Lethal heritage Page 10

  "I see." Myndo clasped her hands together, holding them at her waist in a pose of forced calm. "What, then, is the explanation you favor?"

  The Precentor Martial hesitated for a moment. "Most of the explanations were mundane and ranged from a Periphery pirate band running across a hidden, Star League-vintage research station to a variation on any of a hundred 'lost colony' tales. Still, none of them possessed technology beyond that of the Star-League era. We need more evidence before verifying any conclusion, but I believe we must not rule out the possibility that these are non-humans."

  That's impossible! Myndo's mind reeled at the thought of another sentient race because it pounded away at the foundation of her reality. She had been taught that mankind was the pinnacle of evolution, and was meant to rule the stars. ComStar, of course, would lead mankind to the fulfillment of its destiny. Her thoughts insisted that there could be no other sentients in the universe—but if there were, they would have to be destroyed.

  Myndo glared at Focht "Why would another species use 'Mechs so similar to ours?"

  The Precentor Martial's quick smile unsettled her. "It is as simple as it is horrifying, Primus. This is a race that has mastered the ultimate evolutionary tool: conscious genetic manipulation. They adapt quickly and efficiently. They mold themselves to their environment and then, like any sentient species, they manipulate the environment to broaden the niche they have chosen."

  Before she could voice an objection, Focht continued his explanation. "Recall, if you will, the protonaria from the Davion world of Gambier. Those multicelled creatures ingest and co-opt genetic material from their meals. In this way, when food is scarce, they eat plants and develop chloroplasts so they can produce their own food. When Gambier's orbit places that dust cloud between it and the sun, the protonaria live off the scavenger bacteria that live off the dying plants.

  "If you remember, protonaria were in great demand as a novelty item forty years ago. People would raise them in an aquarium and feed them virus-laden solutions. The different viruses would contain the genes for coloration, including lucifrase, so a tank of protonaria would be a multicolored, swirling mass that could even glow in the dark."

  Myndo's anxiety locked a frown onto her features. "Those are simple creatures, Precentor. Protonaria could hardly pilot 'Mechs."

  Focht's quick nod marked his agreement with her. "Imagine a higher creature, Primus, one capable of more complex genetic assimilation. It would only need to obtain human genetic material to be able to assume our form. If it could consciously manipulate its development, it could even begin to maximize its new potential."

  Myndo shuddered. "How would it get. . . . Blake's Blood—Kerensky!"

  The Precentor Martial nodded sadly, mourning the demise of a superior military mind. "As wild as it seems, we cannot discount the possibility that somewhere out there Kerensky and his people settled on a world that harbored these things and that it spelled the end for them. As we've not heard from Kerensky or his people, this could easily explain what happened to them."

  His expression grew pained and his good eye focused distantly. "The assault could have come in any of a million different ways. To my mind, the most gruesome comes as a perversion of everything we hold dear. Imagine one of these creatures digging down into a grave and consuming just a piece of a dead body. Within a week or a month or a year— however long it took—the creature would become the person whose DNA it ingested."

  Myndo's hands fell to her sides and clenched into fists. "The creatures would have been welcomed by the kin that had been left behind. Even if they remembered nothing of their former lives, their appearance would have been marked as a miracle."

  "Worse yet," the Precentor Martial told her. "They appear as children and are adopted into families. Just like humans, they are educated and acculturated. Because of their ability to adapt, they have an enhanced survival rate. Because they can adapt to the heat of 'Mechs, and can manipulate their genetic code to make them better pilots, they quickly move into the armed forces, and at some point, they go to war with humanity."

  He pointed to the Mad Cat 'Mech image. "They make technological breakthroughs that increase engine power while decreasing its size. They modify weapons systems to make their machines superior, and they destroy Kerensky's people in a world-by-world campaign that borders on genocide."

  "Why would they come here?" Myndo demanded. "Why would they backtrack Kerensky here?"

  Focht shrugged. "Many reasons are possible, but two suggest themselves right off. In doing what they have done, they have become human. They are coming here because we have the planets best suited to human life and we have everything that makes up human culture."

  Myndo's expression eased as she realized a portion of the Precentor's argument. "You're saying that while they are likely to be bigger, faster, and stronger than us, they will be socially immature?"

  Focht winced. "That's too broad a generalization, I think. Coming from a society of warriors, they are likely to be aggressive and militaristic, which is reason enough to respect and fear them. Though discipline bordering on the Draconis Combine's code of bushido is very likely, I would also guess that braggadocio, carousing, and gambling will also be seen as nearly sacred. Honor will be everything, which means they will be unprepared for guile and subterfuge."

  Myndo exhaled slowly, trying in vain to release the tension in her body. "We must determine what they want and assess their ability to attain it."

  Focht looked up. "I am prepared to head out any time, Primus."

  "No. You are too valuable to ComStar."

  "I beg to differ, Primus." The Precentor Martial smiled warily. "My junior officers are more than capable of handling the training and drilling of our forces. I would also suggest, if this wildest of explanations is correct, that sending ComStar's highest military official as your representative to them would be seen as an overwhelming sign of respect. It could open them up to allow us to influence them. If the truth is more plain, I would assume a liaison with ComStar still would not be unwelcome."

  Myndo hesitated, then nodded. "Very well. You will leave for the Periphery immediately." The Precentor Martial turned to depart, but Myndo stopped him. "Precentor, you said there were two possible reasons why the aliens would be coming to the Successor States, but you only stated one. What is the second?"

  She saw the ripple of revulsion shoot through Focht's body as he faced around again. "It's the same reason the Kell Hounds never found the bodies of Phelan Kell or the Ryan pirates." He swallowed hard. 'To maximize their potential, the aliens need more raw material. They are coming here to harvest mankind."

  10

  DropShip Devil's Island

  Location unknown

  Date unknown

  Phelan Kell struggled impotently against the two men forcing him down into the chair. Where the hell did they get these guys? Though he'd never considered himself especially large or strong, he'd not been manhandled so easily since his childhood. Try as he might to twist his wrists free of his captors' grasp, he could not. They almost seem happy that I'm struggling. I'm giving them something against which to measure themselves.

  His captors shoved him roughly down into the highbacked metal chair. They snapped cuffs over his forearms to hold his hands in place, then strapped his upper arms down and bound his legs. Both men moved with the efficiency of medtechs securing a patient, then stood and withdrew behind him, shutting the door as they left.

  Phelan decided against testing his bonds. These synthetic straps will give but won't break, and I can't do anything about the metal wrist-cuffs anyway. No sense in wasting the energy.

  He quickly took stock of the featureless room. Roughly three meters by three meters, the room and the chair bolted to the floor had been painted in a flat gray. Recessed overhead lights glowed softly and allowed Phelan just enough light to see his reflection in the room's only true feature. He sat facing a mirrored panel that made up the middle of the wall.

  Phelan chuckle
d to himself. Same color scheme as my cell and the hallway between here and there. The guys who run this home for wayward MechWarriors have no imagination. Still, it is nice to be free of that cell. If I have to spend another month talking to myself I'll go crazy.

  He glanced down at his right wrist. A bracelet woven from synthetic white cord encircled his wrist. The soft material did not irritate his skin, nor was it tight enough to cause him any physical discomfort, but he disliked it nonetheless. An ID tag or electronic locator I could understand, but a piece of rope? There's something unusual going on here, and I definitely don't like it.

  Static crackled through a speaker hidden in the ceiling. "Let the record show that this is the first interview with prisoner 150949L. The subject is male and appears to have recovered from the minor injuries sustained during his capture."

  Phelan felt a shiver run down his spine as the voice described him in a detached, clinical way. Injuries? He felt a twinge of pain back between his shoulder blades, but he ignored it as old anger resurfaced. I know I must have suffered a concussion because I can't remember anything after I hit Grinner's ejection button. Everything is a blank, including whatever hurt me.

  A harsh white spotlight flashed on and stabbed its beam down from over Phelan's head. A male voice clipped numbers and words off like an automaton. "150949L, state your name."

  The voice hesitated, then repeated the request. "150949L, state your name." Though it delivered the words in the rapid-fire pattern of before, the tone had shifted almost imperceptibly from neutrality to a growing hostility.

  Phelan stared directly into the reflection of his own eyes. "Phelan Patrick Kell."

  An edge entered the voice. "Deception will not help you."

  Phelan sat back against the chair, but tipped his head forward to shade his eyes. He already felt heat from the light collecting in his mop of black hair. "I am Phelan Patrick Kell."

  "Very well." The tone implied belief that he was still lying, and suggested dire consequences would result, but it moved on. "Where is your codex?"

  Phelan blinked at his own reflection. "My codex?"

  "Where is your codex?"

  The young mercenary frowned. "Explain what a codex is."

  "Deception will not help you. We will go on with this until we are satisfied."

  Phelan forced himself to unknot his hands. "I don't know what you are talking about."

  "Who is your father?"

  Phelan's expression eased. "Colonel Morgan Kell, Morgan Finn Kell."

  "Who is your mother?"

  "Salome Ward Kell."

  The inflection change in the voice surprised Phelan, almost as much as his answer seemed to surprise the questioner. "Deception will not help you. Who is your mother?"

  "Salome Ward Kell."

  Another voice, clearly male, came through the speaker. "Does your mother claim a Captain Michael Ward of the Star League Defense Forces?" The second voice gave off more feeling, and Phelan almost instantly felt a desire to please that person with his answer.

  Easy, Phelan. Be careful. This is the standard good guy/ bad guy interrogation technique. He stared forward at the glass. "Yes, on both sides of the family. Her father and mother were distant cousins."

  The harsh voice snapped a quick question. "What does the name Jal mean to you?"

  The irritation in the harsh voice infected Phelan. "How the hell should I know?" Even as he snarled his answer, something nibbled at the back of his mind. "Wait! Jal was Michael Ward's son. Someone said he took off with General Kerensky in his father's place."

  Curiosity seemed to fill the pleasant voice's next question. "Are you sure of this?"

  Phelan shrugged as much as the restraints would allow.

  "As sure as I can be of ancient family history. We have it all written down somewhere so I never bothered to memorize it."

  The harsh voice returned. "Where is your codex?"

  Phelan ground his teeth. "What is a codex?"

  Neither voice answered his question. The speaker went dead, and for a second, the irrational fear that he had been abandoned shot through Phelan like a laser bolt. Get a grip! You've been in solitary confinement for so long that any contact seems like a godsend. He looked up at his own reflection. Those questions and answers could have been programmed into a computer easily.

  Phelan grinned to himself and chuckled lightly. Hell, you were only twelve when you cobbled together that soundactivated synthesizer. When your mother opened the door to your room to check on you at night and the hinges squeaked, the synthesizer made those sleepy sounds and snores that convinced her you were asleep. At least, it fooled her for a week while you learned how to play poker in the bachelor Officers Quarters.

  He glanced at the silvery mirror again. Nothing in those voices or words that proves them to be human-generated. Especially the harsh one. If that is a human voice, its owner has a serious attitude problem.

  The pleasant voice again crackled through the hidden speaker. "Please forgive the delay. I would like to keep this initial debriefing friendly. Do you think this is possible?"

  "Sure."

  "Excellent." Phelan heard some clicking come over the speaker—the sound of fingers on a keyboard?—before the next question. "You are certain you have no knowledge of a codex."

  Phelan shook his head. "It doesn't manipulate a hologram for me. I've no recollection of ever having heard of it at all."

  "A codex is a readout of your genetic pattern. It is quite important."

  Phelan chewed his lower lip. "I still don't know what a codex is, but I have had some genotyping. I mean, everyone in the mercenary company has. We use it for identifying people in the event of a death. But that's all kept back with headquarters."

  "Interesting." The voice seemed grateful for Phelan's frank answer. "You mention being a member of a mercenary company. What is it?"

  Phelan rocked back in the chair. "The Kell Hounds." How odd. Everyone knows about the Kell Hounds. "I serve in the Second Regiment."

  Shocked disbelief flowed through the pleasant voice. "Two regiments. This mercenary band has two regiments?"

  Unfocused dread gnawed at Phelan's guts. He sounds surprised and unsettled by that news, but the Hounds have had a second regiment for the last nine years. When Katrina Steiner died, her will pledged enough money to raise another regiment for the Hounds. The original bequest left to my father and his brother by Arthur Luvon, Katrina's husband, was how they formed the original Kell Hounds. Katrina's money doubled the Hounds' size and gave us far more financial freedom than we'd known before.

  He looked up at the mirror and forced himself to keep his expression as relaxed and friendly as appropriate under the circumstances. Behind his eyes, though, his mind had already dropped filters in place to keep from spilling damaging data until he could assess the threat his captors posed. Phelan had assumed, when taken and imprisoned, that he was a captive within an internecine Periphery war. He was not so sure now.

  The pleasant voice had regained its composure. "You said you served with a mercenary band with two regiments. Are those BattleMech regiments?"

  Phelan nodded earnestly, ignoring the cold sweat running down his spine. "Yes. I know, that makes us one of the smaller merc units, but we try to make up in quality what we lack in quantity." His heart pounded in his ears as he waited to see what effect his lie had on his interrogator.

  "And these units are truly that: mercenary? They have no allegiance to a lord?" Doubt had bled out of the voice, but an urgency seeped in to replace it, along with something else.

  Careful, Phelan. There's a lot riding on this answer. The young mercenary swallowed hard. "As mercenaries, their loyalty is to their employer first. But," he rushed to add, "many mercenaries will not accept offers from nobles they consider unscrupulous. Many don't like doing crowd control or acting as a police force, either. Mercenaries fight wars and that's it."

  The harsh voice returned full of triumph. "But was not your pursuit of the pirates a police action
?"

  The condescending tone of the question stung Phelan. "You ask that as if pursuing bandits is somehow less than honorable. If it is, why were you out there?" Phelan snorted derisively. "At least my companion and I were evenly matched against our enemies. It would have been a fair fight without your interference."

  The mirror shook as something hit it from the other side with a muffled thump. Phelan brought his head up and smiled broadly at his unseen interrogators. If they reacted so well to that small a verbal jab, wait until I really stick it to them.

  The pleasant voice resumed the questioning, but the lighter tone of the queries told Phelan he'd won some respect by nettling the owner of the harsh voice. Though the harsh voice did not return as the session wore on, Phelan realized from the way some of the questions were phrased that Hothead—as Phelan mentally tagged him—was still in the room and listening. Phelan's defenses came up whenever he heard a hostile question, which happened often enough to make him give away very little information.

  ***

  The middle-aged man leaned against his high-backed chair. His left elbow rested on the chair's arm, his left hand stroking his white moustache and goatee. As his blue eyes followed the lines of text flowing up over his data terminal, the monitor's amber glow brought golden highlights to his short white hair. As the information ended, he tapped a key with his right hand and shut the terminal down.