Warrior: En Garde

  "Greetings, brother. Your sister Andrea is well and sends her love. She is anxious for your welfare and hopes you are as fit as ever." Unknowingly referring to the brief period when Liao's double ruled in Hanse's stead, Michael continued, "Your bout with the Kentares flu last year worried her greatly."

  Hanse smiled in the shadows. "Michael could never lie that well. He'll never know how close Liao came to winning the Federated Suns." With a nod, he saluted Quintus for his efforts in killing the news of the Liao plot.

  Michael Hasek-Davion moved back from the camera, and the focus adjusted to take in the whole of the Duke's austere office. The tiled floors and white plaster walls were patterned after dwellings from the North American deserts on Terra, but the neo-cubist artwork and campaign maps tacked to the walls destroyed any of the peacefulness envisioned by the architect who had created the office. Hasek-Davion perched himself on the corner of his desk.

  "It is not easy for us to speak with you about the following matter, Prince Davion, because it calls into question your motives toward the Capellan March. Yes, we fully acknowledge your anger with us because we refuse to commit our troops to your war with Kurita in the north, but House Liao eyes us with hungry intent. How well could I serve you as a Marchlord if I allowed you to strengthen one front, only to lose another?"

  Michael shrugged, then his face darkened with thinly disguised outrage. "How is it that you have not yet begun prosecution against the worst traitor the Federated Suns has ever seen? How is it that you have turned the resources of your vaunted New Avalon Institute of Science to help restore a vile quisling to his health? How can you justify anything but death for Justin Allard?"

  The vehemence in Michael's voice cut off any opportunity for the room's trio of occupants to comment. "Justin Xiang Allard, the son of your own counter-intelligence chief, has betrayed the Capellan March on more than one occasion. You knew of, but chose to overlook, his dismissal of Sergeant Philip Capet. You yourself had pinned the Gold Sunburst upon Capet's chest for his selfless valor on Uravan. How Allard's dismissal of such a hero could escape your notice is beyond me—unless that report somehow never reached you."

  Though Hanse knew Quintus Allard was not so insecure as to need reassurance, he turned to him with a look that said, I know he lies. The grim smile on Allard's ashen face showed that the man took the Prince's meaning.

  "We are certain, Prince Davion, that you have seen reports on the ambush that cost Justin Allard his arm. Many people might have put his injury down to bad luck. My investigators, however, have uncovered information suggesting that the treasonous half-caste merely ran afoul of his incompetent confederates and was attacked before he could identify himself."

  Michael reached behind him and pulled up a thick folder. "Unsupported conjecture? No, it is not. It is fact. We have countless reports of Major Allard spending much of his spare time among the indigs of Kittery. We know of contacts he's made with the local Tongs, and how he has gained control of them. While reports to you might have indicated a pacification of Kittery's largely Capellan population, my agents report that Allard had them biding their time until the moment when they could overthrow our authority."

  As Michael replaced the file on his desk, the camera slowly drifted in toward a close-up. "We realize this may seem like a trivial matter to you, but it is of the utmost importance here in the Capellan March. Our people already believe that your attention is consumed entirely with the Kurita front and the slender threads of an alliance with the Lyran Commonwealth. They feel you do not care about them and that you are willing to strip us of troops, 'Mechs, and resources merely to keep the Combine from your neck."

  Michael stared out from the screen. "If Justin Allard is not tried for treason—and we assure you that he is a spy of the highest order—what are my people to think? You know well how difficult it is to maintain an effective empire when civil unrest saps your strength from within. I would hate to think that the kind of problems that plague the Free Worlds League might also befall you. My people are at your command in pursuing the just resolution of this matter."

  The screen faded to black, leaving the three men silent in the darkness. Then, as static flashed like a blizzard across the screen, Quintus Allard rose stiffly from his seat and dialed the lights up brighter.

  How dare you threaten me with a civil war! Hanse thought angrily. I have not forgotten, Michael, that Anton Marik's forces in the Free Worlds League civil war were backed by Maximilian Liao. Have you tipped your hand to me, brother mine, or are you just too stupid to see that Liao would use you as shabbily as he did Anton Marik? Recall, Michael, that Anton Marik is dead. . .

  Hanse looked over at his MHO Minister and felt a pang in his heart. "Gentlemen, let us review our options. Michael gives us little choice other than to sacrifice Justin Allard to keep the Capellan March a part of the Federated Suns. Are things that bad out there?"

  Quintus shook his head and concentrated to clear away the shock he had felt at Michael's message. "His allusion to the civil war in the Free Worlds League is an idle threat. Michael knows that many of the people in the Capellan March see him as no more than your half-sister's consort. I doubt that he could get enough popular support to pull off a revolt."

  Ardan Sortek leaned forward in his chair and loosened the collar of his dark blue uniform jacket. "I think Quintus is right, but Michael could influence his people to resist our sending troops from the Capellan March to other fronts. We're nowhere near spread as thin on the Capellan border as House Liao is, but Liao can still cause trouble. The assault on Stein's Folly turned out badly for them eighteen months ago, but a strike that deep behind our border scared some people badly. Michael is right when he suggests that further attacks would devastate morale and definitely slow down the production of vital goods. That spells unrest rather plainly."

  Hanse rose but said nothing until he had gone to sit behind his desk. "Quintus, have we had any confirmation of Michael's dealings with Max Liao?"

  The white-haired man shook his head. "There is still only suspicion, except for official meetings that are matters of protocol— new ambassadors presenting their documents or Council of the Arts meetings and the like. We've also got the 'officially reported' texts of discussions, but no private meetings have been recorded, and so my cryptographers have no way to determine if Michael uses some elaborate code in the meetings. Anasta over at the NAIS has done some interesting work with rapid, high-frequency transmission of data, which is later slowed down and decoded. Without a recording, though, we can't begin to look for that sort of thing."

  Hanse frowned. "No reported absences ... no time when he could have been off meeting with Liao?"

  Quintus shook his head again. "It's possible that Max has created a double for Michael, but it's unlikely. Barring that possibility, there's no way he could have gotten out of sight long enough for a meeting with Max Liao." Allard hesitated, then added, "Check that. Michael could have jumped out, met with Liao for four or five hours, and then jumped back in during a tour of some border worlds he took back three months ago. Still, it's highly unlikely."

  Sortek stood and looked from Allard to Prince Davion. "I don't know about the two of you, but I don't need any proof of Michael's duplicity. I can feel it in my guts."

  "As can I." Hanse's quiet agreement accompanied Allard's solemn nod. "Quint, you know I must ask this. What are the chances that your son is a spy?"

  Sortek immediately fixed Hanse with a harsh stare, but the Prince ignored it. "Is it possible that we've all missed some sign? It's true that he worked hard for acceptance in some circles because of being half-Capellan."

  Quintus rubbed his temple thoughtfully as he stared at the floor for a moment. Then he straightened up and stared at Hanse.

  "As an intelligence officer, I would have to say that sending a half-Capellan officer to head up a garrison/training force on a world we've only controlled for twenty years is a risky proposition. On one hand, his natural command of the tongue and his appre
ciation for the culture provide a bridge to normalizing relations with the native population."

  Quintus grimaced, but went on purposefully. "On the other hand, it could be very easy for enemy agents to co-opt such an officer if he were to feel betrayed or persecuted by his own troops or superiors." Quintus shrugged helplessly. "I don't know about Justin. All I can do is review the evidence Michael's men have gathered and see what I can come up with."

  Hanse smiled and nodded. "I know you'll do your best, Quintus." The Prince of the Federated Suns stood up, fingers poised against the polished surface of his desk. "It seems, gentlemen, that we agree. I believe that Michael Hasek-Davion wants to take my place, and I believe he'd league himself with the devil—or Max Liao—to do so. Both of you know how much I'd like to pay back Max Liao for the little trick he played on me when he put a double here on my throne. . . . If I could, I'd like to pay him back a hundredfold."

  He paused then, and the dramatic effect was not lost on his two visitors. "Yes, my friends, I think we can use Michael to get at Max himself."

  Ardan Sortek and Quintus Allard smiled at their leader. "Let us begin," Hanse continued, "to feed Michael the kind of troop figures, locations, and projected movements that will show him we're not abandoning the Capellan March. You, Quintus, will meanwhile thoroughly track the Liao countermoves as we shuffle our troops. I want to know exactly who I can trust in the Capellan March."

  9

  New Avalon

  Crucis March, Federated Suns

  10 January 3027

  Hello, doctor. How are you?" Justin slowly completed one series of tai chi chuan circular moves, then stopped. He plucked a white towel from a bench in the hospital's Solarium and mopped his sweaty brow. "Do you need me for some more tests?"

  Dr. Thompson shook his head. "Not exactly." As the doctor sat down on the bench, Justin dropped to sit facing him on the carpeted floor. "I watched your exercises for awhile. What do you think of the arm?"

  Justin frowned darkly and looked down at the metallic prosthesis. I hate it, utterly and completely. It's lifeless, and because of its lifelessness, I'll never again pilot a 'Mech. The wrist remained cocked at the slight angle he'd set for his last series of motions. The fingers, locked like claws, curled back toward his palm stiffly. Justin rotated his arm so that his palm faced up, then back down again. It mocks me, pretending to be a suitable replacement for the limb I've lost. But, no, this is not what the doctor really wants to know. He cares only for how it functions, not my feelings and thoughts about having a metal arm.

  "The elbow works very well, and these exercises have helped to give me a feel for where the limb is now. I'd guess that comes from the weight and pressure on the lower part of my arm." Justin narrowed his eyes and tried to make a fist with his left hand. "When I move the fingers or wrist, I get some slight feeling, but nothing I can control." Justin shrugged. "I'd rather have my real arm back. Perhaps that feeling will fade when I gain control of the wrist and hand."

  Dr. Thompson leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "Justin, you may never gain control of the wrist or fingers of that hand. It's true that we have prostheses that are fully articulated, but those cases were different from yours. Those people did not suffer the kind of extensive damage as you did to your forearm."

  Justin listened and understood, but he could not allow himself to acknowledge any truth in the doctor's statement. He nodded, however, feeling sweat trickle from the hairline around his ears. "You said before that the others still had muscle tissue in their forearms, which you were able to attach to artificial ligaments and tendons to give them hand and wrist control."

  Thompson nodded slowly. "Right." He took Justin's prosthesis by the wrist and gently bent it back toward Justin's shoulder. Pointing at the elbow, he continued his lecture. "The only thing we had to work with on you, however, were portions of your radius and ulna, and the ganglia in your elbow. It's actually the muscles of your upper arm that control your elbow and lateral arm motion. All you have to drive your fingers and wrists are impulses from the nerves in your elbow."

  Terror crawled maggotlike through Justin's stomach. He wiped his face with the towel again. "So, what you're telling me is that I cannot ever control this hand."

  The doctor shook his head. "No. With years of bard work, such as your tai chi chuan, you'll gain control of the motors and truncated myomer fibers threaded through your forearm. With persistence, you should eventually be able to perform gross motor functions with that hand." The doctor flexed his own fingers. "You'll never play the piano, but you will be able to pluck and eat a grape."

  Anger flashed through Justin's dark eyes and he stood abruptly. I don't want grapes.I I want a 'Mech! His right hand contracted into a fist, and he shut his eyes in the fight to control his emotions. When he opened them again, he scowled at Thompson. "Why don't you just go ahead and tell me what you've avoided saying before? Why don't you just tell me I'll never pilot a 'Mech again?" He stared down at his inert hand. "Why don't you just tell me I'm a useless cripple?"

  The doctor pursed his lips and slowly shook his head. "I won't tell you that because I don't believe it's true."

  Fury flashed through Justin's eyes. "Don't tell me about training programs and therapy, Doc, because I don't want any part of it. Without a 'Mech, I'm nothing. Imagine having to spend the rest of your life only being able to watch medicine instead of practicing it . . . not taking care of patients .. . just watching. Imagine all your friends and relatives trying to console your loss, pointing out all the silver linings in these dark clouds. By God, I'll find a way to get a 'Mech back under me."

  Doctor Thompson smiled and nodded his head. "I told them over in Biomechanicals that you were the right choice for that arm."

  What? Justin stared up at the doctor. "I don't understand."

  "Does the expression 'lab rat' mean anything to you?" Thompson reached into the pocket of his white coat and pulled out a device. It was a black plastic rectangle, about fifteen centimeters long and a centimeter wide, capped by a clear lucite section. The clear plastic cap fit flush onto the rectangle, but the upper face had been chiseled back diagonally to present a flat face toward whomever held the device. Justin turned it over and noticed an opening for a computer jack on the bottom side. "Do you know what this is?" the doctor asked.

  Justin took the device and turned it over. "I think I've seen something like it before. It's a diagnostic tool used for checking MinerMech remote controls."

  Dr. Thompson smiled. "Very good. As you know, most Miner-Mechs are run by remote control instead of by human pilots. A radio link is plugged into the command console below the left-hand joystick, and all commands to the joystick are delivered over tightbeam broadcast." Thompson pointed at the unit Justin held. "They use that thing to make sure remote units are relaying the correct information to the joystick control. That one's been modified to check for input into a BattleMech. We chose to model it on a Warhammer because of the various weapon systems that machine employs."

  Justin nodded, then looked up, puzzled. "Why tell me this?"

  The doctor reached out and took hold of Justin's artificial arm. He pulled the middle and ring finger back until they lay flat against the back of Justin's synthetic hand. The Mech-Warrior stared as though the doctor were a madman, then he heard a click at his metal wrist. He looked down and saw a small slit in the metal around his wrist.

  The doctor released his arm. "Slide that panel back."

  Justin did so, and by the time he'd slid it back a half-centimeter, a tighdy coiled ribbon cable sprang out like a striking snake. At the end of the gray cable was a light blue jack. He shifted the testing rod to his left hand, closed the steel fingers around it, and snapped the cable jack into the opening on the test rod's bottom.

  Instantly, a riot of color swirled across the lucite viewer atop the rod. "Easy, Justin, relax. You don't want to burn it out," Dr. Thompson said calmly, sensing Justin's intense excitement. "Close your eyes and think about opening your l
eft hand. Don't frown. You can still feel the nerve connections ... I know because I hitched the artificial neuroreceptors to them."

  Justin exhaled slowly. Easy now, Justin. Be calm. Just feel your fist opening. Almost immediately, Dr. Thompson congratulated him, but Justin waited until he could harness the rising well of enthusiasm in his chest before he dared open his eyes. Slowly, almost like a child peeking through his fingers at a terrifying holovideo, Justin looked at the cube. All the light, except for a burning red dot in the center of the display, had died.

  Dr. Thompson smiled. "O.K. Let's take this slowly. The boys over in Theoreticals would be dancing just to see you do that much." Thompson pointed at the dot centered on the display, and drew a line from it up toward the top of the viewing area. "You'll notice, as you think about having your hand manipulate a 'Mech's joystick that you get a red arrow on the viewing face indicating in which direction you're shoving the joystick."

  The doctor gave a nod, and Justin slowly commanded his phantom arm to move the joystick forward. The dot flickered a couple of times as Justin false-started. He swallowed hard and concentrated. The red dot stretched and lazily unfolded itself into an arrow pointing at the top center of the display. Justin willed his hand to pull back, and the arrow reversed itself. He smiled broadly and looked up. "It's slow, but it's working."

  Thompson laughed aloud. "Slow? I've got colleagues over at the NAIS who said you'd never be able to get it to move at all."

  Justin, infected by Thompson's enthusiasm, laughed as well. "Should have had money on it, Doc."

  "True enough."

  Justin took a deep breath. My heart's pounding like an auto-cannon full open and firing hot. Then he looked up at Thompson, feeling like a child afraid to be told it was all a dream. "I can target things. How do I shoot them?"