Текст книги "Natural Selection"

Автор книги: Michael A. Stackpole

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

Victor seemed to accept Dan's explanation. "You know, of course, that I believe you will respond valorously to any attempts the Clans make to advance. I also know you would never accept a contract that would put you in conflict with the Federated Commonwealth."

Chris arched an eyebrow. "But?"

"But I would like to be able to reward such loyalty with the sort of contract a unit like the Kell Hounds deserves. You and the Dragoons helped win the battle that otherwise would have ended the Inner Sphere's chances for survival. Since then both units have dealt with internal problems and I suppose I just don't like to think of the Federated Commonwealth facing an enemy without its strongest allies alongside."

Dan winked at the Prince. "We're here, Highness. This is our home and all the money in the universe couldn't make us fight any harder to defend it."

3

Pasig Pirate Point

 Federated Commonwealth

15 April 3055

 

Nelson Geist felt thankful to be out of the hellhole of a hold in which he had been confined, but, unlike other members of the work detail, he avoided making himself conspicuous. It wasn't that he didn't understand what the others were trying to do. By showing that they were cooperative workers and not troublemakers, his comrades obviously hoped that the bandits would not send them back to the crowded, stinking confinement bay once they'd finished the job of offloading the DropShip Tigress.

Nelson wrapped his half-hand around the edge of the noteputer and tucked it tightly into his left elbow. Holding the stylus in his right hand he hit the appropriate icons as the crew pulled crates from the DropShip's hold. Despite the very light gravity aboard the nearly motionless JumpShip, the bandits had decided that Nelson's injury made him useless for hauling boxes. And after noticing that a couple of captured reservists treated him with deference, a bandit had made him supervisor of the work party.

Nelson kept to himself, answering questions and acknowledging comments with only a grunt or a nod so that the rest of the loading crew would not think he was basking in the glory of doing no work. Soon, though, he became absorbed in the job he'd been given as the disturbing nature of the loot attracted all his attention.

The steel manacle on his right wrist clicked against the plastic case of the noteputer as he continuously punched in the icons. His mutilated hand had almost gotten him shot when the squad of bandit infantry pulled Nelson from the cockpit of his 'Mech because they assumed it would make him useless. But then an order quickly came through that he was to be taken alive, no matter what his condition. The bandits had shoved him and a number of other survivors into a DropShip, which then delivered them to the JumpShip, where they were stripped, deloused, dressed in sleeveless olive jumpsuits, and manacled at the wrists.

Nelson knew, from the first, that the manacle served no practical purpose, for it had no link for attaching it to a chain. When another of the prisoners suggested that the seamless band of steel might conceal listening and tracking devices, the prisoners began to limit most communication in the holding pen to crude sign language. Nelson half-smiled as he recalled Spider whispering that "the Kommandant has a bit of an accent," because of his mutilated hand.

Nelson glanced up and saw that the offloading was proceeding very well. Because the JumpShip was moving very slowly, acceleration gave it only a hint of mock-gravity. It was no problem for even the leanest prisoner to move huge boxes of loot, each with a code stenciled in black on the wooden slats. As each box left the DropShip hold, Nelson punched the icon with the appropriate code. Though his screen gave him no totals, he knew very well what they were.

Munitions, though they were not identified as such, were stored in one area of the DropShip bay. He'd seen enough similar arrangements throughout his career as a MechWarrior. A fair amount of explosives and ammunition had come aboard, but Nelson noted that most seemed suitable for small arms or demolitions. The distinctive and mammoth crates for BattleMech missiles and autocannon ammunition were definitely not part of the boxes being unloaded from this ship.

By far the most numerous items were foodstuffs. The stenciled codes on those boxes were equally uninformative, but the cardboard cartons were emblazoned with the manufacturer and product names.. The food he had been served while a prisoner was easily recognizable as stuff taken from Kooken's Pleasure Pit.

It had been easy to figure out the stencil code for miscellaneous items. As rarely as he hit the Miscellaneous icon, Nelson noticed that none of those crates appeared to be the same size or shape or weight. The bandits had apparently struck swiftly and scattered the battalion of Twelfth Deneb Light Cavalry defending an industrial complex. They'd had time to loot the complex before reinforcements arrived, but the high-tech machine tools, computers, lostech, industrial grade gems, and other traditional spoils of such a raid were nowhere to be seen. Instead they'd taken only a smattering of jewelry and art objects, which now dotted the ship's hold. Nothing of value compared to the expense of conducting such an operation.

With what I'm thinking, I'mpraying more treasure or something of real worth comes up.

Out the corner of his eye Nelson caught the motion of the bandit guards straightening up, but it wasn't until the work party suddenly fell silent that he turned to look. When he did, Nelson was as transfixed as the rest of the prisoners by the sight of the woman standing to his right on the catwalk overlooking the DropShip bay.

There was no question that she was beautiful. Red hair fell to her shoulders and down her back. With her long limbs and lithe figure, even the bulky cooling vest could not make her look dowdy. Her sharp features made him mindful of a fox, and her violet eyes shone with animal cunning.

Yet it was more than her physical attributes that drew his attention. It was true that the skintight shorts revealed her legs and the shape of her buttocks to good advantage, but her stance cut off any glimmering of sexual fantasies that might arise. She stood with one elbow cupped in the hand of the other arm, pulling softly on her lower lip with the thumb and index finger of her free hand. Her eyes flicked from man to man in the work crew, evaluating and dismissing each one in an instant. As her gaze wandered from one prisoner to the next down below, each seemed to shrink away, his dreams and hopes dying with her judgment of them.

Then she looked at Nelson. He felt a jolt as their stares met, an electric ripple that crystallized as fear in his gut. At the same time it ignited in him a lust unlike any he had ever known. He had loved Jon's mother deeply, passionately, but he had never desiredher in this way. He felt as if, cell by cell, his DNA screamed for union with this woman's genetic material.

He waited for her to look away, but she did not. With every second that her gaze continued, Nelson feared she would pass him by, and at the same time, he desperately wanted her to dismiss him as she had the others. Mechanically, he punched icons as crates began to move again from the DropShip.

She walked toward him. Coming closer, her steady military tread devouring the distance between them, she let her boots click sharply against the catwalk grating. She was as tall as he was and must have been about half his forty-seven years. She did not smile, but the way she eyed him brought self-conscious color to his cheeks.

"You were the one in the BattleMaster, quiaff?"

Nelson nodded.

She took the noteputer from him and set it down. Grabbing his left hand, she forced it open and pressed it against her own right palm. The last two fingers on her hand curled down and around over the scars. Her flesh seemed unnaturally pale against his, and the scars on his hands looked almost like tendrils curling out from her fingers.

She kept his hand in hers for a bit longer than he felt comfortable, then she released it. "How long?"

"Almost four years."

She pursed her lips for a moment, then stared at him like a cobra. "I could get you repaired. You could re-grow those fingers."

Nelson tried to suppress a reaction, but a thrill shook him. All the things he had lost since his maiming in the Clan invasion, everything he had blamed on the loss of his fingers, flashed before him. He could have his command back. He would be respected again. Even Jon . . .

He realized his error as her lips peeled back in a cruel smile. "I would have done that, were you a warrior."

Nelson swallowed hard and straightened up. "Were I a warrior, I'd be dead, quiaff?"

His use of a Clan word seem to surprise her, but her smile did not change so he could not be sure if that was good or bad. She looked him up and down again, then turned and pointed at the next-nearest prisoner on the bay deck below. "You, replace him."

In one leap Spider bounded up the ladder to the catwalk. He picked up the noteputer, and Nelson silently passed him the stylus. Spider gave him a wink, the silent prison argot sign for "things are looking up." Nelson nodded, then looked at the Red Corsair and waited.

She let him wait. She raked him with her gaze, letting it linger on his loins and then his maimed hand, clearly seeking a reaction. He fought to keep his face impassive, and computed mentally the exponential values of 2 to distract his thoughts. His effort, though successful, only seemed to heighten her interest.

"Follow me." She turned and walked back to the hatchway.

He trailed behind her, his concentration flagging for an instant as he noticed the sensual sway of her hips as she walked. Two times 32768 is 65536. Two times 65536 is 131072.... He refocused his eyes on the mass of red hair trailing down to the middle of her back and kept multiplying numbers in his head.

The Red Corsair stepped through the hatchway, then closed it behind him. She turned to a communications monitor and opened a line to the bridge. The commtech sat straight up in her seat when she saw who it was in the monitor. "Yes, Captain?"

The Red Corsair tucked a stray hair behind one ear. "ETA for the last DropShip?"

"One minute, sir."

"Good. When it attaches, increase our velocity to 1.2 gravities. When we reach the jump point, we will go out."

"Understood. Helm out."

Nelson frowned. Increasing the acceleration would make unloading the DropShip far more difficult than it currently was. It made no sense to increase speed unless there was some sort of in-system defense or pursuit.

"You are concerned for your friends, quiaff?"

"As you are for your people."

"Good, some of your spirit returns." She reached out and took his maimed hand in hers, then led him down the corridor to a central core of elevators. The doors opened when she pressed the button on the wall. They both entered the box and she selected a deck.

The box started to move and Nelson's legs almost collapsed. His weakness surprised him, then he realized the ship had begun its acceleration. Grabbing the elevator handrail, he pulled himself erect. He glanced at the Red Corsair, but saw no reaction, no sign that she had even noticed his problem.

The elevator stopped at an upper deck and they exited when the doors opened. Nelson followed her to a cabin door, then into the cabin. The door slid shut behind him and she used a wall switch to bring up the lights.

He felt a moment's surprise when he realized she had brought him to her private stateroom, but that died fast. The instant the lights went on, Nelson felt as though he had wandered into a set designed for a bandit leader in some potboiler holovid. Lurid reds, golds, and purples dominated the room, with the gold coming mostly from chains and lamps and little items that were beautiful but probably chosen at whim while stalking through a shattered enemy's stronghold. Brocaded and embroidered scarves hung from lamps, staining the light with red tones. Crystal bottles half-filled with multi-colored liquors stood racked in a sideboard.

The room was the Red Corsair and yet it was not. From all that Nelson had observed during his two months with the bandit band, he knew that most of them were Clanners—probably members who had gone rogue. What struck him now, however, was the fact that such gaudy but rich surroundings were totally out of character for someone born of the Clans. Mementoes of battles, trophies from past victories, he could have accepted, but not this self-indulgent and extravagant display. Again he had the same vision of a holovid director creating these quarters to emphasize the romantic side of the Red Corsair for a cheap mini-series.

Suddenly the truth hit him right between the eyes. All the prisoners had long since agreed that thisRed Corsair must have named herself after the legendary pirate who, almost fifty years before, had cut a bloody swath through Free Worlds League planets near the Periphery and the Lyran border. Some had argued that the original Red Corsair could have stayed young by maintaining her ship's travel at a significant percentage of the speed of light, and thus could, in fact, be thisRed Corsair.

But seeing this room, Nelson saw that fanciful idea exploded faster than a back-shot Rifleman.He couldn't prove it, of course, but this room bore too much resemblance to those he'd seen in many a late-night holovid he'd watched while stationed up and down the Federated Commonwealth. Granting that this Red Corsair wasClan, and that the role had been specifically chosen for some reason, it made sense that whoever had put together the sham would use holovids as source material. Where else would a Clanner go for information about the ways of people of the Inner Sphere?

And that, he decided, was why the picture didn't fit the frame.

The Red Corsair looked at him. "You think too much."

"Does it matter what I think?"

She grabbed him by the right wrist and twisted the manacle until it bit into his flesh. "Do you know what this is?"

"I had heard that when the Clans take a bondsman, they bind his right wrist with a bondcord."

"And when a bondsman is accepted into a different caste, the bondcord is cut in a ceremony." She let his hand fall down to his side, and he felt blood begin to rush back into the flesh. "Steel does not cut."

"Then I am a slave?"

She shook her head. "You are a prize of war. If I thought you had value, I would ransom you."

"It appears, then, that I will remain a prize. No one will pay for a maimed warrior."

The Red Corsair's eyes flashed with a light that might have been amusement. "Oh, I know they would not pay for your hand." She reached out and lightly cuffed his right temple. "On the other hand, they would pay handsomely for your thoughts. Tell me what you have decided about us. Do not lie. I will know if you do."

"You have more loot in this cabin than was offloaded from Pasig." Nelson glanced away as she began unlacing the cooling vest. "The equipment, the personnel, and the speech of everyone I have met here tell me that you are all Clan. All the slaves in the group with me are from Kooken's Pleasure Pit, so I assume you took no slaves before that. The supplies you bring up from the world are enough to feed the slaves, so I also assume we can be jettisoned into space as situations demand it."

She shrugged her way out of the cooling vest. Muscles rippled on her stomach and a droplet of sweat coursed down between her breasts. "Your powers of observation are to be commended." She turned away from him—not out of modesty, he was certain—to reach into a closet for a short kimono of amethyst silk. "You have drawn conclusions about us, quiaff?"she asked, pulling the kimono closed and knotting it with a golden sash.

"I have."

Her hair rippled down in a veil as she bent to unfasten the clasps of her boots. "Tell me."

"Your 'Mechs are configured with energy weapons and made to look like those a bandit group would use. Your demands for munitions are low. You are prepared for extended operations in areas where resupply could be a problem."

She stepped out of the boots and put them in the closet. Reaching under the kimono's hem, she snaked off the thigh-length spandex shorts she had been wearing and tossed them into the closet before closing it. "From this you have decided. . . ?"

Nelson shook his head. "I know only that you are engaged in raiding."

The Red Corsair looked hard at him. Then her eyes narrowed as she allowed herself a self-satisfied grin. "Very well. You know too much to be freed, but not enough that I must kill you. I will keep you until I break you."

Nelson suddenly felt himself the mouse to her cat. "Breaking me will not be hard."

"You underestimate yourself." She focused distantly for a second, then nodded. "I will begin by having them regrow your fingers, I think."

Nelson frowned but said nothing.

"Do you know why? Not so I can take them again, I assure you. If it was at Wotan that you lost them, I might have been the one who did it to you," She smiled broadly at that thought, but Nelson restrained his immediate angry response. "No, I will start the regrowth because it is something you desire and for which you will be grateful, but it is me you will have to thank. But with all the rest I will do to you, that sense of gratitude will strike sparks off your hatred for me until someday it will burn you alive."

Later, when he returned to the holding pen, Nelson flopped down on his bunk. From across the narrow aisle, Spider tapped him on the shoulder and drew a question mark in the dimly lit air.

Nelson stabbed a thumb into the center of his chest, described a quick circle with a flick of his wrist, then pointed with two fingers at the external hull. He nodded once, confidently, then let his head sink back against the mushy pillow.

Spider winked at him and nodded twice, letting Nelson know he'd gotten the message, even with the accent problem.

Nelson stared up at the black bulkhead above him. It's decided. When the opportunity presents itself, I'm out of here.

4

Arc-Royal

Donegal March, Federated Commonwealth

15 April 3055

 

Victor Davion did not take it as a good sign that he arrived at the small meeting room only to find Phelan already seated behind the computer terminal at the far end of the table. Hovering over his shoulder like a ghost was a white-robed ComStar Precentor, who nodded to the Prince. They had not yet met, but Victor knew this was Special Liaison Klaus Hettig, the official representative of Anastasius Focht, Precentor Martial of ComStar. Focht was the one who had issued the actual invitation to the meeting, Victor's true reason for coming to Arc-Royal.

The Prince stretched, then headed directly for the insulated pitcher of coffee on the table beside the door. He glanced at a sweet pastry while pouring himself a cup, but his stomach flip-flopped at the thought of that much sugar so early in the morning. He was tired, the toll of travel finally catching up with him, but even the promise of an energy boost could not make the idea of food appealing.

Phelan looked up from the keyboard, his green eyes bright. "Good morning, Highness. I've been reviewing some of the reports from Pasig. Your sources are verythorough. My compliments."

My sources?Victor frowned. "That information is in files that your father assured me would be secure."

The Clan Khan smiled far too easily. "And they probably are, from most people. But, remember, I spent most of my youth here." He patted the computer console. "I know ways into this computer system that no one else even dreams exist."

The ComStar Precentor moved away from Phelan and checked the room's door. "Khan Phelan is correct. Your information is excellent—up to a standard to which ComStar might also aspire."

Right! ComStar controls communication between the stars and actuallysent the messages that provided the data in the files Phelan has cracked. I'd be a fool if I thought ComStar had not already gone over them and supplemented them with their own material.The Prince nodded and sat down at the opposite end of the table. He dimly recalled that the charges against Phelan during his honor trial at the Nagelring had involved his using the Nagelring's computers to break into the Department of Defense's computers to steal information. Victor sipped his coffee and immediately felt the weight of sleep lifting from his brain. "Having the Kell Hounds' computer system compromised by a member of the Wolf Clan is not comforting, though your assessment of our data does soften the blow, Precentor."

Hettig did not react to the sarcasm in Victor's voice. "Please, Prince Victor, do not take offense. You would have showed the Khan the data any way. After all, you did agree to cooperate when you came here."

Victor shrugged, then frowned. "Why amI here? Why is he here?"

The Precentor smiled benignly. "The reason weare here is to discuss our mutual concern over bandit raids– specifically the Red Corsair."

Victor set his cup down. "She is strictly nuisance material. I have militaryunits to worry about coming from Clan space to hit our planets. Morges got hammered by the Clans harder than Kooken's or Pasig."

"Jade Falcons and Steel Vipers, Victor, not allthe Clans," Phelan corrected him.

"There's a difference?" As Victor began to feel more awake, he found Phelan's calm superiority and ComStar's passive manipulation irritating.

Phelan nodded slowly. "Perhaps the next time the Combine strikes from Wolcott you will want the ilKhan to complain to you about it. The Jade Falcons are distinct and quite separate from the Wolf Clan."

"Point taken," Victor allowed, then he looked accusingly at Hettig. "Why is ComStar concerned about bandits when they've let the Jade Falcons and the Steel Vipers raid the Federated Commonwealth above the truce line? Why the need for this meeting? I'm taking a lot of heat from Ryan Steiner and his mouthpieces for guaranteeing a Wolf Khan safe passage here, and it doesn't help matters that he's dragged Ragnar with him."

"ComStar appreciates your difficulties and your efforts on our behalf." The ComStar Precentor smiled. "We would not have asked you to go to these extraordinary lengths were the problem not so grave. These are not ordinary bandits, Prince Victor."

"They got lucky."

"Twice,they got lucky, Victor." Phelan leaned back, but Victor saw concern flash through his green eyes. "Hear the Precentor out. The Precentor Martial was able to convince the ilKhan that enough was at stake to have us meet here under cover of my father's retirement celebration."

Victor nodded, knowing the Precentor Martial's reasoning had been sufficient to convince his mother to send him to Arc-Royal. "To what are these bandits such a threat?"

"The truce, Prince Victor, the truce between ComStar and the Clans." Hettig folded his hands together, but the movement was so stiff that Victor knew it was a deliberate effort by the man to maintain his placid facade.

"How can bandits threaten the peace?" Victor looked down into his nearly empty coffee cup and waited for the caffeine to clear up his fuzzy thinking. "They are just bandits. They raid and they run. If the Grave Walkers could have gotten around from the other side of Kooken's just two hours sooner, we would be talking about the Red Corsair in the past tense."

Phelan shook his head. "You have been looking at the reports of bandit raids and been dismissing them because what you see jibes with what you believe about bandits. Your experience with them is not personal. Perhaps I see matters differently because I once hunted bandits in the service of the Federated Commonwealth. What I'm trying to say is thai our information shows that a very lucky bandit group got away with some spoils, most of it not terribly valuable. By any analysis, Kooken got off light-it lost no industrial assets, damned little in the way of loot, and was not conquered."

The Prince nodded. "I remember the numbers. The raiders took food and some slaves. You can't shoot enemies with cans of soup."

Hettig nodded. "But you also remember another old saying, Prince Victor, 'An army marches on its stomach.' "

"But those bandits are hardly the armies of Napoleon, Precentor Hettig," Victor snapped, then downed the last swallow of his coffee to give himself a chance to calm down. Having heard enough whispers that he had a "Napoleon complex" because of his small physical stature, he couldn't help but wonder if the allusion was meant as a subtle rebuke. ComStar is nothing if not subtle.

"That is true, Prince Victor, but to date they have not found a Waterloo."

The Prince snorted. "Then I will play Wellington for them." He glanced at Phelan. "If you can persuade the ilKhan to keep the Jade Falcons in line, I will bring my Revenants up and we'll pound the Corsair."

Phelan shook his head. "The Jade Falcons would ignore that sort of request, even if the ilKhan were foolish enough to make it."

"Does the ilKhan even want the bandits stopped?"

The ComStar Precentor and Phelan both looked at him quizzically. "What do you mean, Prince Victor? The ilKhan sent Khan Phelan to Arc-Royal precisely for the purpose of discussing the means to do just that."

"Really?" Victor put down his empty cup. "You both agreed that my information was good. Do either of you dispute the fact that the Red Corsair retreated into Jade Falcon territory after the strike on Kooken's? That would have been a perfect opportunity to resupply a covert force."

"Unworthy, Victor. We have had raiding on both sides and no unit has seen the need to strike from behind a false identity."

Hettig nodded in agreement with Phelan. "Determining the unit's identity is also immaterial at this point because the perception of its origins is doing more harm to the peace than anything else."

"I do not understand, Precentor." Victor stood and refilled his cup. "How can perceptions do more damage than the fighting?"

Hettig drew in a deep breath. "There are elements within the Tamar and Skye communities who believe that the Red Corsair bandits are a covert unit in the employ of the Federated Commonwealth government. They say the bandits are actually a death squad whose mission is to destroy those who oppose the union between the old Steiner holdings and House Davion."

"Ryan Steiner again works overtime to manufacture rumors." Victor shook his head. "That whole idea is, of course, preposterous."

"Of course, but humanity's fascination with conspiracies makes it intriguing. In this scenario, which is helped by the fact that the Kooken's raid damaged facilities owned by a Ryan Steiner supporter, the raids will continue until you or your brother Peter can be positioned as the hero who stops them. It would be a replay of the role Ryan himself played in the 3034 uprising."

The Prince nodded. "And, I suppose, others think the Red Corsair is a unit being funded by Ryan Steiner to build up the tensions along the border. As he champions the cause of the oppressed people out here, and uses a mercenary unit to destroy the bandits, he gains a great deal of popularity."

The Wolf Khan smiled. "Ryan calls the bandits a Clan unit running covertly, and uses the fear of the Jade Falcons to keep his people united and dependent on him for security. He isolates you as someone who does not care for the people. Should your mother ever step down as Archon, he will be a viable and powerful rival opposing you."

Victor chewed his lower lip. "And all this infighting will sap our strength and make us look very vulnerable to the Jade Falcons, who might then decide to launch multiple strikes over the line, destroying the peace."

The ComStar Precentor nodded appreciatively. "You two have distilled in minutes what it took weeks for ComStar's analysts to conclude."

"And the solution is to kill the bandits." Victor again sat down. "Despite your worries about Ryan, my Revenants can do the job."

"There is no doubt about that, Prince Victor, but ComStar has something else in mind." Hettig looked up and his eyes focused distantly. "As I indicated before, this is an atypical bandit unit. If you look beyond the battle-damage assessments for Kooken, what you find is that the bandits are using energy weapons almost exclusively."

Victor shrugged. "Bandits work with what they can get."

"You're missing the point, cousin. I pilot a Wolfhound.When my father designed it, he armed it with lasers. He did so because he wanted to create a scout lance of 'Mechs able to operate beyond the line of supplies, in the enemy's rear area. Because the 'Mech has no need for missiles and autocannon ammo, the only limitation on its operation was the pilot's need for food and water."

"As the Khan says, the Red Corsair has her bandits configured for a campaign in which food will become the most important factor for success."

Hence the Napoleon quote.Victor felt a shiver run down his spine. "I see what you're saying. But I can mobilize enough force to track her and kill her."

"ComStar knows and appreciates that, but we have another suggestion." Hettig looked at Phelan. "Khan Phelan?"

Phelan nodded, and Victor got the distinct feeling he had been set up. "The ilKhan has authorized me to offer you the use of a Clan unit to hunt these bandits down."

Victor blinked. "What?"

"We have units devoted specifically to dealing with bandits." Phelan smiled complacently. "The ilKhan will impress upon the Jade Falcons the need to destroy these Corsairs."

"That is most generous." Victor again gulped coffee to recover from his surprise. "Does he make this offer because he doesn't want Inner Sphere troops going after bandits in Clan space?" Or because ComStar is holding some sort of gun to his head?

"Partly. With the Red Corsair operating from Jade Falcon space, he could not guarantee the safety of any Inner Sphere units that crossed the line." Victor's tall cousin got up from his end of the table to refill his coffee. "More important, though, the Jade Falcon Clan is very much against the truce. They believe it robbed them of the chance to regain the honor they lost in the early fighting."

Назад к карточке книги "Natural Selection"