Текст книги " Lethal Heritage "

Tyra's mouth soured with fear as the Jarlwards opened the door and pushed Phelan Kell—half-naked and barefoot– into Varldherre Tor Miraborg's waiting room. The mercenary stumbled forward a few steps, his normal, long-legged gait hobbled by the chains. He grunted and tried to straighten up, but the cruelly short length of chain binding the leg irons to his handcuffs snapped taut and kept him hunched over.

Tyra shuddered at the sight of the man who had been her lover. My God, Phelan, what have they done to you?Dozens of purplish bruises mottled the smooth flesh of his muscular chest. Both his eyes had been blackened, with the left one nearly swollen shut. Phelan, still fighting the chains, moved slowly and stiffly, his face a defiant mask to keep his captors from knowing how much he really hurt.

Then he saw her and the mask shattered to reveal the agony and fear in his eyes. He started to tip off-balance, but managed to catch himself quickly enough to slump undecorously onto the red leather bench next to the wall.

One of the Jarlwards raised a hand to cuff him, but Tyra barked an order before he could strike. "No!" The man stopped, hand quivering, and looked at her. "Free him."

The Jarlward straightened up and shot a grin at his partner. "I am not obliged to obey you, Kapten."The man sneered officiously. "I serve the Corrections Ministry, which puts me outside your command."

Tyra stared at him furiously. "Do you reallywant to see how fast I can arrange for a transfer?" She shifted her gaze to the other Jarlward, whose sneer died at birth. "The same goes for you. Now free him." She smiled humorlessly. "And give him your jacket."

The second Jarlward stiffened, but broke beneath her cold gaze and unfastened the clasps on his scarlet-trimmed, gray wool jacket. As one man knelt to free Phelan of the chains, the other settled his jacket over the mercenary's shoulders. Staring into space, the Kell Hound pulled it tight but did not slip his arms through the sleeves.

Tyra dismissed the Jarlwards with a wave of her hand. Both hesitated and looked at the door leading into the Varldherre's office. The anteroom's recessed lighting burned reddish highlights into her long, bronze hair. "There will be no trouble. Leave us."

As the door clicked shut behind them, she crossed to the bench and sat next to Phelan. She started to reach out to him, then hesitated. "I want to hold you but I'm afraid it will hurt."

Phelan's mouth smiled, but any reflection of that smile in his eyes was lost within the bloated, discolored flesh surrounding them. "You can't hurt me, Tyra. Just go easy on the ribs. I could definitely use a hug. Your basic Jarlward is not a well of human kindness."

"Jarlwards are not born," she quipped, pulling him close. "They're grown in vats of dung with mushrooms and other semi-intelligent fungi." Tyra held him as tightly as seemed safe, stroking his hair with her free hand. After several moments, she leaned back and tipped his face up so she could look into his good eye. "How did this happen?"

He shrugged. "I was off the reservation and got jumped by a bunch of folks. They knew about us and that I'd asked you to join the Kell Hounds. They took exception to that. A big guy with a Radstadt Academy scar on his left cheek organized the little party."

Tyra saw something flash through the malachite depths of Phelan's right eye. You call it a Radstadt Academy scar, but you know what most people call it. It's a Miraborg scar, just like the one the Varldherre has. Many of our warriors wear it as a symbol of their willingness to make the same sort of sacrifice as he did in the name of nationalism.Tyra stroked the right side of Phelan's face with her left hand. "Tall and blond, I'll bet. It must have been Hanson Kuusik. He was out last night and seemed very pleased with himself this morning."

Phelan nodded wearily. "I thought I recognized him from that first Liaison meeting I attended on your base."

"You should have told me."

The Kell Hound sighed. "What good would it have done? My word against his and no jury of his peers would believe a mercenary against a loyal aerojock." Phelan's characteristic smile struggled to return. "Besides, I figured that I'd look him up and settle our account after we returned from the Periphery."

Tyra flinched at Phelan's use of the word "we." His good eye shut and he turned away from her. "I guess I was wrong when I said you couldn't hurt me." He hung his head. "You're not coming, are you?"

Tyra looked down at her hands. How do I tell you this?"I am honored and flattered that you managed to make room for me in the Kell Hounds ..."

"Hey, don't imagine it was my word that got you the offer," Phelan cut in. "I suggested Captain Wilson take a look at you, and she liked what she saw. I'm not an officer and being my father's son makes things lots harder for me—just as her knowledge of our relationship made things tougher for you. Despite that, she made you an offer."

Tyra nodded and rubbed her right hand up and down Phelan's hunched back. "I know, love. I know." She paused, choked up with emotion. "All that we discussed is true: my skills are not being fully realized here in the Gunzburg Eagles. And it's not that I can't stand the idea of being a mercenary ..."

"Could you, Tyra? Could you really accept being a mercenary?"

It was a question she'd pondered deeply so many times since knowing Phelan, but it was still a hard one to answer. "I think I could," she said, continuing to stroke his back,

"despite the prejudice I've grown up with. Even here, all the stories about Wolf's Dragoons, the Kell Hounds, and the Eridani Light Horse work their magic. No matter how suspicious many people are of mercenaries, some units still have that aura of the noble outlaw about them."

Phelan scratched gingerly at his left eye. 'That makes me feel better. I'd hate to see what folks here do to mercs they don'tlike."

Tyra ignored Phelan's comment. "It's not that I couldn't handle the idea of being a mercenary. It's the idea of becoming a person without a nation that I couldn't live with."

Phelan frowned. "What are you talking about? I was born on Arc-Royal. I'm a citizen of the Lyran Commonwealth. I have my loyalties ..."

Tyra's blue eyes narrowed. "Do you? Phelan, I've come to know you intimately in the three months the Kell Hounds have been marooned on Gunzburg. I think you have loyalties, but not to any nation. You've told me yourself how much traveling you've done in your life. The Hounds have seen service in the Federated Suns, the Lyran Commonwealth, and then the St. Ives Compact since your birth. You've spent more time on the Dragoons' baseworld of Outreach than you have on Arc-Royal. You have loyalties, but they are more to your family and your friends than to any place."

"Is that bad?" Phelan said quietly.

Tyra took his left hand in hers and gave it a squeeze. "No, not in itself. But it can get you into trouble. It got you bounced from the Nagelring ..."

Phelan's face closed. "And it made me lose you."

Tyra took Phelan by the shoulders and twisted him around to face her again. "Yes, but not in the way you mean. I can no more give up being Rasalhagian than you can give up being a Kell Hound. Both of us are tied strongly to our backgrounds because it's shaped us and given us our sense of justice, our sense of right and wrong."

She reached into the pocket of her silver flight jacket and removed a paper-wrapped object. Placing it in Phelan's left palm, she folded his fingers over it. "You've made me think about many things, Phelan, and for that I am far more grateful than you could ever know." She swallowed hard again.

"The reason you couldn't find me last night was because I'd gone to my father's house to finish making this for you."

Phelan slowly unfolded the paper, then stiffened as the treasure within it fell into his open palm. Cast in silver, the belt-buckle took the form of the hound's-head crest of the Kell Hounds Regiments. Inlaid onyx filled the face of it and malachite colored the Hound's eyes a fierce, cold green.

Phelan's mouth hung open. "God, Tyra, this is beautiful. How can I ever ..."

She pressed a finger to his lips, then quickly kissed him. "I know the hound's eyes are supposed to be red to match the unit crest, but I used malachite to match your eyes. I made it to fit your gunbelt because you like to wear a sidearm while piloting your 'Mech. I want it to keep you safe."

Phelan swept Tyra into a bearhug, hanging on tightly until she actually felt the tremors of strain in his body. She rubbed both hands on his back, then eased herself out of his grasp. "We'd best head into the office for our joint audience."

Clutching the belt buckle in his right hand as if drawing strength from it, Phelan rose stiffly. "Whatever happens in there—and I'm making no promises—I want you to know that my loyalties include you as well." He shook his head. "I guess we should have believed it when everyone said it couldn't work—that nothing but trouble could come if a mercenary and a daughter of Free Rasalhague tried to get together."

Tyra smiled gently. "But it did work, Phelan ... for three months. Can't we be thankful for that?"

Phelan was smiling again. "We did defy the odds, didn't we?"

Tyra winked, took his left hand and led the way into the Varldherre's office.

* * *

Seated behind a massive mahogany desk, Tor Miraborg did not look up as they entered. Trimmed with gold piping, his gray jacket matched the color of his hair and beard except for the black whiskers running down either side of his mouth. Miraborg's dark eyes glittered as he closed the folder he was reading and set it atop the data monitor on the corner of his desk. As he looked up to see Phelan and Tyra holding hands, his scarred face openly displayed his anger.

"I trust you found our accommodations to your liking, Herr Kell." Sarcasm laced Miraborg's deep, rich voice.

Phelan straightened up as though his body didn't hurt at all. "Room service is less than stellar, but the complimentary massages were great fun. And I also enjoyed teaching the cockroaches to do tricks."

Miraborg's head came up. "Indeed? And how is that done?"

Phelan laughed. "It's not hard. First off, though, you have to be smarterthan the cockroach."

As the mercenary's cut hit home, Miraborg's eyes glowed with anger. "Be careful, Herr Kell, that someone doesn't mistake youfor a cockroach. And here, cockroaches often get stepped on and crushed!"

Miraborg rolled himself back from the desk, bringing his wheelchair into view. The sight of it killed Phelan's cruel riposte before he could vocalize it, but Tyra and the Varldherre read it in his eyes. No, Phelan, don't...

Miraborg's eyes narrowed to black slits in a pinched face. "That's right, Kell. I cannot do the stepping and crushing, but it's the fault of your kind that I cannot! I did not hire you mercenaries to protect us from the Periphery pirates, nor did I welcome your presence on myworld!"

"Ha!" Phelan's explosive laugh echoed off the glass wall behind Miraborg. "You wanted us here, all right. You wanted us right here on your world so you could torment us. You could have given us the liquid helium we needed to repair the Cucamulusthe second we showed up in your system and blew that seal. I stood here in this office when Captain Wilson made her request, but you said that you couldn't give us the helium because it was a strategic stockpile—even though we offered to pay for it and replace it!"

Miraborg's chest swelled with outrage. "Who are you to question me? Your history of disrespect for authority and lack of responsibility is disgraceful. You were thrown out of the Nagelring for dereliction of duty and you have logged more violations of the curfew and quarantine restrictions on this planet than everyone else in your unit combined."

Miraborg leaned back, steepling his fingers. "I'm glad you liked teaching cockroaches tricks, Kell, because you'll have plenty of time to do it."

Phelan scoffed at the older man. "We're leaving today."

The Varldherre shook his head. "The Kell Hounds are leaving today, but you'll not be with them. You'll be bound over for trial."

"No!" Tyra's voice filled the room and shocked both men to silence. "No, you will not bind Phelan over for trial."

Betrayal threaded through Miraborg's voice. "How dare you speak to me in that tone?"

Tyra took a deep breath and approached the man in the wheelchair. "I dare, Father, to prevent you from doing something that would disgrace you and Gunzburg."

Muscles bunched at Miraborg's jaws. "How could I be more disgraced than to have my daughter sleeping with the same scum that crippled me?"

Tyra's slap rocked Tor Miraborg's head back, and she stood staring down at her father. How could you? How could you imagine that I would intentionally do anything to hurt you?She turned and walked away from him, immediately aware that Phelan had taken several steps in her direction. Though she desperately wanted to feel his arms around her, she held out a hand to keep him back.

Her father's voice, softer and uncertain, reached out to her. "I'm sorry, truly sorry, Tyra. I didn't think."

Inside her, it was as if a dam broke, but somehow she held back the torrent of emotions. "Phelan, please leave us." She did nothing to keep the strain from her voice.

Her father's tone had regained its edge, too. "Yes, Kell, leave us. The charges against you will be dropped," he said, reaching into a desk drawer. "Oh, and I believe these are yours." The clatter of plastic and metal bouncing across the desktop brought Tyra around to see Phelan's sunglasses roll to a stop beside the monitor.

Phelan's hands convulsed into fists. "You bastard! The people who attacked me took those from me last night. You know who they are."

Miraborg shook his head nonchalantly in a sham denial of the charge. "I know nothing about that. These were turned in to me by a good citizen wanting to make sure you left nothing behind here on Gunzburg." He gave the glasses a push in Phelan's direction.

Phelan glanced at Tyra, then shook his head. "No, Miraborg. You keep them. To the victor go the spoils. You've won this round, but someday I'll come back for them."

Miraborg laughed harshly. "You do that."

The mercenary turned, then rested his hands on Tyra's shoulders. "I'm sorry the way things turned out, but I'll never regret what we had." He kissed her on the forehead and then was gone.

As the door shut behind Phelan, her father smiled coldly. "Good. Now things can return to normal around here."

Despite her pain and hurt, Tyra kept her voice even. "I don't think so, Father." She felt a great sense of relief, knowing she was doing this for herself, not to hurt him. "I will be leaving Gunzburg."

"What!" He shot a horrified glance at the door. "I thought ... You cannot go with them, Tyra. I will not allow it! How could you do this to me?"

With each word, she saw her father growing smaller and smaller. You've been living with hatred for so long, Father, that it's become part of you, like something in your blood that rules you."Not to worry, Father, the great Tor Miraborg did not lose a contest of wills with a mere mercenary. I am not joining the Kell Hounds, though their offer did sorely tempt me. I am too much your daughter to do that."

Miraborg's eyes narrowed. "If that were true, my daughter, you'd not have taken up with him in the first place."

She stared at him in disbelief. "You still don't understand, do you? I met Phelan at the Allt Ingar the night Lars Pehkonin played there. Neither of us knew anything about the other. And if we had, our prejudices would have made us bitter enemies from the start. How could a mercenary let himself be attracted to the daughter of Gunzburg's Iron Jarl? Especially someone like Phelan? He and Lars talked about music and about building synthesizers and whole universes of things that being here on Gunzburg denies me. I only learned his first name that night, but I thought of him often until we met again.

"It wasn't until two weeks later, when the Kell Hounds were formally introduced to the Eagles, that I learned Phelan's real identity. Neither one of us expected things to develop the way they did, but neither did we try to prevent it. When Captain Wilson offered me a place in the Kell Hounds, I knew that I couldn't accept it. What surprised me, though, was the intensity of my desire to leave Gunzburg."

Her father's face had gone ashen. "Why? I've always tried to make things good for you."

Tyra looked at her father sympathetically. "Yes, Father, you have, especially after mother died. You've been loving and considerate, but you've also changed."

Miraborg caressed the steel chair that served as his legs. "I had to adapt after the incident."

Tyra nodded. "I know, but that was only the beginning of the change. You became stronger, accepted more authority and responsibility."

"Someone had to do it." He turned to look out the glass wall behind him. "Chaos came with independence. With the Kurita administrators gone, every half-wit with a vision of Utopia staked out a new nation and declared himself emperor for life." He took in all of Stortalar City with a wave of his left hand. "There were constant food shortages and riots. I had to do something."

"I remember, Father. I remember being proud of you when you went out one morning saying you would restore order. People rallied around you, as well they should have, and you reestablished order ..."

Miraborg cringed and said the next word for her: "But ..."

"Yes, but,"Tyra repeated. "You became a symbol. People looked to you to lead them and they adopted your cares and concerns. Because they thought you hated mercenaries, they hate mercenaries. No, don't look away. I remember, Father. I remember that you didn't blame allmercenaries for your wounding, and once you even told me that Colonel Vinson had been right to pull his Vigilantes out when the terms of his contract had been met. There was once a time when you recognized that fact."

Tyra shook his head. "You're smart enough to know that a leader must be attuned to his people, but you let their feelings and impressions affect you. Because of their hatred of mercenaries, your own hate seemed to become even greater. You championed the necessity of sacrifice in the name of our fledgling nation and you became a model anyone would be proud to follow. Unfortunately, you also revel in perversions of that symbol."

She pointed to the scar on the left side of his face. "Young men and women maim themselves to look like you and proclaim their willingness to sacrifice themselves for Gunzburg as you did." Her right hand brushed a tear from her unblemished left cheek. "I have never done it because I hoped you already knew how much our world and our nation mean to me without any melodramatic display."

An air of defeat hung over Tor Miraborg as he nodded slowly. "I didthink that before all of this."He turned his chair and faced her. "Now you say you are leaving. How will it look to the people that my daughter has deserted me?"

"Fear not, Father. I will make you proud." She straightened up. "I have requested and been granted a transfer to the First Rasalhague Drakøns."

The hint of a smile graced her father's lips. "The Prince's Honor Guard ..."

Tyra nodded solemnly. "Yes, a promotion that should make you proud. Again you sacrifice part of your life for the greater good of Free Rasalhague. Anika Janssen is going with me." She glanced at the mirrored sunglasses on his desk. "I imagine you will promote Hanson Kuusik to replace me.

Tor Miraborg looked at the glasses, then lowered his eyes in shame. "Will you ever come home?"

Home is where the heart is,Tyra thought and winced to realize she no longer considered Gunzburg her home. "I don't know. I have much to think about, much to see. Perhaps someday you'll understand."

Tyra waited for her father to speak, but the emotions playing across his face seemed too much. He stared up at her, then closed his eyes and turned his chair away so she could not see him weep.

Having burned her last bridge on Gunzburg, the Iron Jarl's daughter left the world of her birth.