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  He looked up, causing the room's only other occupant to pull himself to full attention. With a slight wave of his right hand, the older man allowed the other to relax. "This is most interesting, Star Commander. Most of the intelligence our people have gathered from the Periphery's inhabitants has been exaggerated nonsense based on centuries-old rumors, wishful thinking, and nightmares. This Phelan Kell, on the other hand, has knowledge and is intelligent enough to conceal it."

  The Star Commander nodded in agreement. In the room's muted light, his dark gray uniform appeared black and the small red stars on his collar remained hidden until light flashed scarlet from them. "I agree, my Khan. The physicians who repaired the damage done to him estimate his age to be between eighteen and twenty-three years old, confirming his statement that he is eighteen. As we saw in the battle tapes of the engagement where we captured him, he handles a 'Mech with some skill."

  The older man nodded sagely, his left hand again rising to toy with his goatee. "What do you make of his name being the same as that of the mercenary unit? Is he an orphan they adopted?"

  The Star Commander shrugged. "Neg, my Khan. It would be impossible for an adoptee to earn a name so quickly, quineg? It would seem to me that he is related to the family that owns the unit. I could further suppose that he is in some disfavor because he was given service in the Periphery. Perhaps, as we have done, the Kell Hounds placed a training cadre out hunting vermin."

  "Possible, Star Commander. Very possible." The older man smiled. "Do not reprimand either Vlad or Carew for their performances in the interrogation. Vlad's outbursts were unfortunate, but he has given this Phelan a focus for his own anger. Vlad will continue to be part of the inquiry team for this subject. Carew's surprise concerning the mercenaries caused Kell to be cautious, which tells us he has information he thinks is important. That, too, is valuable."

  "Do they continue to question him as is?"

  The old man paused for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Aff. Let them work unaided for the next month. By the time the DropShip Orion returns here, the interrogators will have collected enough data to alert us to areas where he has information he does not want to give up. At that time, with more experienced people, we will do what we must to learn all that Phelan Kell can tell us."

  11

  Twelfth Donegal Guards Headquarters, Trell I

  Tamar March, Lyran Commonwealth

  19 October 3049

  Kommandant Victor Steiner-Davion adjusted the picture of his family on the corner of his desk. Taken about a year and a half before he left the New Avalon Military Academy to return to the Nagelring, it represented the last time the whole family had been together. Victor, his father, and his hulking brother Peter stood in the back row. His mother sat in front of Hanse, with Katherine on her right, Arthur on her left, and little Yvonne sitting at her feet. Victor centered the portrait between his data monitor and the lamp clamped onto the right side of the desk, then leaned back in his chair to study its effect.

  With a frown, he leaned forward to shift the picture back to the other side of the walnut desk. Is having this picture going to rub it in that I've got a battalion command because of who I am? Renny and the others in my class graduated Leftenants and have lance commands. I'm a Kommandant and get to oversee a whole battalion. The damnable thing is I know I can handle this responsibility, provided I get the chance. I want to be treated like everyone else in the Federated Commonwealth's Armed Forces, but it just ain't going to happen that way.

  A light knock sounded on his door, pulling Victor back to reality. He quickly twisted the picture so its back was to the door, then straightened his uniform. "Enter."

  A slender, sandy-haired man stepped into the room and snapped Victor a quick salute. "Hauptmann Galen Cox reporting, sir."

  Victor quickly stood, cursing himself for not having done so before Cox entered the room, and returned the salute crisply. He noticed the Hauptmann's restless blue eyes taking in everything, but Cox's face gave no clue to his thoughts. Extending his hand, Victor greeted his visitor warmly. "I am pleased to meet you, Hauptmann Cox. I am Victor Steiner-Davion."

  Cox met Victor's firm grip and pumped his arm strongly. It was not a contest of strength, but a comradely welcome that pleased Victor. No need to prove himself stronger than me, yet no desire to toady up, either. Good. I like that.

  Victor waved Cox to one of the two yellow leather chairs across from his desk, but the Hauptmann demurred. "Is there something I can do for you, Hauptmann?" Victor asked.

  "I'm reporting for duty, Kommandant. I am your aide."

  Victor pressed his lips together into a thin line. "Hauptmann, don't take this as an insult or any reflection upon you or the impression you've created, but I already told Leftenant-General Hawksworth I don't want an aide." Victor pointed through the open door toward the other Kommandant offices further down the hall. "Just like the others, I'll make due with a clerk."

  Cox nodded easily, but Victor knew the man had not surrendered. "Begging your pardon, sir, but the Kommandant is not like the others."

  "An accident of birth does not make me different, Hauptmann. I will not have an aide just because I am the Archon's son. Do you understand that?"

  The Hauptmann dipped his blond head again and turned from Victor. For a moment, Victor thought he had won— which surprised him—but then he saw Cox close the office door. Victor smiled to himself. Now we're into the trenches.

  Cox again appraised Victor openly. "Permission to speak frankly, Kommandant."

  Victor extended his hands palms-up. "Have at it, Mr. Cox."

  "When I said you were not like the others, I was not referring to your lineage. If we assigned an officer to every blue-blood in the AFFC, we'd double the size of the officer corps and drop its efficiency by an order of magnitude. And, just for your information, Leftenant-General Hawksworth had nothing to do with my being here. He respected your wishes and made them known to the rest of the officers here."

  Victor leaned forward on his desk. "If the General has not assigned you to me, and if you're not here because of my bloodlines, what the hell is going on?"

  Cox's grin grew wider. "I was selected by the regiment's officers to be your aide."

  "What!" Victor sank backdown in his chair. "Since when did the army become a democracy?"

  "Since officers fresh from the Academy are given a battalion command." Cox's grin faded as his look became stern. "Being out here on the Periphery is a joke to people back on Tharkad. Hell, you probably didn't want to be assigned here—which makes you exactly like most of the other officers in this outfit. Most of our lance commanders are fresh from school, just like you, and they're full of that graduation glow. For them, this assignment is a chance to show their potential so they can win a more glamorous assignment like guarding the Draconis border or kicking around some Free Worlders."

  Victor felt his face flush as he recalled how he'd protested his assignment.

  Cox moved toward the chair Victor had indicated earlier, but stepped behind it and rested his hands on its back. "Most Leftenants are easy to straighten out. We get into an engagement with pirates or bandits or a Rasalhague raiding party and step them through the fight. If they don't freeze up or faint at the first exchange, we give them orders and they execute them. That first fight is always rough on them, and generally rougher on the men and women they command, but they survive it if they listen and do what they are told. It's sort of military Darwinism in action."

  Cox met Victor's stare head-on. "You, on the other hand, have a battalion to command. That puts more than thirty-five Mech Warriors in your hands during a battle. There'll be confusion and there'll be chaos. If you can't handle it, people will die." Cox shrugged. "People don't want to die, so here I am."

  Victor found himself sitting with his legs crossed and his arms folded around his chest. "And if I issue an order dismissing you as my aide?"

  Cox's grin returned. "I think you'll find that order will get lost in the electronic s
huffle around here."

  Looking up, Victor felt himself being infected by Cox's contagious grin. I want to be angry and insulted, but that'll just prove I need the keeper I've been saddled with. I appreciate the regiment's concern, and what's more, I can understand their reluctance to follow an unproven commander into battle. I must earn their respect, so if I want to be treated normally, I guess I have to start now.

  Victor chewed his lower lip for a moment. "So I'm stuck with you, whether I like it or not. Is that it, Hauptmann?"

  Cox's grin became broader.

  "Then I better like it." Victor stood and thrust his hand forward. "Pleased to have you as my aide, Hauptmann Cox."

  Cox again shook his hand strongly. "Glad to be with you, Highness."

  Victor waved off the honorific. "This is the AFFC, Hauptmann. Address me by rank or as Victor."

  "Yes, sir, Kommandant."

  Victor settled back into his chair. "How did they happen to select you for my aide, Mr. Cox?" He saw a strange spark in Cox's eyes, but the Hauptmann smothered it before Victor could identify it. He could guess, though. "This wasn't meant to be your command, was it? My appointment didn't rob you of a battalion command, did it?"

  Cox shrugged nonchalantly. "I don't think so, or if it did, it was the best-kept secret on base. I got this position because I volunteered for it."

  Victor raised an eyebrow. "You volunteered to nursemaid me? Why would you do that?"

  Cox stretched out in the chair. "Well, when we got the news that you were coming to take over Kommandant Sykes's battalion, lots of people started grousing. You know how it works—one guy talks to another and he talks to someone else. All of a sudden What started out as a minor irritation becomes a crisis. It's like the story of the MechWarrior who needs to borrow an actuator-wrench to make a repair on his BattleMech. As he's walking back to the supply depot through a rainstorm, he becomes convinced that the Tech won't lend him the wrench. The more he thinks about it, the more worked up he gets. When he finally gets to the depot and finds the Tech, he screams, 'I don't want your damned actuator-wrench anyway!' "

  Victor chuckled lightly. "I don't want your damned actuator-wrench anyway! It's been a while since my cousin Morgan Hasek-Davion told me that story, but I understand the situation completely. They had me built up into a monster that was going to get them all killed."

  "But only after you'd transformed this unit into a bunch of kiss-ass courtiers waiting on you hand and foot," Cox said with a devilish glint in his eyes. Even as Victor winced, Cox continued. "Anyway, I thought that was getting out of hand, so I looked up your school and service file. Scores on exams never stopped a particle beam, but yours looked good enough to deflect a few. I figured if you were going to get a chance to live up to all that potential, someone would have to cut you some slack." He sat up tall. "Galen the Knife, that's me."

  That, Galen Cox, means more to me than you will ever know. Victor smiled and felt, for the first time since entering the Nagelring, that just a bit of the weight on his shoulders had been removed. "Thanks, Galen. I'll do all I can to be worthy of your trust."

  "You'll do better than that, Kommandant," the blond man said, rising to leave, "I've read your file, remember? I hope like hell the rest of us can keep up with you ..."

  12

  Location unknown

  Date unknown

  Phelan Kell tried to focus his eyes, but the huge disk of light burning above the table to which he was strapped sent searing photon barrages straight into his brain. The backlight was enough to illuminate some of the people standing around and over him, but he could recall no details nor keep track of how many there were. Doing its spongelike best to soak up the chemicals being pumped into him, his brain no longer worked right. "State your name."

  The harsh tone of the voice sparked faint recollections, but Phelan's desire to rebel against the command was fleeting. He managed to speak, despite the clumsy thickness of his tongue. "Phelan Patrick Kell."

  "Phelan? Do you know what your alleged name means? Don't nod. Speak. Tell us what it means and why you have it."

  "My name is Celtic and means wolf or 'brave as a wolf.' " Phelan's brow furrowed as he tried to remember what his parents had told him about choosing his name. "I was named Phelan for a friend of my parents and Patrick for my dead uncle." Out of control, he giggled, "And I am a Kell 'cause I am." A wave of vertigo washed over Phelan. They've juiced me good . I can't let them know what I know ... But stringing together even that much of a logical thought burned up his reserve of defiance, leaving him defenseless.

  "Phelan, you have seen service in Rasalhague. How many regiments does Rasalhague have under arms? Include mercenary troops in this total." That new voice expressed a kind of dignified reserve that made Phelan label it the Confessor. And the other one, that's Hothead.

  Phelan concentrated, letting his hatred of Tor Miraborg fuel his answer. "They have sixteen regiments under arms and a few mercenary companies, but those are employed mostly by independent lords."

  Outrage filled Hothead's voice. "Why did you lie about this before?"

  Hothead's fury gave Phelan more pleasure than the drugs flowing into his body. He smiled gleefully. "Because fooling you was fun."

  The Confessor's voice cut off Hothead. "Phelan, how many regiments does the Draconis Combine have?"

  Sadness welled up inside Phelan, pooling dark and heavy around his heart. "I don't know."

  A soothing note entered the Confessor's voice. "But you must have an estimate. It must have been discussed during your schooling."

  Phelan jerked as though a raw nerve had been hit. "No, no schooling. I don't like the Academy."

  "Never mind the Academy. You do have an idea of the Combine's strength? Yes, I thought you would. Just between us, what do you think it is?"

  Phelan tried to sit up closer to the silhouette he had assigned to the Confessor's voice, but the headstrap restrained him. Instead, he winked an eye in the voice's direction and dropped his own to a husky whisper. "Officially, the Snakes have 100 line units, but they've rebuilt the DCMS mostly in secret so it's hard to be sure exactly what's going on. My father also said that with the Genyosha and Ryuken training programs, the Combine's troops have become better."

  "I see." The Confessor's tone dropped reflectively. "If the Combine's troops are so good, why have they not retaken Rasalhague?"

  The young MechWarrior shrugged as best he could.

  "When Rasalhague went independent, Theodore Kurita fought for the Republic against his own renegade troops. Don't know why. Ask him."

  "What about the Lyran Commonwealth? What have they under arms?"

  Phelan squirmed uncomfortably at that question from the Confessor. The Commonwealth is my home! "I don't know."

  Phelan heard a new voice coming from outside the circle of light. "Spikes right to the top of the scale, sir. He is blocking."

  "What does his SPL blood level look like?"

  "In the seventy-fifty percentile."

  "Go to the eightieth, but give me a clock so I only keep him there for fifteen minutes." The urgency and command in the Confessor's voice drained away as he again addressed himself to his prisoner. "Phelan, we are all friends here. You can trust me. How many regiments does the Lyran Commonwealth maintain?"

  Phelan felt as though he'd been reduced to the size of a micron, then tossed to the winds. The corded wristlet felt like a diamond saw against his flesh. He saw the ribbons that had once been his legs twist together and twist and twist until they knotted up and pain burned in his thighs. Then his neck elongated and his head plunged back down past his feet, hurtling ever faster toward the ground. When it hit, he felt it would splatter like an overripe fruit.

  The Confessor snapped a command. "Back SPL off to the seventy-seventh percentile. He has no resistance, no chemoimmunity developed in him. He has a strong will. Nothing more."

  Someone snapped his fingers. The sound was like a gun shot to Phelan's senses, but Hothead's voice quickly overrod
e it. "Tell me, Phelan, what happened to you at the Nagelring."

  Phelan's resistance crystallized instantly. "No!"

  "Freebirth!" cursed the man tending the interrogation monitors.

  "What? Are you getting spikes scaling up again?"

  "I wish." A series of clicks came from the equipment. "Neg. Not a technical problem. I am getting full cycles off the scale here, not just spikes. He reacts as strongly to that question as someone does when forced out of their sibko."

  Phelan latched on to the word sibko. I know I've heard that before. What? Where? When? Who am I?

  The Confessor's voice helped him refocus himself. "The Free Worlds League has troops. How many regiments does it have?"

  Phelan closed his eyes. "Seventy, probably. Andurien lost most of their units when they seceded, in the war with the Capellan Confederation, and then when Thomas Marik took them back into the League. Marik still has to keep troops there to keep the peace."

  "And the Federated Suns .. . How many regiments do they have?"

  Phelan frowned. The Federated Suns and the Lyran Commonwealth have integrated their commands. They want to know about my home!

  "Resistance building, sir. He has linked the Suns with the LyrCom."

  The Confessor's voice rasped quietly, sounding to Phelan like a knife being drawn from a sheath. "If you cannot tell me about the Federated Suns, we will have to know about the Nagelring."

  "No! No, no, no, no, no ..." Words falling meaninglessly from his lips, Phelan's consciousness ricocheted around in his skull. No, no, no, not that. Shame burned on his cheeks, then his anger broke like a fever and tears rolled from his eyes. The Federated Suns is too big to hurt.

  "The AFFS has 103 regiments."

  "He is still resisting."

  Disappointment echoed through the Confessor's voice. "103 regiments and ... ?"

  Phelan tried to hold his answer in, but cracks had developed in the dam he'd tried to build up. "The Davion and Steiner militaries have been merged into one and the whole thing is called the Armed Forces of the Federated Commonwealth."