Текст книги "Natural Selection"

Автор книги: Michael A. Stackpole

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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. "Allof 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 fuguor 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 tourist 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.

Evantha leaped up from the floor and at the gunman. The table rolled on past just in time for Chris to watch an overhand right fist crush the shotgunner's face. He went down immediately and Evantha snapped his fowling gun across her knee.

Chris kicked the pistol away from the downed woman's left hand and saw Ragnar standing over an unconscious woman. He sucked at his bruised knuckles, then stabbed the bloody knife into the floor between him and Evantha. "One escaped, Star Captain. I will pursue him, if you wish."

Evantha shook her head as Olaf came out of the back. "I have called the constabulary. My Prince, are you hurt?"

Ragnar withheld his right hand from Olaf. "No, it is nothing."

"Easy, Ragnar. Olaf didn't bring these people here. The one with the shotgun was one of the two who were in here earlier." Chris nodded to Olaf. "I have no doubt Olaf s word was good despite his desire to let others know you were here. He's a responsible man, a keystone here in the refugee community."

Ragnar nodded slowly, his stern expression softening only slightly. He knelt and picked up his severed bond-cord. "Is what he says true, Olaf?"

"Yes, my Prince."

"Then I believe it." His blue eyes became like chips of ice as he narrowed them. "I charge you with a duty, then, Goodman Olaf. I am hurt, and I require you to aid me."

"Anything, Highness."

"My hurt is not physical, Olaf, but it cuts deep and goes to the heart. To my heart and to the heart of the Rasalhagian people. Carry this message for me to everyone." Ragnar toed the dead leader's body. "Let it be known that I am hurt to think we believe freedom can be bought with the blood of friends."

12

Arc-Royal

Federated Commonwealth

17 April 3055

 

Victor grinned unconsciously as he watched Morgan Kell walk across the dais to the podium. The warrior took his place without revealing the weaknesses one would expect of a man who had lived more than two-thirds of a century. Except for the increasing proportion of white in the mercenary leader's hair and beard, Victor would have said Morgan had not aged at all.

The Prince set his fork down beside his half-eaten cake and smiled at Omi, seated across from him at the round table. She returned the smile, then respectfully turned in her chair to face the speaker. Katherine—Victor refused to think of her as Katrina for reasons he could not nail down—whispered a comment to her dinner companion that elicited a polite chuckle, then they both fell silent as Morgan adjusted the microphone up toward his mouth.

"I would like to thank you all for coming here. I know, of course, that the Kell Hounds have been in existence for forty-five years, but it was not until I saw everyone gathered here—Hounds past, present, and future—that the enormity of that time fully struck me. And I am certain all our hearts carry memories of many others we wish could be here tonight. But I think ... I know . . . they are here in spirit."

Looking around the large banquet hall, Victor was impressed at the number of people who had come to witness Morgan's retirement. Most of the guests were former or current Kell Hounds and their friends and families, but that was not all. Omi Kurita and Shin Yodama were representative of former enemies or employers who had come to honor Morgan. Even Thomas Marik of the Free Worlds League and the Precentor Martial of ComStar had sent envoys, and a number of Brothers from St. Marinus House had left their monastery to attend.

Morgan smiled at his audience and looked a little embarrassed. "As some of you know, this is the third time I have retired from the Kell Hounds. The first time was without this sort of fanfare. My leaving became known as "the Defection" among those who remained with the unit. During that time my brother Patrick took over leadership of the Kell Hounds and further improved on what was already an ace unit. To my eternal regret he died to preserve the Kell Hounds during my time of self-imposed exile."

The white-haired man paused for a moment and Victor felt a sympathetic lump in his throat. Though Patrick Kell had died several years before his own birth, Victor had always hoped in some magical, mystical way that the courage and compassion his mother described in Patrick had somehow been reincarnated in him. As he grew older, he realized the idea was pure fantasy, but it had still driven him to push himself hard.

"Being ever the master of timing, I returned to the Hounds and recalled many of you to us just in time for the Fourth Succession War. The Seventh Sword of Light dulled itself on us and the Genyosha learned they were very good, but so were we. The Third Dieron Regulars paid a price for arrogance that I had hoped, once and for all, would act as a beacon to warn others about the futility of war.

"To my regret it did not. In 3039 we answered yet another call to war, and again acquitted ourselves admirably. Throughout the next ten years, we did the same again and again, which has made me proud that my family's name is linked with the Hounds. However, you accomplished those great things without me because, in 3042, I retired for the second time and took my nephew, Christian, to Outreach for training."

Morgan looked over to where Chris sat at the head table, and sketched a salute to him. Chris returned it, and mild laughter rippled through the group. "I even managed to stay away when the Clans first invaded. Colonel Allard and his staff were more than adept in plotting the course of the Kell Hounds. In concert with the Tenth Lyran Guards and the Ninth FedCom RCT, we handed the Jade Falcons their first clear defeat—and that gave them something to think about as they wandered off to choose their new ilKhan.

"Then I came out of retirement at the urging of Jaime Wolf, who persuaded me that the Clans had to be stopped at all costs. I was there, with you, as we stood side by side with the Genyosha and the Dragon's Claws, fighting to preserve the capital of the realm that has been our long-time enemy. I remember well the loud and long bitch sessions about how our old comrades would be spinning in their graves when we touched down on Luthien. Perhaps they would have been surprised, but I believe those warriors would have given all to help us win rather than be angry at our accepting that assignment."

A number of warriors nodded in agreement. "Why do I believe that? Because I know how warriors think. I know what we hold dear, what we desire, and what we fear. I know our goals and I know what we are willing to surrender to reach them. This is something that each of us who is heart, soul, and body a warrior shares.

"In the popular mind each warrior lives only for combat, like some rabid beast lying in wait for a kill. He is vassal to death, one tooth in the razor-kissed jaws of destruction. Like a vampire, who grows stronger and more savage by sucking up the lives of others."

Morgan took a sip of wine from a glass. "This is what people believe because they never know what it is to live through a battle. They hear us talk about blasting away the head of an Atlaswith a lucky shot. They hear about flanking maneuvers that rout the enemy, or an air-strike that obliterates a portion of his defense. They hear stirring tales of midair dogfights, of heroic efforts to get friends out of the field of fire, and of sacrifices made so others may live. And they hear those stories because those are the stories we choose to share with them.

"All of us know that cold, clutching feeling that rips through you when the enemy is sighted. All of us know the thick, sour taste of fear when our 'Mech is hit or our wingman tells us we have an enemy in our six. In nightmares we relive the terror of an unanswered support call and the grief of seeing a friend fallen where once he stood.

"What we should let everyone know is the truth of the paradox each warrior represents. Though trained in the ways of death, schooled in tactics, and steeped in strategies, the last thing any of us wants is war. We accept our responsibility and willingly do our duty, but we truly wish it would pass us by. Not because we are cowards, but because no one else so fully and deeply understands the consequences of our actions as we do."

More heads nodded around the room. Morgan's words echoed in Victor's heart and found a home there. It is not an easy thing to kill anyone, nor should it ever be so.

"Of all the things I have done with the Kell Hounds there is one act that, were a history of this unit ever written, would only comprise a footnote. On Lyons, in the spring of 3029, we helped to build a small community for refugees from the war. In that action we used our BattleMechs to actually createsomething. Destruction is easy, but creationis difficult. That community was called New Freedom and the reason it will never be more than a footnote is because within six weeks of its creation it became collateral damage."

Morgan let that thought sink in for a moment, then continued. "As I said, creation is hard work. In 3010 I created this unit. In 3027 I recreated it, and over the past three years, after the toll Luthien took on us, I have labored to rebuild the Kell Hounds. Several weeks ago Dan Allard and I agreed the job was done. And so am I– after the third try, I think I got it right.

"So, now with Chris and Caitlin readying themselves to one day assume command, and with Dan and his children coming up to ensure continuity, I leave the Kell Hounds in capable hands."

Morgan hesitated and looked over to where his son and the other visitors from the Clans were seated. "I hope that if the Clans someday decide they have had enough of him, Phelan might find a home here—more so if a Galaxy of his Wolves want to come with him. Surely if we can go to Luthien—the home of an age-old enemy– to defend it against the Smoke Jaguars and Nova Cats, then we can accept a Wolf into our company."

Victor sensed tension build as Morgan spoke about Phelan. No one in the room would have doubted the Kell Hounds' commitment to opposing the Clans were the war to heat up again, yet Morgan's hope that Phelan might be welcomed on Arc-Royal made his audience uneasy. Morgan obviously loved his son and had somehow resolved the conflict between his heart and his duty. Victor also felt a new kinship with Phelan after their talk. I think I would welcome him home were he to come back.

The mercenary leader smiled. "My job here is done, so now my wife and I can retire to the rigors of planetary government and pestering our children to produce children of their own so we can hopelessly spoil some grandchildren."

The elder Kell let the laughter from his remark die down before he concluded his speech. "Let me leave you with one last thought. There are those who would interpret these comments as bolstering their case for utter and total disarmament. They would say that without weapons of mass destruction men would be forced to work with each other to get along. They would urge us to beat our swords into plowshares to give us tools to reverse the destruction/creation problem I have cited.

"As much as I would like to agree with them, this cannot be. Man managed to hurt others before we had swords. In the absence of weapons, fists do damage. In the absence of fists, words do damage, and taking away words would also take away the means for communication we seek as the cure for all mankind's ills.

"In this they are correct: communication, meaningful and respectful communication among equals, is the key to living prosperously and well with one another. This mutual respect can only come when each side knows that it cannot just turn around and take what it wants if it does not get its way in negotiation. When war is the final option that neither side wishes to embrace, communication becomes the only other logical possibility."

Morgan smiled at his audience. "So, thank you all for being friends in the good times and bad. What we have shared, the history we have created, is not ended with my departure. It becomes the foundation for what I know will be a viable and vital future."

Without a thought Victor sprang to his feet applauding, and he was not the first person to do so. The ovation thundered through the hall, and for the first time in all the years he had known Morgan, the mercenary seemed truly at a loss. The applause continued after he sat down and only stopped when Morgan raised a glass in thanks to his guests and shared a wordless toast with them.

The banquet then began to break up. Katherine was doing fine entertaining those at their table without any help from Victor, so he excused himself and left. He debated whether to wade through the crowd of well-wishers surrounding Morgan and his wife Salome, or perhaps head over to the First Regiment's Assembly Hall for dancing, but could decide on neither.

Glancing back at his table, he saw Omi preparing to leave. She pressed Shin back down into his chair as she walked away. Victor caught her eye and headed over in her direction when she smiled at him. "Komban-wa. "

"And to you, Prince Victor." Omi, wearing a black velvet gown trimmed with white lace, had her hair gathered at the back of her head and held in place with a silver comb. "Colonel Kell is a good speaker."

"Why is it that the good ones finish before I am ready to stop listening?" Victor noticed his sister watching him out the corner of her eye, but he chose to ignore her. "Had you thought of going to the dance?"

"I thought it would be correct to do so, but I dread it because I am not well-versed in your styles of dance." Omi clasped her hands together shyly. "Which is greater, the embarrassment of dancing poorly or the rudeness of not attending a function?"

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