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  "Hmmm. Interesting variation." Phelan took another look at the game. "Unlike everything else around here, the game is not co-ed."

  Carew shivered. "Play against women? No thank you. They are vicious. The only thing worse than playing against a woman in sport is fighting against one for a Bloodname, or so I understand."

  "I see." Phelan pointed to the nearest game. "Do you think they could use a couple of new players?"

  "Could be, but only you could play that game. The red team is House Ward and the blues are House Demos. The players are all unbloods, so they should let you play."

  "Should?"

  "The guy who took that last shot on goal was Vlad. As I recall, the only thing you two agree on is that one of you will be killed by the other."

  "True." Phelan frowned slightly. "Which is your House?"

  Carew shrugged. "I was born into House Nygren."

  Phelan heard annoyance and resignation in his friend's voice. "You say that as though it were a curse."

  "It is, after a manner of speaking. Nygren has never had a strong fighter pilot contingent. Twenty-five years ago, the Wolves beat the Jade Falcons in a battle, and Nygren got genetic material from House Malthus that was thought to contain the DNA that gives Malthus pilots their edge in combat. I am a product of that line."

  "So why so glum? You should have a leg up on other folks when it comes to a Bloodname contest. You've got an edge."

  Carew shook his head. "Just after the second generation was produced from the spoils of our victory, we learned that the genetic material came from a cadet branch of the family. Though Wolf scientists claimed the genes were the same as those we were seeking, the subterfuge embarrassed some of the Nygren elders. This has left a taint on those of us born of that victory, making our chances of being nominated for a Bloodname slim or simply nil."

  "And to work through the open battling would be relatively worthless." Phelan reached out and gave Carew's shoulder a squeeze. "Sorry about that, my friend. Perhaps when we return to the Inner Sphere, you will achieve something that will force them to nominate you."

  "Perhaps." Carew pointed over at the game. "Half-time break. This is your chance to get into the game."

  Phelan grinned. "You don't mind watching?"

  "Go on. Natasha's archivist had some information about you that he passed along. House Demos has a bad gene. They all gamble too much." He smiled broadly. "If you live up to the rumors, I can earn some favors at this."

  Chuckling, Phelan turned from his friend and crossed to the knot of sweaty players on the sidelines. He approached a balding, brown-haired man he recognized as the one who had been speared. When the man looked up, Phelan placed him as someone he had fought in a 'Mech training session. "You are Emilio, Quiaff?"'

  The man drained his cup of water and drew another from the cooler. "Aff, and you are Phelan."

  "Right. Need another player?"

  Emilio shrugged. "Vlad, do you want another warm body out there? My breathing is getting ragged. I think Carter popped one of my ribs with that last point-touch."

  "Phelan?" Vlad's voice mixed disbelief with scorn. "Has Cyrilla decided to let you play rough with the rest of us?"

  Phelan turned slowly and saw Vlad surrounded by the other players of the team. Half of them shared Vlad's disdainful look, but the others—mostly Elementals—seemed merely to await Phelan's reply. Phelan smiled easily. "I do not know about playing rough, Vlad, but it strikes me that is not necessarily the object of this game. If I score goals, the number of times I poke someone else is irrelevant, Quiaff?"'

  Vlad raised an eyebrow. "You will find that hitting is not as rough as being hit." He gave Phelan a fish-eye, then nodded slowly. "You can play."

  Phelan hopped over the sideline bench and started to rummage through a pile of equipment. Vlad slapped his stick against the bench, bringing Phelan around with his hands up to ward off a blow. "Hey, I want equipment."

  "And you shall have it." Vlad pointed his stick at Emilio. "Give him yours. You are my right wing, Phelan."

  "No! No need to make him give me his stuff. There's plenty here."

  Vlad did not even acknowledge Phelan's protest. "Emilio, give Phelan your equipment."

  "As you wish, Star Commander."

  Emilio peeled off the torso vest and held it up for Phelan to slip into. "Hope it protects you better than it did me."

  Phelan's green eyes smoldered. "Why are you doing this? Why do you not stand up to him?"

  Emilio shook his head. "Look at me. I am thirty-two years old and I am an unblood. My career will be finished soon. It is a wonder that Vlad and the others allow me to play at all. I know enough to make way for the new generations."

  In Emilio's words Phelan heard the resentment that was building as a result of Natasha's insistence at testing out to be a warrior. "But with age comes experience. Does that count for nothing?"

  Emilio watched Phelan, then shook his head. "You have so much to learn, Phelan Wolf. Experience is what I give to those I teach. Here, take the vest and the benefit of my experience in this game. Remember that you are live when you have the ball, and you remain live until someone else takes it away. The Demos players will take all the cheap shots they can. The circuitry in the vest will not award points for them, but they hurt anyway."

  "Got it." As Emilio unsnapped his arm guards, Phelan snaked the two straps on the torso jacket through his crotch and fastened them at his hips. He adjusted the cup so it felt comfortable, then pulled on the arm guards. Foam over hard plastic, they felt like a light exoskeleton. The gloves were still clammy from Emilio's use, as was the chin strap on the helmet.

  Emilio knelt down and opened a green equipment chest. From it, he pulled a U-shaped piece of plastic. He coated it with an aerosol spray and handed it to Phelan. "Here, bite down on this and clench your jaw for ten seconds. It is a mouth guard. The spray temporarily heats the plastic so it can remold to your teeth."

  "Fanks," Phelan mumbled gratefully.

  "Score some goals. We are down 67 to 75. See the defenseman on the right, Quiaff? That is Carter, and he is the one who got me."

  Phelan nodded and ran out onto the field. This society is so confused that good warriors get tossed aside at an age when they would just be entering their prime in the Successor States. Does their breeding program really make them that much better? He sized up his opposition and clamped down on the mouth guard. Here's where I find the answer to that question.

  Vlad and the Demo's center met at the midpoint and bent down for a face-off. They pressed the backs of their nets together, and a referee placed the ball between the two sticks. At his whistle, both men struggled for possession of the ball. Vlad lunged forward, then spun off to the left. The ball popped loose on that side, and he scooped it up.

  Phelan shot forward and arrowed in toward the goal. He threw a little head fake at Carter, then breezed by him. He raised his stick to catch Vlad's attention, and they made eye contact, but Vlad dumped the ball off to the attacker in the corner. As Phelan pulled himself back out to a more proper position, a pass came to the center forward, but the goalie stuffed him and Carter picked up the ball.

  "Stupid ape." Phelan watched as Carter carried the ball like an egg in a basket. Most players, by working the head of the stick back and forth in a semi-circular motion known as "cradling" the ball, used centripetal force to keep the ball in the net. Carter made no attempt to stabilize the ball. Rather, he slowed his pace to let the nearest Ward attacker close with him, then he snaked the butt-end of his stick out to spear the man in his red circle.

  The attacker went down clutching his chest, and foul or no foul, Phelan saw red. Instead of backing to cover his counterpart on the Demos team, he sprinted toward Carter. Phelan held his stick by the butt-end in his right hand and pulled it straight back in obvious preparation for a slashing stick-on-stick check. Given ample warning, Carter cradled the ball briefly, then pulled it back and away from Phelan.

  This better work! Phelan purpose
ly cut wide to the left, as though Carter's infantile move had somehow faked him into error. Still holding it in one hand, he let his stick rise up over Carter's head, then whipped it down hard. Phelan caught Carter's stick just beneath the head and bounced the ball loose. Dodging back right, Phelan scooped the ball into his net. Two steps further in, he planted his right foot, cut to the left and shifted his hands around for a left-handed shot.

  He snapped the stick down and directed the shot at the ground less than a meter in front of the net. The ball hit the grass and skidded about four centimeters before it bounced up. The goalie's sweeping save sliced through the air a hair's-breadth behind the ball. The vulcanized rubber sphere slipped inside the goal just beyond the post.

  Phelan raised his stick triumphantly in the air. Other players cheered, but as he turned around, Carter and Vlad seemed to be competing to see who could glare at him the hardest. Feeling buoyant, Phelan trotted over to Vlad. "I could have done that five seconds earlier if you had passed me the ball when I was open."

  "Carter had you covered."

  "Yeah, on your wish-list and in his dreams."

  "You got lucky, Phelan."

  "Luck's what others call talent when they have none, Vlad."

  Vlad's brown eyes smouldered. "Well, we will just have to see if you are as good as you think. Get back where you belong."

  Phelan took up his position for the face-off. Now if I were Vlad and I hated me as much as he does, what would I do? Phelan smiled. Yeah, buddy-pass.

  Blue won the face-off and brought the ball down into the Wards' defensive zone. A couple of quick passes resulted in a shot on goal, but the goalie made the save. He passed off to a defenseman, who worked the ball up to the left wing.

  As their line swept past midfield, the left wing passed to Vlad. Vlad cradled the ball for a couple of seconds, then looped it over to Phelan.

  The high pass came slow, leaving Phelan no choice but to wait for it. He took a quick glance over his shoulder and saw Carter bearing down on him. Thanks loads, Vlad. Phelan clamped down on the mouth guard and prepared himself for impact.

  He caught the ball with his back to Carter. Phelan knew that nothing short of a brick wall would stop Carter from blasting through him, and he had no time to dodge. Determined to make the best of a very bad situation, the Mech Warrior ran his hands up to the head of the stick and tucked the shaft beneath his right arm. As Carter's huge form eclipsed the sun, Phelan shoved back and up as hard as possible.

  Carter impaled himself on the butt-end of Phelan's stick. Cartilage cracked in his sternum and his gloves flew from his hands as his arms shot out. He hung suspended in air for a second or two, then dropped directly onto his tailbone. Croaking as he tried to suck in a breath, the big man lay on the ground with hands clutched to the blue spot on his chest.

  The impact knocked Phelan forward. Cradling the ball close to his own chest, he rolled and came up with it still in his net. Vlad streaked toward the middle and Phelan shot the ball at his head. The other Mech Warrior deftly plucked it from the air and whipped his stick down and around in an underhand shot. It rocketed up and over the goalie's right shoulder to catch the corner of the goal.

  "Hey, Vlad," Phelan called out. "Nice goal. We do good things when we work together."

  Vlad spun and poked at Phelan's chest with his stick. "Drop dead."

  Phelan parried the blow sharply down. "You know, our fighting makes about as much sense as the citizens of Free Rasalhague hating mercenaries. We don't have to like each other, but we can work together for the common good."

  "The common good?" Vlad laughed contemptuously. "That you are here at all is because of your good luck. That you are a warrior is my bad luck, but in no way should you dream you have the right to consider yourself a member of our group. You are here only until the testing process proves what I have known all along: you are the dregs of a degraded society. When you fail your testing, you will be discarded."

  "And when I pass?"

  "You will not. Six weeks or six hundred weeks from now, you will not pass." Vlad's grin, twisted by the scar on his face, showed no mirth. "I guarantee it because I will be one of the pilots fighting against you. And believe me, I shall end your charade then and there."

  Phelan snorted, then pointed at Carter. "Just be sure you get it right the first time around, Vlad. You will never have a better chance. If you blow it, it will be my turn, and I assure you, I will not miss."

  16

  Winddancer Plains, Outreach

  Sarna March, Federated Commonwealth

  2 June 3051

  Victor Davion pulled his night-vision goggles a centimeter off his face and let cool air bathe his flesh. Settling the goggles back in place, he glanced at his chronometer for the twentieth time since taking up his position. Fifteen more seconds. I hope the others are in place.

  Ahead of him, at the camp's northern perimeter, stood four BattleMechs. Each had the cylindrical body and back-bending legs that made it look so much like a Marauder, but the underslung arms ended in a configuration that Victor found unique. The 'Mech type also looked to mass less than a Marauder because of the overall downscaling of the design. He knew Wolf's Dragoons had begun to produce some of their own 'Mech designs with the facilities on Outreach, but this was his first look at any of them.

  Two guards wearily trudged their way through picket duty. It was already toward the end in their watch, and the rosy hint of dawn on the horizon seemed to have sapped the last of their strength and caution. The two seemed more interested in chatting together and stamping their feet to keep warm than in surveying the surrounding brush.

  Victor picked up his laser rifle and sighted in on the two guards. Like everyone in the commando team, they wore harnesses and helmets fitted with infrared sensors. If shot by one of the downpowered lasers, a signal would go off, telling the target he had been hit and killed. Victor did not think the gear was as effective as the exoskeletons used for training at the Nagelring, but they were lighter and thus preferable for this long expedition.

  Wolf had placed the company command out on the plains, and they knew only to take all necessary precautions against a possible raid. Like most field units, they had split their command into its three lances and placed them at three points around the camp. That made it more difficult for an air strike to destroy the command. They also kept their fusion engines lit so the 'Mech pilots could spring into action with a minimum of delay.

  As the last second ticked off on his chronometer, Victor centered his rifle's crosshairs on the southernmost guard and stroked the trigger twice. He saw the monitor lights on the target's harness light up and heard the distant keening before his second shot. He smiled, even knowing that both he and Hohiro would try to claim credit for that kill, then sprinted toward the waiting 'Mechs.

  His compatriots likewise shot out of their hiding places and ran to their war machines. Victor's had an Uller torso, but twin-barreled arms. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, Victor vaulted onto one of his 'Mech's flat feet, caught the barrel of the large laser and swung up onto the lower arm actuator. Like an acrobat on a high wire, he walked to the Mech's elbow, then scrambled up to the shoulder and onto the torso. He dropped in through the hatch and pulled it secure behind him.

  Tossing the laser rifle onto the jumpseat behind him, Victor settled into the command couch. He reached under the console on his left and popped open an access panel. He withdrew a circuit board and lay it face-up in his lap. He popped a chip from the board, then pulled another computer chip from a pouch on his cooling vest and snapped it onto the board. He replaced the circuitry, then strapped himself into the command couch.

  After slapping the medical monitor patches onto his limbs, then hitching them into the neurohelmet he'd pulled on, he keyed the vocal link to the computer. "Initiation Sequence Override, engage now."

  The computer replied after a moment's hesitation. "Authorization code required."

  "Able Tango Xray Foxtrot."

 
"Verification obtained. Welcome aboard Kit Fox 0038W."

  Victor breathed a heavy sigh of relief. The primary and secondary monitors came alive with streams of data about the weapon systems as they came online. The display showed that the large and medium lasers in both arms had been powered down to exercise levels, but Victor knew a concentrated blast would be enough to damage a 'Mech and possibly kill the pilot.

  This may only be an exercise, but someone can still get hurt. Victor hit a switch and adjusted a dial to set the radio to the agreed-upon tactical frequency. "Raider Deuce, I'm up and running."

  "Raider Ace ready for the road," Galen called out.

  "Raider Three and Four operational."

  Galen's 'Mech lurched forward and headed back in toward the main encampment. Victor swung onto a path parallel with his and hit the button that brought up his projection display. Punched on magnification, he picked out the laser flashes of a running firefight in the center of the camp. Switching over to magnetic resonance scanning, he picked out the shapes that bore an X on them. Quickly, he tagged each with a computer ID number and shot the data out to the other raiders.

  "I have our ground troops on magscan and have shot you their labels. The tinfoil strips backing their harnesses worked. Commencing antipersonnel fire."

  Victor grabbed the joysticks on both arms of the command couch and lowered the crosshairs onto their targets. He toggled a switch to the left on the console, which dropped the laser's power level yet again, then he swept the right Kolibri pulse laser across the line of defenders.

  The other 'Mechs laid down a pattern of fire that took out the other enemy ground troops. The X-forms on Victor's magscan started running for the lance of 'Mechs standing to the north. Galen started his 'Mech toward the south and indicated, with a wave of his right arm, that Shin should join up with him.