Lethal heritage Page 2

  "This is not the place to be making up for lost time," Anika told him. "You go from being intelligent and understanding to pig-headed and pouty in an instant No wonder the Nagelring bounced you out when it had the chance."

  Phelan's head came up sharply, but he said nothing. How could you? I "thought you were a friend. He stared at Anika, unbelieving, then slid from the booth and pulled his glasses onto his face like a mask.

  Anika grabbed his left wrist to turn him back to face her. "Listen, Phelan ..."

  The outrage in Phelan's voice cut her off. "No, you listen, Nik. I don't know what Tyra said about my leaving the Academy or what she told you about the Honor Board's findings. I had my reasons for what I did and those Academy morons chose to ignore them and the positive consequences of my actions. Well, I didn't need them and I don't need you patronizing me and trying to direct my life!"

  He loomed over her, but never lost control of his fury. "One thing I do know is this: no matter why Tyra told you about all that, I know she wouldn't have done it if she knew how you'd use that information. You've betrayed her trust." He straightened to his full height and zipped up the black parka to his throat. "Tell her I was looking for her, or don't—as you wish."

  ***

  By the time Phelan's anger cooled off enough to let him see straight, he was a block down from the Allt Ingar, his course unconsciously taking him further from the mercenary quarter. Dammit, Phelan, you totally and utterly blew it. Nik's been the only Rasalhagian who's not told Tyra she's crazy for continuing to see you after finding out who and what you are. She was probably just trying to keep you from getting into trouble. Her remark might have been out of line, but it was the only way she could get through to you.

  He hunched his shoulders against the cold, then fished mittens from his pockets and pulled them on. Looking up at the orange and gold striations of Gunzburg's nearest planetary neighbor, Phelan shook his head. "Yeah," he said to the deaf world floating above him in the dark void, "wandering off the reservation was stupid. If I get chucked into the local jail, I'll not be out before the Lugh leaves this dirtball to rendezvous with the Cucamulus. The idea of being stuck here until our transport returns from the Periphery thrills me not at all."

  Phelan snorted out twin plumes of steam. And it would be just one more instance of how insubordinate you are. Jack Tang is going to have your head for this little outing. Why do you have to be such a loner? Just like Tyra, the people in your lance would be your friends if you gave them time.

  Time, that's the key, isn't it? You're always in a hurry to do what you think needs to be done. That means Phelan answers only to Phelan, and that's what lands you in so much trouble. And your familiarity with trouble is what keeps most people back. No one in his right mind wants to play toss with live munitions.

  As Phelan crossed the snow-dusted, cobblestone street and started back toward the outskirts of Stortalar City, the holographic display on the wall of a building flashed to life with a new advertisement. The image of a silver-maned, graybearded man burned onto the screen. Dressed in a military uniform, the man gave off great power and vitality. He greeted the nearly deserted street with a confident smile, but the jagged scar that ran from over the man's left eye down into his beard robbed the smile of its warmth.

  The expression faded to a more serious one as the man began to speak and the translation scrolled across the bottom of the screen. Though Phelan could not read the text written in Swedenese—the bastardized Swedish and Japanese dialect used by most people on the planet—he knew it to be an admonishment by the planet's military governor that the people of Rasalhague pull together to help create an even stronger union.

  Is it so easy as that? Phelan thought bitterly as the message droned on. Is it so easy for people to abandon themselves to some greater cause? Don't they ever question the motivations of their leaders? Don't they ever look out for themselves? What does one do when his loyalty to a great cause comes in conflict with his own best interest?

  During the ad, the camera panned back just enough to make it plain to all viewers that the man was seated in a wheelchair. Phelan shook his head as the image faded slowly to black. "Trust Tor Miraborg never to miss a chance to remind people that he lost the use of his legs fighting for their freedom." Phelan frowned as the steam from his breath covered his face with a translucent veil. "Trust Tor Miraborg never to let people forget that mercenaries betrayed him and caused his injury."

  The echoes of Miraborg's voice recalled to Phelan his first meeting with Gunzburg's Varldherre, when he'd traveled down to Gunzburg with Captain Gwyneth Wilson in a shuttle to ask Miraborg for the liquid helium needed to repair the Cu. I guess the Captain must have thought it would help to have the son of a legendary MechWarrior along when visiting the high and mighty. Such a good icebreaker: "Oh, Morgan Kell is your father?" All Wilson wanted was enough liquid helium to refill one of the tanks surrounding the Kearny-Fuchida jump drive, but she hadn't counted on tangling with the Iron Jarl.

  Phelan spat at a snowbank. The way Tor reacted, you'd have thought we were the Periphery raiders the Kell Hounds had been hired to fight. He took special offense with me, as if my father's accomplishments somehow diminished his own bravery. Of course, I didn't help things by bristling as he insulted my parents.

  Phelan stared at the Varldherre's stern visage as it appeared on another holodisplay set further down the street. "Why didn't you just give us the freeze-juice and be done with it? If you had, none of this would have happened." His chest tightened as he crossed the snowy street to a row of brick buildings. I'd not have met Tyra and the Kell Hounds would have been off fighting Periphery pirates instead of being stuck here for three months.

  Stepping into the mouth of an alley shortcut he'd discovered, Phelan hunched against the cold and thrust his mittened hands deeper in his pockets as he walked. "Couldn't do it the easy way, could you?"

  Stars exploded into shimmering blue and gold balls as the roundhouse right slammed into the left side of Phelan's face. The punch snapped his head around to the right and sent him flying back out into the street. Staggered by the blow, Phelan clawed ineffectually at the air as he fell. His feet slipped on the icy layer beneath the powdered snow on the ground and he crashed heavily to the roadway.

  Snowflakes burned on the bare flesh of his face. Scrambling to gather his limbs beneath himself, Phelan shook his head to clear it. Jesus, I've not been hit that hard since ... since ... Blake's Blood! I've never been hit that hard. Gotta focus.

  His attempt to concentrate on his martial arts training was interrupted by a booted kick to the stomach that flipped Phelan over on his back. A wave of nausea washed through him as he continued to roll onto one side and then vomited. His attacker's derisive laughter mocked Phelan's agonized moan.

  Snow crunched beneath the attacker's booted feet as he closed for another kick. Phelan, lying on his right side, scythed his legs backward through his foe's shins, dumping the man onto his face. Striking before his enemy had time to react, Phelan rolled to his back and snapped his left heel down onto the base of the man's spine. He didn't hear the crisp sound of bones breaking, but a harsh cry of anger and pain told him he'd hurt his foe.

  Unsteadily gaining his feet, Phelan spat at the ground and wiped vomitus from his lips with the back of his right hand. "Now I can see you, you bastard. Come on." The pain in his stomach made his words come in short, clipped bursts. He bent his knees slightly, lowering his center of gravity, and balled his fists.

  Beyond his downed assailant, from every tiny snatch of shadow that defined the buildings on the darkened street, human forms moved forward. Phelan's heart sank. Four, five, no ... six. You've really screwed up this time. If they don't kill you, Captain Wilson and Lieutenant Tang will. Focus, focus, Phelan, or you 're worm food.

  "Mercenary scum," someone cursed. "Take our money, take our women. We don't need your kind here."

  Phelan pulled off his glasses and tossed them backward. They know about Tyra. This is goin
g to be nasty.

  The Kell Hound forced himself to relax for the second or two it took the mob to gather its courage and attack. He let his head bob for a moment and his hands hang limp, as though the effects of the initial punch had not worn off yet. As they moved toward him, Phelan's years of training allowed him to spot which of the approaching men could hurt him most. There, that trio of them. If I take them first, then the others might scatter.

  The mercenary slid a half-step to the right and jabbed straight out at his nearest attacker. His punch crushed the man's nose, whipping his head back to the right. The man spun away, careening into a second attacker and knocking him aside. Phelan pivoted on his right foot, turning his back to this opening in the circle of enemies and expanded it by lashing out with his left fist to catch another man in the throat.

  Spitting and coughing, that man went down, but his defeat did not daunt the trio still standing. The centermost man, a burly, bull-necked individual, burrowed in low and fast. Phelan straightened him up with a knee to the face, but his bulk just carried him forward. He locked his arms around Phelan's waist, pinning the MechWarrior in place as the other vigilantes closed in for the kill.

  Phelan desperately rained blow after blow on the head and shoulders of the man holding him. The Kell Hound ducked and dodged his head as much as possible, but his lack of mobility meant body blows found him an easy target. The thick padding of his parka and the sweater underneath prevented the punches from breaking any bones, but the pounding sent Shockwaves through his stomach, kidneys, and lungs.

  A forearm smash to the side of the wrestler's head finally broke the man's grip and sent him off to the side. The Kell Hound immediately moved so that the stumbling wrestler blocked another man's approach. Phelan used the chance to turn around and face the man coming in on his right. He landed two quick blows on the man's chest, then rocked him back on his heels with a choppy uppercut.

  When the man dropped into a crumpled heap, Phelan's hopes that he might actually escape soared for a nanosecond. Then, as he scanned the battlefield, his hopes crashed and burned. Damn, the guy who hit me first is up. Where?

  Silhouetted against the street lights, the first attacker eclipsed Phelan's view of the street. His right fist again arced in toward the left side of Phelan's face, but Phelan saw the blow coming and ducked. As he pivoted to drive a short right jab into the man's ribs, his left foot slipped on some ice, dumping him down hard on his tailbone.

  A bolt of pain shot up Phelan's spine and exploded in his brain. His pelvis felt as if it had been shattered in the fall, and the pain in his midsection numbed all sensation from his legs. Time slowed as his foe's left hand slammed down over Phelan's right eye and blasted him back against the street.

  Sprawled out like a dead man, Phelan's view of the world went black for a second or two, but snapped back into stark and painful detail as fingers tangled themselves in his hair to pull him to a sitting position. With a free hand, the mob's leader donned Phelan's sunglasses slowly and deliberately.

  Something sparked in the back of the MechWarrior's mind. I know you.... That scar on your face and your pug nose ... you're, you're ... Tantalizingly elusive, the man's identity could not penetrate Phelan's storm of pain.

  The man let a slow chuckle roll from his throat. "Should've stayed where you're wanted, outcast. And you should never have presumed to be worthy of Tyra."

  At the sound of police sirens keening in the distance, Phelan smiled. His assailant glanced over in the direction of the sounds and shared the mercenary's smile.

  Then his fist fell again and again ...

  2

  The Nagelring, Tharkad

  District of Donegal, Lyran Commonwealth

  19 May 3049

  Victor Ian Steiner-Davion pressed his back to the smodth wall of the Kommandant's living quarters, letting the crowd's commotion roil around him. A faint smile touched his lips as he watched other members of the graduating class, wearing the same smart, dress-gray uniforms with skyblue trim, guiding their parents, siblings, and guests through introductions with other people's proud kith and kin. It's funny to see how we change when family and friends from outside the Academy come to visit. The Nagelring's little world and its social order dissolve as the real world comes pouring in.

  Victor's blond head came up and his smile broadened as his roommate stepped into and nearly filled the doorway leading from the Kommandant's garden. Victor raised his hand and waved. "Over here, Renny."

  Tall and broad-shouldered, Renard Sanderlin acknowledged Victor's greeting with a smile and a nod. He turned back and led three more people into the room, then ate up the distance between himself and Victor with long-legged strides. Engulfing Victor's hand with his own massive paw, he pumped Victor's arm warmly. "Hey, Vic, glad to see you still here. There was a line at the restaurant ..."

  Victor waved off the excuse and grabbed Renny's left sleeve, pulling the larger man around just enough to see the unit insignia newly sewn onto the uniform's shoulder. Embroidered on a gold background in black thread, the head and mane of a roaring lion stared out at him. Victor's smile mirrored that of his friend. "You made it into the Uhlans! That's great, Renny. Congratulations!"

  The embarrassed flush that began with Victor's enthusiastic response deepened as Renny looked back over his shoulder at the trio he'd led across the room. Swallowing hard, he broke his grip on Victor's hand, then turned further to the left and the group moved forward. "God, where are my manners? Vic, these are my parents, Albert and Nadine Sanderlin ..."

  Victor released their son and extended his hand to each in turn. "I am most pleased to meet you." Albert Sanderlin wore a dark business suit, which Davion knew was brand new, both from the stylish cut and the uneasy way Renny's father wore it. Nadine Sanderlin wore a formal gown of dark blue satin that complemented her slender figure. I think Renny had it right. His mother forced his father to buy a new suit, then she made her own gown. She probably also sewed the Uhlans' patch on Renny's uniform.

  Victor then smiled at the beautiful young woman who completed the group. "And you are Rebecca Waldeck. I recognize you from the holograph Renny has on his desk, though I must say that it doesn't do you justice." Victor took Rebecca's extended hand and bowed slightly as he kissed it. Her dress, a gown of purple silk, might have been a year out of date, but on her it looked fresh and stylish.

  Renny's mother smiled politely. "Victor?" she said hesitantly, waiting for Renny to supply his roommate's family name.

  Renny shot his mother a horrified glance, then relaxed at the amused expression on his friend's face. "Mother, this is my roommate, Victor Davion." He hesitated for a moment, then added more softly, "Duke Victor Ian Steiner-Davion."

  Victor saw Nadine Sanderlin stiffen, then begin to drop into a curtsey. He leaned forward, gently catching her by the shoulders. "Please don't," he said, color rising to his cheeks. He pointed to a gold cord looped around Renny's left shoulder and then to the similar braid around his own. 'This reception is for those of us fortunate enough to be in the top 5 percent of our class. Here, thank God, I am among equals and wish to be treated no differently than my friends."

  Nadine Sanderlin pressed a hand to her mouth. "Forgive me, Highness. I should have recognized you from the news holovids ... It's just that you seem so much, I mean, in the holovids, you're ..." She stopped, embarrassed again.

  Victor reassured her with a smile. "I know. I think the holovids make me look taller, too." He laughed easily. "I feel sorry for the camera operators, most of whom are your son's size. Their directors have them shoot from impossibly low angles to make me seem taller. At 1.6 meters, that means the angles are very low, indeed."

  Victor glanced at Renny and slapped the back of his right hand against his roommate's flat stomach. "Of course, finding uniforms to fit me is easier than it is for pituitary giants like your son."

  A grin brought life to Albert Sanderlin's angular face. "You have to understand, Highness ..."

  Davion held up hi
s hand. "Victor ... please."

  Sanderlin nodded briefly. "Victor, we weren't quite sure if Renard was stretching the truth a bit when he sent us a holodisc saying he'd become your roommate his last year at the Nagelring." He held up his calloused hands as though to ward off a protest. "Not that we'd expect Renny to lie, but we wondered whether he might be exaggerating somewhat. Even when his messages talked about 'his roommate, Victor,' well, it all sounded so ..."

  "I understand, Mr. Sanderlin." Victor smiled warmly. "As I hear it, if someone in the cadet corps hasn't reported himself to be my roommate, he's at least claiming to be in the same company." He turned to Renny. "No, Renny and I became friends when he took pity on me and helped me through cryophysics and astronavigation back in our trey year. In fact, if not for your son, I'd not be here at this reception."

  Renny licked his lips nervously. "You'd have gotten all that stuff anyway, Vic. But if you hadn't spoken to your cousin, I'd not have been admitted to the First Kathil Uhlans." ,

  Victor shrugged. "I just told Morgan he'd be missing the hottest graduate of the Nagelring since Katrina Steiner herself. If you hadn't measured up, you'd not have been made a Lion." The Prince of the Federated Suns and the Lyran Commonwealth turned his attention back to Renny's guests. "Enough of this mutual admiration society. Renny was very happy when he got the message that you'd be able to attend our graduation. And he went sailing down the corridors of Kell Hall whooping like a grazerang when he learned you'd be coming along, Rebecca."

  The girl, her long blond hair just a shade darker than Victor's, nodded shyly. "When Mr. Sanderlin offered to bring me to Tharkad to see Renard graduate, I couldn't say no." She twisted a simple silver band on the ring finger of her left hand. "We haven't seen each other since Ren left for the Academy."