Natural Selection

  Victor stood and kicked at a stone. "Meaning?"

  Phelan shrugged. "Meaning the Lyran Commonwealth and the Federated Suns have spent a lot of money and a lot of blood fighting the Draconis Combine. I don't think anyone would begrudge you and Omi happiness, and folks are enjoying the heck out of peace between the Commonwealth and Combine. Some people are bound to resent your rescue of Hohiro, but that's because they're remembering the past, not thinking of the future. They will come around, but you have to give them time."

  "I know, I know. Wags already have it that we've got one 'love child' stashed on Terra. The Galactic Insinuator even put together a holovid with actors." Victor slammed his right fist into his left palm, then turned back to Phelan. "A Circle of Equals would have been a wonderful way to settle that problem."

  The Wolf Khan stood and stretched. "Fighting with the press is like wrestling with pigs: you may win, but you will get dirty. I feel the same way in dealing with the Smoke Jaguars. Look, let some people in. Learn from Katrina. Open up a bit, let people see what you are like. Let them get to know you, so they can sympathize with you. Let them like you so they can root for you and Omi to have a chance at cementing a peace that is, right now, fragile."

  "Wise words."

  "Thank you." Phelan pointed at Victor's robes. "Better do up that sash, or folks will assume you and Omi were discovered in deep conversation."

  The Prince nodded and reknotted the sash. "Why did you tell me all this, Phelan, really? If I succeed in doing what you suggest, when the truce is up we will be stable and ready for you."

  "I'll give you two choices—you pick one. First, we're cousins and I don't want to see a nation and a people I care deeply about suffer because no one will speak frankly to you. Second, I'm from the Clans, and a strong, stable Federated Commonwealth will give me the greatest chance to cover myself in martial glory."

  "How about I choose 'all of the above.' "

  Phelan threw his arm around Victor's shoulders and steered him back toward the party. "Bargained well and done."

  11

  Arc-Royal

  Federated Commonwealth

  17 April 3055

  Christian Kell rubbed his chin with his right hand. "I like it, but I'm not certain I'm the sort of person who should be advising you on fashion." He glanced up from the computer screen to Evantha Fetladral's face and back down. "Katrina is really the one to make decisions like this."

  Evantha studied the screen intently. She looked to Chris as if she were treating it like a battlefield puzzle she could solve with superior tactics. "I just do not know. This is entirely outside my realm of experience."

  The shopkeeper, a small man with a thin moustache and thinner hair, clasped his hands together at his breastbone. "You must trust me, mademoiselle. This is perfect for you. Because you have such height, broad shoulders, and such a trim waist, we want to use this strapless bodice to emphasize your figure. The black velvet bolero jacket helps soften some of those arm muscles. The flowing gown is really the sort of thing that is de rigueur this season, and the scattered rhinestones throughout hint at the more exotic and wild side of your nature."

  Evantha looked at the man, then back at the screen where the garments had been painted over a video-sample of her body. "But this is going quite far afield when what I want to do is wear my uniform." She frowned. "Bondsman, your opinion?"

  Ragnar studied the screen for a moment, then nodded.

  "It will do very nicely for it really is like your uniform, only feminized in keeping with current fashion."

  Chris nodded in agreement. "All of the Kell Hound women officers have made the change to something more stylish for the banquet. It might be impractical, but who can understand the world of fashion?"

  Ragnar tapped the computer screen. "Perhaps you would feel less naked if they added two stars, right here and here, on either side of the jacket collar, just like insignia."

  Evantha slowly smiled. "You are very observant, Ragnar. Very good." She nodded to dressmaker. "You will have it ready by sixteen hundred hours today?"

  "Today?" The man started to shake his head no, but Chris nodded confidently and the dressmaker aped him. "Ah, yes, anything for a friend of Major Kell." He glanced at Chris again and added, "And I will deliver it personally, just in case we need to tuck it in or let it out a bit."

  "Bargained well and done." Evantha clapped the man on each shoulder, and for a half-second Chris feared the dressmaker would collapse like a ship with its keel smashed in.

  "Thank you, Andre. Send the bill to me." Chris smiled as the man rolled his eyes. He ushered the two Clansfolk back out into the narrow, cobbled streets of Old Connaught, and pulled the little shop's door closed behind him. "Andre" does very good work. You will be pleased."

  Evantha nodded and the sunlight gleamed from her nearly shaven head. Her long braid of red hair started back near the crown, roughly where a samurai would have located his top-knot, and hung down her back, even beyond the waist of the Kell Hound jacket she had borrowed for the outing. "I find this curious. I am more nervous about wearing these clothes than I have ever been about entering battle."

  "I can understand that—the unknown is always forbidding." Chris smiled broadly. "Which means I will not inflict fugu or haggis on either of you for lunch. And I would not worry, Star Captain. You will look wonderful."

  "You are kind, Major Kell."

  "Chris. Formality is fine in its place, but not among friends."

  "Evantha, then. And I thank you for using your influence with Andre to arrange for tailoring so quickly."

  "Oh, he would have delivered. He has a warehouse full of machines that take the design from the screen and turn it into something you can wear. The stall was just a first step in negotiating the price up through the stratosphere." Chris shoved his hands into the pockets of his black woolen trousers. "Andre and I have a working relationship that encourages him to make me happy. I have certain ties to the Draconis Combine that make obtaining certain fabrics a bit easier than through normal channels. Had he tried to make you pay, he knew one source of supply was going to dry up on him."

  "I do not know which is harder to imagine," Evantha said, unable to hide her scorn, "a member of the merchant caste daring to cheat a warrior or a warrior like you dabbling in merchant affairs."

  Chris shrugged. "Things are not as stratified here in our world. It keeps life interesting and full of surprises."

  "I also think, Star Captain, that more mixing goes on than you believe." Ragnar smiled slyly. "There has been quite a traffic in war spoils heading back out to the Clan homeworlds. And, yes, warriors are merely bartering things they have with the merchants for goods they want, but the exchange rate has been very good to the warriors."

  "As I said before, you are very observant, bondsman." Evantha frowned as they walked past a shop displaying all manner of shoes. "I supposed I will need a new pair of footwear to go along with my gown?"

  Chris glanced down at the combat boots she wore. "Yes, I think that would be appropriate, but not right now. I am beginning to get hungry. Ragnar, did you know that a Rasalhagian refugee family has opened a restaurant in the Oslo district? It's called Callas. We could try it if you like."

  Ragnar looked up at Evantha. "If the Star Captain approves."

  She nodded and Chris started them down the twisting street. Two blocks further and they turned north, heading up a hill. The whitewashed brick and thatched roofs of the Irish section of Old Connaught did not change that much moving into the Oslo district, but the difference was still readily apparent. Street and shop signs included the unique calligraphy of the Swedenese language spoken by most of the refugees. The citizenry began to look decidedly more like Ragnar, making Chris a dark-haired standout.

  "Leaving Luthien, we ran across a Rasalhagian JumpShip that had blown the seals on its liquid helium tanks. We managed to patch the ship up and brought it with us here to Arc-Royal. My grandfather, the Grand Duke, subsidized the expansion of the touris
t district in the city and encouraged the Rasalhagians to settle here. They first comers contacted other refugees and eventually a whole.community grew up." Chris pointed to a tall building in the distance. "Your people have done well here, Ragnar. Ryan Steiner financed that tower and dedicated it as your father's home in exile if he ever decides to leave the Free Rasalhague Republic."

  Ragnar stared at the white tower but said nothing.

  Evantha frowned. "Ryan Steiner did that here, on Arc-Royal, a world belonging to the political camp that most opposes him?"

  Chris held a hand out, palm down, and waggled it back and forth. "Not quite, but close. My grandfather embarrassed Ryan into sinking the money into the project by once saying in public that Ryan was long on talk but tight on the purse strings. My grandfather also doled out money in no-interest loans to the refugees, even though that wasn't the most popular gesture here at home. Ryan paid out his cold, hard Kroner and the refugees benefitted. We're here, by the way."

  Chris held the door open while Evantha stooped to enter the building. Two steps down into the common room and she was able to straighten up again. A massive wooden beam running the length of the restaurant supported a dark-stained pine ceiling. Similar deep brown planking covered the floors and rose halfway up the walls. Plaster walls connected the paneling to the ceiling, with various pictures, paintings, and other artifacts of lost Rasalhague decorating the room. Blocky handcrafted tables and chairs of various sizes and shapes also lent an antique charm.

  Chris shut the door behind them, then greeted the owner with a smile. "God morgon, Olaf. Three for lunch."

  The heavyset man had white hairs threading his moustache and goatee and a big smile splitting his face. "Greetings, Christian." He looked the party over, then surprise swallowed his smile. "It cannot be." He dropped to his knees and kissed Ragnar's hand.

  Ragnar looked stunned and Evantha shifted uneasily. Chris wanted to kick himself for being so unbelievably stupid. For so many of the refugees, Ragnar is a symbol of what the Clans have taken away from them. How could I have brought either Evantha or him here?

  Olaf turned to him. "You have no idea how much this means to me, friend Christian. I will make you all a fine meal. I will call friends and we will celebrate. I . . ."

  Ragnar stooped and helped the man to his feet. "Goodman Olaf, you cannot do that. I mean, yes, please, make us a meal." Ragnar sniffed the air and smiled. "The entire Kell Hounds force could not move me before I have eaten here today. Unfortunately, a celebration is not in order."

  The heir to Rasalhague's royal line held up his right wrist and tugged at the white bondcord surrounding it. "I am now of the Wolf Clan. I am here as a guest of the Kell Hounds, but this day belongs to Colonel Kell. Another time we will celebrate."

  Olaf brushed away the tears brimming in his eyes. He started to speak, but his lower lip trembled and no sound came out. He swallowed once, then again, and finally just nodded. His voice then returned in a hoarse whisper, "I will tell my wife, ja? And my children, and they can help serve?"

  "Ja, varsagod. "

  "Tack sa mycket. " Olaf guided them to a round table in the center of the room. He held the chair out for Ragnar, placing him in the seat of honor, then sat Chris on his right and Evantha on his left. After patting Ragnar on the shoulders, he headed back toward the kitchen, where they heard him shouting orders over the clanking of pots and pans.

  Chris felt not a little conspicuous at the large table. "The only time I've been seated at this table is when I treated one of my companies to dinner. I hope that's not an omen for how much food we'll be getting because you know we'll have to make a sizable dent in all of it."

  "I know." Ragnar sighed and lightly tapped his right thigh. "And look, I forgot to wear my hollow leg today."

  Evantha smiled at the joke, then glanced over toward the table nearest the door. Two men seemed to be watching them them avidly. Her smile turned into a scowl, and the two men finished their beers before hastily departing.

  That made her smile return.

  "I'm not certain scaring off Olaf's customers is a good thing to do." Chris squinted his eyes. "On the other hand, that look is one I'd like to see some of the womanizers in my unit encounter from time to time."

  She shook her head. "This is perhaps what I find so bewildering about the Inner Sphere. This gown I have ordered, these shoes I will buy, they are designed to make me appear sexually attractive, quiaff?"

  "Yes."

  "And the ultimate sign of success would be attracting someone with whom I would be willing to couple, quiaff?"

  Chris nodded slowly, dreading the direction of the conversation, though not sure why. "Yes."

  "Yet men and women who succumb to the snares laid by others are labeled with derogatory terms like gigolo or slut." Her brows nearly touched beneath her furrowed forehead. "So you punish those who succeed at the game that you all play, and you torture yourselves by withholding satisfaction in the face of mutual attraction."

  The Kell Hound nodded. "That's about the size of it."

  "I did not understand it with Khan Phelan, nor do I understand it now. Life is too short for pleasure to be denied when it is available."

  Chris started to say something, then closed his mouth and looked over at Ragnar for help. The bondsman shook his head and leaned back, taking himself out of the conversation. Chris reluctantly began his defense of Inner Sphere ways. "I think, Evantha, you are generalizing from limited data."

  "Am I? Last night I met Duchess Katrina. She had obviously made herself attractive to many of the men there. The men were not wholly unattractive, either. I watched her deftly turn aside any number of openings for coupling, which, given the way she dressed and acted, was what I thought was her goal. As she is a leader among you, I assumed this was a societal norm."

  Wait, I see now what's going on. "Evantha, I think you are mistaking biological urges and their resolution for courtship."

  "Courtship?"

  "You said life was short, and within the Clans, I suppose this is true. Here, however, we look at establishing a relationship in which each partner can nurture the other and in which children can be raised and loved. I know the Clans raise children in sibkos, so that sort of family unit is not necessary."

  "Even our breeding comes independent of physical attraction." Evantha raised her head proudly. "Since I won my Bloodname seven years ago, my genetic heritage has contributed to three sibkos. Though it is far too early to know if my progeny will prove themselves, whispers are quite favorable. I also assume that if I am killed honorably, my genes will still be utilized well after my death."

  Chris gave her an encouraging nod. "That is wonderful, Evantha, but breeding is not courtship, either. Courtship is a process of showing another how much you care."

  "As when the Khan gives Ranna a gift, or she touches his arm in passing?"

  "There you have it."

  Evantha waved it way. "Highly impractical."

  Chris winked at her. "True, but fun nonetheless."

  Chris had noticed various people coming and going from the restaurant during the conversation, but it wasn't until he felt the pistol's cold barrel pressed into the back of his neck that he realized how crowded it had become with young men and women. Chris flattened his hands out on the table. Across the way he saw a shotgun slide from beneath an overcoat to cover Evantha.

  A man pulled Ragnar's chair away from the table. "Highness, we have come to rescue you from the Clans."

  Ragnar looked very surprised. "Who are you?"

  "We are part of the underground," the man said, indicating the half-dozen people nearest the table. "We call ourselves Ragnarok. We will get you to safety."

  Chris shook his head. "You know you cannot get off this world."

  "We have resources you know nothing about." The man tugged Ragnar to his feet. "We must hurry." He pointed to Chris and Evantha. "Shoot them."

  "No!" Ragnar grabbed, the man's thick sheepskin coat with his right hand.

>   "It is for the best, my Prince."

  Ragnar frowned. "Not that, give me a knife." He flicked the bondcord with his left hand. "I need to cut this, then. ..." His words trailed off as he looked at Evantha.

  The man from Ragnarok smiled. "Of course, Prince Ragnar." From within the folds of his coat he pulled out a trench knife and presented it hilt-first to Ragnar.

  The bondsman slowly slid his fingers through the brass-knuckle grip. Holding his right arm out at waist height, he bared his forearm and slipped the knife under the cord. Grinning, he rubbed the blade back and forth on the cord, beginning to fray it, then he pulled up on the knife and pushed forward. The taut cord parted with a snap.

  His left-handed lunge plunged the knife straight into the chest of the man who had given it to him. With his right hand Ragnar shoved the ringleader into the woman holding the gun on Chris. As she fell, she jerked the trigger. Powder burned his right ear as the thunder of the near-miss deafened him.

  The adrenaline kicking into his system made Chris feel he had the strength of hundreds. Shoving the heavy table forward, he spilled Evantha back and out of the way of the shotgun blast aimed at her. Leaning on the table, Chris rose out of the chair and sidekicked the woman who had nearly shot him. She partially blocked the strike with her gun arm, but the kick drove the arm back into her chest, shattering the ulna and crushing two ribs.

  The second his right foot touched the ground again, Chris spun. His other foot came up in a roundhouse kick that snapped a Ragnaroker's head around. As that man went down, teeth and blood spraying from his mouth, the man who had fired at Evantha finished reloading his shotgun and clicked the barrel shut. The gun swung into line with Chris's stomach.

  Roaring like a lion, Evantha tipped the huge table up on its edge and threw it at the gunman. The table's edge hit the ceiling, deflecting it from its target, but the thick slab of wood managed to interpose itself between the shotgun and Chris. The mercenary saw the flash of light and felt the spray of splinters that accompanied the gunshot, but the table stopped most of the pellets.