We’ve been through that routine before.’’
He sat. The magnetic strip in the seat of his burnt-orange shipsuit resealed itself to the chair.
‘‘Rorion, my boy,’’ von Texeira said from the bed.
Rorion looked to him. He still had little color save gray in his cheeks, which in one-gee boost looked puffy.
‘‘Your glorified valet listens, my lord.’’
‘‘Have you any thought for the future?’’ von Texeira asked.
Rorion had a keenly developed danger sense. One either got one or lived out the old saw about there being no old, bold Lokis. Alarm began to tingle his nerves and rumble in his belly, for no reason his conscious mind could identify.
‘‘I suppose I’ll continue serving a família von Texeira zu Mannstein, as my forebears have for generations. Perhaps one day when I’m old and stout as . . . ahem . . . certain parties who need not be named, I shall become head of security. If my incompetence on this assignment doesn’t cause the Markgraf to discharge—’’
‘‘Oh, stuff that noise!’’ von Texeira roared.
‘‘Steady, Margrave,’’ Senna said. ‘‘If you make too much racket, Chief Medical Technician Ostia will come and nag me. Neither of us wants that, I promise.’’
Von Texeira cast her a grumpy look. She leaned her rump against a counter and crossed her arms. She smiled blithely back.
‘‘If there has been any incompetence it has been mine,’’ von Texeira said. ‘‘And I have made as complete a goat-sc— that is, muddle—of this mission as is humanly possible. It is a debacle. I’ll be lucky if the archon lets me keep my title.’’
‘‘Nonsense,’’ Senna said. ‘‘Your mission was doomed from the get-go—involving, as it did, talking sense into Jade Falcons. The only Falcon with wit enough to listen went and got herself killed—not omitting to leave affairs of state in the hands of a nitwit exemplary even by JF standards. Your precious archon gave you a mighty screwing-over, if you’ll forgive my assault on your virgin ears. And finally, as may one day soon become a catchphrase throughout human space: Malvina happened.’’
Rorion raised and lowered his eyebrows. ‘‘And there you have it,’’ he said.
‘‘And where does that leave us?’’ asked von Texeira.
‘‘Running like bunnies,’’ Senna said cheerfully, ‘‘for the nadir jump point. Leaving all those stirred-up Jade Falcons converging on Sudeten from zenith and pirate points far behind us. That’s another great thing about not being Diamond Sharks anymore: no more Crusader-for-brains nonsense about gallant last stands and hoping our conquerors offer us hegira. She who turns and runs away, lives to trade another day, the saying goes.’’
‘‘You could have run away and left us.’’
‘‘I could,’’ she said with a nod, ‘‘if Sea Fox honor let me break a contract. That and the fact I reckoned your family might make trouble about paying off the balance if I failed to deliver you back to them in at least breathing condition.’’
She sighed. ‘‘And I owe a debt for Nestah and Petah. I could only discharge it in part. But I laid a good down payment on those treacherous Falcon bastards.’’
‘‘Clan honor again?’’ Rorion asked.
‘‘My honor. But yes, Rorion, I am Sea Fox. I may be a rowdy renegade even by Sea Fox standards, but I take my birthright and my Bloodname as seriously as any. And we Foxes do not survive in the company of our snarling pack-predator fellow Clans by letting them impose on us. Costs will be exacted. Time is long. And should I fall, my Aimag or even my Khanate will honor my debt to Turkina’s nasty hatchlings.’’
‘‘I would applaud, lady,’’ von Texeira, ‘‘but my hands seem to be tied.’’
‘‘For your own good. Or mine, anyway; my chief medtech hates to lose a patient.’’
She tipped her head and studied them through narrowed green eyes. ‘‘So where do I deposit you two?’’
‘‘Can you slip back across the border into the Commonwealth?’’
Senna’s crest bobbed to laughter. ‘‘Do you really want to imply that any Jade Falcon blockade could keep a Sea Fox from going where she will? Or your square-headed LCAF Navy?’’
‘‘Point taken,’’ von Texeira said. ‘‘I am in poor shape to fight a trial, I fear.’’
‘‘Once more: where do you want to go?’’
‘‘The nearest Steiner-held world will serve splendidly. But you’re only going to drop off Rorion. I should like to accompany you on your travels for a while, if you will graciously permit.’’
‘‘What?’’ said Rorion, after a moment’s struggle for air.
‘‘If you’ll graciously pay, I’ll ferry you all over the galaxy, ’’ Senna said. ‘‘Your
surplus mass will of course call for a fairly steep surcharge.’’
"Certo."
‘‘Wait,’’ Rorion said. ‘‘Where am I going?’’
‘‘Back home,’’ von Texeira said, ‘‘to assume your new duties.’’
‘‘What duties? I’m supposed to take care of you!’’
‘‘It is time you accepted the burdens of adulthood. Specifically, becoming a trader in your own right, and being groomed to succeed me as chief executive officer of Recife Spice and Liquors.’’
"What?"
‘‘I have a confession to make, Rorion,’’ von Texeira said gravely. ‘‘You are my son.’’
Rorion dropped his chin to his clavicle and tightly crossed his arms beneath it. He scowled blackly.
‘‘I figured that out when I was nine,’’ he said. ‘‘I’m not just a simple, thick-headed serving lad, you know. Also, Mom told me when I was thirteen.’’
Von Texeira rolled his eyes. ‘‘Women,’’ he said. Then he looked in alarm at Senna.
‘‘Inner Sphere women, that is. Present company naturally excepted.’’
‘‘Sisterhood is powerful, Margrave,’’ Senna said silkily. ‘‘But where do you intend to go? Or for me to take you?’’
‘‘Actually, wherever your normal rounds would take you next will serve splendidly,’’ von Texeira said. ‘‘I wish to expand my horizons. And observe Sea Fox trading methods firsthand, unless that’s a Clan secret?’’
‘‘If even you think you can beat us at our own game, you are most welcome to try, Margrave.’’
‘‘Wait,’’ Rorion said. ‘‘Wait.’’
His elders ignored him. ‘‘Don’t you worry about your company,’’ Senna asked, ‘‘not to mention your place in it?’’
‘‘Don Leopoldo will continue to do a workmanlike, if utterly unimaginative, job as CEO pro tem,’’ von Texeira said. ‘‘As President for Life, Mamãe Luci will ensure that nothing dire befalls the company, least of all that a família lose control. Indeed, on my return I suspect she will take pains to reinstate me as CEO. If nothing else, she’ll be well-pleased at being spared the prospect of poor Emilião running the company onto the reefs. And my first-born’’—this with a meaningful glance at Rorion, who paled noticeably—‘‘will be ecstatic that the cup will pass from his lips.’’
The tip of his tongue protruded slightly between bearded lips as he pondered. ‘‘Indeed, I think Archon Melissa herself will see fit to introduce my boy Emilião to Tharkad’s top holovid producers. Especially once I blackmail her for double-dealing by letting loose that damned assault across the frontier. My fellow Lyran merchant princes may not be united in their love for me, but we do tend to pull together when the sovereign trifles with one of us.’’
‘‘Blackmail is such an ugly word,’’ Rorion murmured.
‘‘I don’t know. I’ve always thought it quite euphonious, myself.’’
‘‘What of your wife?’’ asked Senna with half a smile.
‘‘Dona Irmagilda will give birth to an entire brood of velociraptors,’’ von Texeira said with a certain gloomy satisfaction.
‘‘Which, given she’s a San Luca, is no great stretch, genetically speaking,’’ Rorion rallied enough to say.
‘‘Indeed. She’ll rage and screech and do an extraordinary amount of damage to the bric-a-brac. Which, in the fullness of time, I shall be called upon to replace at extortionate prices. Then she’ll undoubtedly prevail upon her uncle Vittore, reigning patrão of the San Luca clan, to dispatch a team of assassins after me."
‘‘See?’’ Rorion said, with the manner of a drowning man spying a rope in the water. ‘‘You’ll need me to protect you against the San Luca bravos!’’
‘‘Not at all,’’ his father said smugly. ‘‘I trust our captain and her doughty Fox crew to see to the safety of their high-paying passenger.’’
‘‘You want me to cull your Spheroid gene pool of some Recifeiro thugs?’’ Senna asked. ‘‘Ah, well. Genetic hygiene is genetic hygiene. But won’t these San Lucas declare vendetta against your family?’’
‘‘No,’’ von Texeira said. ‘‘And there’s the beauty of it all: their wrath, on behalf of Irmagilda’s soiled honor, will focus tightly upon yours most truly. Without my substantial person on hand upon whom to wreak their vengeance, they won’t confront the von Texeiras directly. Not even a dead-drunk San Luca who has just found his favorite mistress disporting with a coachman would dare cross Mamãe Luci.’’
‘‘Word,’’ said Rorion.
‘‘In a year, perhaps two, my lady wife’s righteous wrath at my ‘cheating’ her son will subside. She’ll even repent setting murderers on my trail and cajole her uncle Vito to recall them. Should any survive.’’
‘‘Unlikely. And junior here?’’ asked Senna with a nod toward Rorion.
‘‘It will come as no surprise to Mamãe Luci that he’s my son,’’ von Texeira said.
‘‘Mamãe Luci knows everything,’’ Rorion agreed.
‘‘Just so. And she knows that you’re a devilishly capable young man. Taken aback as she may be at first—especially when the San Lucas puff and bluster and threaten war— she’ll soon see that you’re my ideal successor. Especially considering the alternatives.’’
‘‘I believe she characterizes me as ‘flighty and irresponsible, ’ ’’ Rorion said hopefully.
Von Texeira beamed. ‘‘The very words she used to describe me when I was your age!’’
Rorion looked at him. ‘‘I’m doomed?’’
‘‘Utterly.’’
Rorion raised his ashen face toward the overhead.
‘‘No!’’ His cry went on and on.
35
Jade Falcon DropShip Bec de Corbin
Approaching Sudeten Orbit
Jade Falcon Occupation Zone
4 April 3136
Their lovemaking was fierce and protracted. When it was done, Malvina Hazen and Manas Amirault broke apart to lie sprawled on the bunk in Malvina’s small compartment onboard the Bec de Corbin, held fast by one-gee deceleration. They breathed heavily, bodies glistening with sweat in the muted yellow lamp glow.
Malvina glanced toward the amber numerals of the wall chron. Then she reached to the side table, leaning over the Hell’s Horses Galaxy commander, who lay supine with his hands laced behind his head and his horsetail topknot laid across the rumpled damp pillow. Her bare breasts dangled in his face. He smiled and took hold of one.
Malvina pulled a single black rose from a round zero-gee vase on the table. The memory-synthetic membrane slid like enfolding lips down its twisted stem, flowing about thorns, to heal itself when the cut end sprang free.
She absently slapped Manas’ hand aside as she sat back down, cross-legged, by his head. ‘‘Not now,’’ she said. ‘‘Much as I admire your powers of recovery.’’
The frown that stamped itself on his handsome face softened and flowed to a grin. ‘‘I cannot stay angry with you, Malvina.’’
‘‘No,’’ she said. ‘‘You can’t.’’
Smiling, she handed him the rose. He looked puzzled, as if not entirely sure what it was. Then his bright-white teeth shone from his dark-tanned face in a smile.
Malvina clicked the remote control she had fetched. An image materialized above the small holostage the Bec’s crew had placed past the foot of the bed: a marble of stirred blue and white.
‘‘Sudeten?’’ Manas asked.
‘‘Aff. The view ahead of this very ship. Now hush, and watch.’’
The image changed to the grievously scarred Emerald Talon, shown from ‘‘above’’ and astern, so that the great cigar form was foreshortened against the clouded backdrop of the world that filled the projection.
‘‘Your Star Admiral Dolphus Binetti should be careful,’’ Manas Amirault said thoughtfully. He took an apple from a fruit basket set on the deck beside the bed, bit into it with perfect Clan teeth. ‘‘If he does not change course he risks brushing the outer atmosphere.’
’
He may have been no deep thinker, nor particularly knowledgeable of orbital mechanics. But he had the grasp of military operations required of a successful Galaxy commander. He understood the perils facing a WarShip that strayed too deep into a planet’s gravity well.
‘‘He is most careful indeed,’’ Malvina Hazen said. ‘‘The honor of his Bloodname depends upon it.’’
The long, wiry-muscled man beside her relaxed slightly. But his keen features continued to harbor creases of concern.
The projection now showed a sprawl of city, snow-dappled gray, from perhaps three kilometers up. ‘‘Hammarr, ’’ Malvina said. ‘‘I have instructed aerospace fighters to overfly and observe.’’
The viewpoint became the broad plaza across from the spiny pile of the Falcon’s Perch. Crowds milled before it, laborers and technicians mingling in an explosion of colors. A pair of Spirit BattleMechs kept watch over them, as did a few mixed Points of armored elementals and conventional infantry. The crowd’s mood struck Malvina as apprehensive yet exultant. The security forces seemed mostly tense.
She leaned forward. The projection shine played across features drawn taut as the string of an ancient steppe nomad’s composite bow.
‘‘Now watch,’’ she breathed.
Sunlight falling through colored-glass panels in the tower soaring overhead lit the Grand Council Hall of the Falcon’s Perch in dim polychrome. It turned the gaudy garb of the Falcon warriors gathered there a strange motley.
Staff in hand, Loremaster Julia Buhalin stood a few steps behind the podium in her full robes of office. Before her the survivors of the Slip and Jess factions stood or sat in distinct clumps as far apart as the chamber’s dimensions allowed.
What is mad Malvina thinking? she wondered. She made herself amend it instantly to Malvina Hazen. Much as she despised the interloper, the renegade Galaxy commander had won the khanship fairly—on terms approved by the loremaster herself.