Текст книги " Lethal Heritage "

Water dripping from his face, Phelan Kell straightened up from the sink and stared into the eyes of Kenny Ryan's reflection in the mirror. Behind the pirate chieftain, a half-dozen Periphery bandits stood in a rough semi-circle blocking entrance to the lavatory. Further back, Griff Picon watched the whole scene with an amused look on his face.

Phelan turned slowly. "Sorry, Kenny. My dance card is full." He pulled the towel from his shoulder and wiped his hands.

"Funny, Kell." The small, unkempt man narrowed his rat eyes. "Real funny. You won't be doing much dancing if we decide to take your kneecaps off." The men backing Kenny smiled coldly.

"Oh, I get it." Phelan smiled courteously. "You had a thought, a realthought and you decided to let me in on it. That's real swell, Kenny, and very considerate of you, but I'm not interested." He turned back to the sink full of soapy water, but a hand on his bare shoulder spun him back around again.

"You don't get the picture, Kell." Ryan's cruel expression and greasy brown hair reminded Phelan of a wet rodent. "You've got an in with that Ranna and you're getting special treatment. You're going to help us get the same, or we'll make sure she doesn't think you're so pretty anymore. Got it?"

Ryan started to jab a finger into Phelan's chest, but he never completed the move. The mercenary grabbed the front of the pirate's jumpsuit, hoisted him up, then turned and jammed him, butt first, onto the sink. Warm water splashed everywhere and soaked up through the seat of Ryan's pants, Phelan's left hand slipped up to grab him by the throat and jam his head back against the mirror. Then he half-turned to address Ryan's henchmen. "If any of you interfere, you'll never visit the bondswomen again! Your choice. Walk away now or look forward to being your own best friend for a good long time!"

As the knot of men at his back dissolved, Phelan returned his attention to his captive. "I suppose this has been coming for a long time, quiaff, Kenny? I was hoping you'd behave and maybe even learn how to survive here with the Clans. I guess you're just too stupid to do either."

Phelan released the pressure on Ryan's throat, letting some of the reddish-purple color drain from his face. The pirate knotted his face in a ferocious leer, but his sputtering voice betrayed his fear. "Y-you've done it now, Kell. I've held them back from killing you or hurting you because I told them you'd be useful. No more. You're a dead man."

The mercenary slapped Ryan once, hard. "Don't try to scare me, you jackal. Those monosynaptic, evolutionary anomalies think with their gonads and I just convinced them—without much of a struggle—that my goodwill is their passport to paradise. You also decided, when I first joined this little community, that I could be physically intimidated because of how weak I was back then." Phelan's eyes burned angrily. "Back then, I was coming off months of chemical interrogation. Now I'm back in form, and perhaps even a little bit better, thanks to Ranna and Khan Ulric. I've half a mind to tear off your head and spit down your neck just to prove it to you."

"Go ahead." Ryan locked both of his hands around Phelan's left wrist. "If you think you can do it, go ahead.

You'll find me a little bit more difficult to kill than you think."

The young Kell Hound laughed to himself, then released Ryan and took a couple of steps back. "I'm not going to do it, but not for the reasons you think. You haven't learned the first thing about these people, or our status among them, have you? You don't realize how important it is for me to stay in their good graces, do you?"

"What are you doing that's so special, aside from sucking up to the Khan?"

Phelan let the barb pass without comment. "What you should understand about our masters is that each jump is taking us deeper and deeper into the Inner Sphere."

Ryan cackled contemptuously. "Delicious! And soon High-and-mighty Hanse and Teddy-bear Samurai will be joining us here!"

Phelan snapped Kenny's head back with a slap, denting the mirror. "Idiot! This isn't some holovid drama or staged Solaris championship. People are dying in droves. The Clanspeople are toying with us. They only send down enough troops to make it a good fight. You remember how quickly they went through your people! That's happening all across the Inner Sphere."

The pirate tugged unconsciously at the braided cord encircling his right wrist. "Why should I care about that? Why should I care whether or not the others are getting what I got?" He spat at the floor.

The scorn in Ryan's voice echoed through Phelan's head. He's right, quiaff? It's the arrogance of the Successor States—the same sort of blind stupidity that got DJ killed– that's making them vulnerable to the Clans. You can see, just from working with Ulric and Lara on the Rasalhague bid, that the Clans are not invincible. Others should be able to see the chinks in their armor, too, but they're too busy hanging on for retirement or studying up to win that next promotion. They just don't think anymore and you don't owe them a thing.

He shook his head to clear away such thoughts. "Civilization is dying around us. The Clans strip away the best and the brightest from the worlds they take. They impose martial law. They're crushing Rasalhague and destroying the hopes of millions. Someone has to stop them."

"So that's how you rationalize collaborating with them, quiaff?"

Ryan's use of the Clanner term shook Phelan. Is the desire to stop the Clans enough to justify betraying my own people until I can accomplish my goal? Am I trying to atone for the breaches of trust I committed under interrogation, or am I helping Ulric for other, more personal reasons? I can't hide behind the fact that they're attacking Rasalhague, where the people despise mercenaries. I've helped Ulric plan a campaign that will not lose. Am I playing Judas to the Successor States to avenge myself on Tor Miraborg and my peers at the Nagelring?

He swallowed hard. "As things stand now, no force can defeat or even slow the invaders because no one knows enough about them. Each of the Clans has its own way of pacifying the planets it takes, and the Wolf Clan seems to be the least harsh. In fact, when they move, the Wolves leave little more than a token garrison force to work with the existing governmental structures to maintain order. Conquest by the Wolf Clan is probably no worse on the ordinary people of a world than being conquered by a rival lord in the constant warring among the Successor States.

"There's another thing, too." The mercenary met Ryan's gaze. "Right now the Precentor Martial and I are the only people who have a rapport with the invaders. We're the only ones learning how to deal with them on a personal basis, which means we could act as intermediaries between the Clans and the rulers of the Successor States. We might just be able to bring this war to a close sooner so fewer people have to die."

Ryan spat on the floor. "You're a dreamer ... and a captive. They're using you. And when they're done with you, they'll discard you like a spent shell casing."

"You may be right, but at least I'm trying." Phelan glared at Ryan. "I don't like thinking of you and me as members of the same species, but we're on the same side in all this. And, yes, I might be betraying part of the Successor States to the invaders, but I'm giving it over to the Wolf Clan. If the Wolves become ascendant, then maybe I'll be in a position to exert some influence."

Kenny Ryan ground his teeth together. "I was wrong. You're not a dreamer, you're a fool. Paint whatever face you want on it, Kell. You're a traitor to your people."

Unbridled fury ripped through Phelan as Ryan's words hit home, but it was directed as much at himself as at the Periphery bandit. No! It's not like that!"Think whatever you want, Kenny. It doesn't matter to me. I may not owe the people of the Inner Sphere anything, but I'll be damned if I'm going to stand by and see these Clansmen slaughter innocents."

* * *

Phelan stood next to Ulric in the holotank, while the rolling landscape of Rasalhague's northern continental mass stretched out in all directions around them. As they walked forward, new terrain scrolled up over the rounded horizon. In response to a command Ulric had given upon entering the tank, the world remained lit as if it were only several hours past dawn no matter where they stood.

Phelan pointed to the south where a thick tropical belt girded the world's equator. "This is the first thing you can discount that the Ghost Bear's Khan is not likely to ignore. Scale up to one meter equals fifteen kilometers." As the computer complied, flattening out the horizon and increasing the resolution of the topography, a large urban settlement on a narrow bay materialized. "That's Firebase Tyr, home to the Third Rasalhague Freemen. They're a tough BattleMech regiment with some battle experience. They're normally based on Kandis but were recently moved here to reinforce Rasalhague. However, they won't be much of a factor in your battle."

Ulric frowned. "Explain."

Phelan smiled. "Ages ago, when people first settled on Rasalhague, they ran into a little problem with a virus native to the planet."

The Khan nodded and rubbed his hand across his jaw. "Yes, the Fenris Plague. I had forgotten about that. Surely they have conquered it, quiaff."

The mercenary nodded. "Yes, soon after the world was colonized. But over time, the strains became less virulent as they mutated. The deadly form of the Fenris Plague ceased to exist centuries ago, but milder cousins of the virus still crop up. Each year, starting in July, the new virus gets its start in the tropics and works its way around the world. The Freemen have been scattered around to keep all the troops from getting sick at once. Most of the unit is on leave during virus season, which is just as well because the tropics are unbearable during that time anyway."

The Clan leader shook his head. "What do you think are the chances the Freemen will have been recalled to oppose us?"

"The chances are about fifty-fifty because the government has a problem. If they recall the troops to Tyr, many of them could get sick because they have developed no immunity. If they move equipment out to staging areas so the Freemen have their BattleMechs, the chances of the current virus being spread around the world that much faster are incredible. Furthermore, even if the Freemen are scattered around in company-level units, they're not likely to be much of a threat because they'll be reacting to your strikes. Their transport network isn't likely to be very quick, especially if you control the skies."

Ulric nodded in reluctant agreement. "That brings us to another point: aerospace superiority. The report from the Ghost Bears indicated that the aerospace regiment of the First Rasalhague Drakøns was an elite unit that could give us considerable difficulty."

"The report was correct in its assessment of the Drakøns. Even so, I think there's a way to neutralize them."

The Khan watched Phelan closely. "Yes?"

Phelan rubbed his sweaty palms against the breast of his jumpsuit. "Drakøns are the Elected Prince's Honor Guard and bodyguard regiment. They are formed along the lines of Davion Regimental Combat Teams and consist of Rasalhague's most elite warriors. Their strength is deceptive, especially in aerospace fighters, because of how they're organized. 'Mech companies have four lances, not three, and missile support lances often have five or even six BattleMechs in them."

The mercenary clasped his hands at the small of his back. "As I understand your unit organization, a single Battle-Mech, two AeroSpace Fighters, or five of your Elementals are called a Point, and five of those make up a Star—a unit roughly analogous to what I call a Lance. The Drakøns' aerospace company, unlike others in the Successor States, puts four fighters in a lance, not two. That means a full regiment runs with 108 fighters, a formidable force, no matter what technological advantages you have over them."

Ulric nodded, conceding the bondsman's last point. "As you noted in the last briefing session, the extended range of our weapons does not work well in tight fights, which are exactly what Inner Sphere pilots are used to. So how do we eliminate the flying Drakøns?"

"I said neutralize,not eliminate." Phelan took a deep breath. "Elected Prince Haakon Magnusson of Rasalhague was an old anti-Kurita revolutionary from Alshain. In his fighting days, they called him the Silver Fox. Actually, he's not that old, but his career as a terrorist on behalf of Free Rasalhague predates independence by many years. He's uncomfortable with pitched battles. In fact, the hit-and-run fights that have given the Ghost Bears problems are a result of his people using their old tactics against them.

"The Drakøns are his bodyguard and are as loyal to him and his Ministers as the Smoke Jaguars are to the ilKhan. The way to pull the flying Drakøns off is to give them a mission: getting the Silver Fox to safety. If you don't hit Reykjavik in the first pass because, operating on mistaken information, you assault Asgard, the new capital they are building, the Silver Fox will have a chance to bolt. He'll head for a JumpShip at the nadir jump point, believing that as long as he has his freedom, he can one day throw you back."

Ulric smiled appreciatively. "If Magnusson escapes and our AeroSpace Fighters shadow him, the Drakøns will have to stay with him all the way to ensure his safety. They'll end up jumping out with him."

The Kell Hound nodded. "Not only that, but his survival means other worlds in Rasalhague will not capitulate easily. You've developed a good method of bringing conquered worlds to heel by permitting them a certain amount of sovereignty. That's a salve to the egos of the Rasalhagians, and makes them far more cooperative. I gather, from some of the reports I've read, that the Ghost Bears and Smoke Jaguars haven't learned the technique yet."

Ulric interlaced his fingers, then pressed them together against his lips. "Let us just say that their philosophical outlook does not allow them the flexibility that could assist their quest." He closed his eyes for a moment. "That would leave us with the Drak0n ground forces and the First Rasalhague Freemen to deal with."

"Right. The Freemen should be easy to handle. They're stationed on the south polar continent, which is in the middle of its winter right now. Though they're specialists in cold-weather fighting, and reportedly revel in battles that take place in the continual dark and blizzard conditions of the winter, the icy flatness of the terrain make them extremely vulnerable to the extended-range capabilities of your 'Mechs. I would suggest BattleMechs with large complements of energy weapons because the cold can affect missiles and the loading mechanisms for projectile weapons on even the best machines."

"I concur," said the Khan. "What about the Drakøns?"

Phelan sighed heavily. "They're good, and they have infantry and armor support. I think the only thing you can do is to slug it out with them. Perhaps your armored infantry can harry the armor and slow it down. The Drakøns might accept free passage from the planet so that they can join the Prince, but I think that has only a slim chance of working. Slightly better might be an offer to make them part of your garrison here, especially if you threaten to bring in your own mercenaries to do the job if they don't agree."