Текст книги "Heir To The Dragon "

Автор книги: Robert N. Charette

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

SUDDENLY, THEODORE SENSED THE PRESENCE OF A BLACK-CLAD FIGURE.

It was very near and he cursed himself for having missed it till now. Soon a hand snaked out of the gutter to snare his ankle. Before he could react, he was toppling to the pavement. Rolling as soon as he hit the ground, he caught a glimpse of a manhole cover blowing into the air. A shadow followed the disk, erupting like a demon from the nether hells. The dark figure landed lightly on the street and snaked by, turning in a rustle of black fabric and the glint of polished steel.

As he faced his opponent, Theodore realized he had been hit because there was blood on the other's blade. The wound felt small, a tiny cut just above the left hip. He. hoped his body was not lying to him, concealing the awful truth of a mortal wound. He had no more time to wonder. The other was moving and Theodore must defend himself. ...

BATTLETECH

08618

HEIR TO THE DRAGON

Robert N. Charrette

ROC

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Books USA Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

Penguin Books Ltd, 27 Wrights Lane,

London W8 STZ, England

Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood,

Victoria, Australia

Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Totonto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2 Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road, Auckland 10, New Zealand

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

Published by Roc, an imprint of Dutton Signet, a division of Penguin Books USA Inc. Previously appearedin a fasa edition.

First Roc Printing, September, 1996 10  987654321

Copyright © fasa Corporation, 1989 All rights reserved

Series Editor: Donna Ippolito Cover art by Bruce Jensen registered trademark—marca registrada battletech, fasa, and the distinctive battletech and fasa logos are trademarks of the fasa Corporation, 1100 W. Cermak, Suite B305, Chicago, II 60608.

Printed in the United States of America

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. books are available at quantity discounts when used to promote products or services. for information please write to premium marketing division, penguin books usa inc., 375 hudson street, new york, new york 10014.

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

This one's just for you, ERJ

The author wishes to thank all of those who helped in their varying ways and degrees, especially Donna Ippolito, Jim Musser, Boy F. Petersen, Julie Guthrie, Eric Johnson, and Anthony Pryor.

Prologue

Unity Palace, Imperial City, Luthien

Pesht Military District, Draconis Combine

3 February 3004

 

Subhash Indrahar seemed a solidification of the night as he stepped between his minions and into the bedchamber. His black ISF duty uniform was immaculate from the high collar to the soft, split-toed boots. Unlike the men who preceded him, he had made no sound while crossing the nightingale flooring of the porch between the room and the private gardens.

The Assistant Director of the ISF swept the room with his eyes, swiftly filing away a mental picture for later reference. His own Internal Security Force men took up strategic positions, discreetly covering all exits. None of the five showed any reaction to the blood-spattered corpse sprawled on the sleeping mats at the center of the chamber. Four of the other five men in the room were Otomo, the vaunted bodyguards of the Coordinator. They shifted nervously, showing the proper amount of fear and respect at Subhash's entrance. The fifth man was Takashi Kurita, his long-time friend.

Takashi stood still, his back to Subhash. The younger man was looking down at the body lying at his feet, the corpse of Hohiro Kurita, Takashi's father and Coordinator of the Draconis Combine. With the murder of Hohiro, Takashi succeeded him as the head of House Kurita and ruler of the star-spanning Draconis Combine.

Indrahar found Takashi's lack of emotion mildly disturbing. Briefly, he wondered how much more the Otomo must fear this calm acceptance of death. The bodyguards, having failed in their duty to protect their master, waited anxiously for Takashi's reaction. They had been entrusted with protecting the life of the Coordinator. Indrahar's arrival was a reminder that they would have to answer for their failure when the ISF questioning began. No one kept secrets from the watchdogs of Kurita society, save by taking those secrets to the -grave. Some of the bodyguards were doubtless contemplating suicide to expiate their shame, assuming they were not executed for the failure.

Silently, Takashi knelt by the body, heedless of the pool of congealing blood that began to soak sluggishly into the knees of his tan military fatigues. He reached out his right hand to lay gentle fingers on the cheek of the face ravaged by the sword stroke that had split Hohiro's skull. Takashi remained so for several minutes, ignoring Indrahar, who stepped closer.

"The circumstances surrounding my death will not matter to me, for I will be on my way to heaven," Takashi said softly. Subhash recognized the words as Hohiro's own, spoken by the arrogant lord just two years ago. "Is it so, Father?"

Subhash remembered something further the late Coordinator had said. "It is only those I leave behind who will discuss the matter." Subhash knew that discussion of this night's "matter" would soon begin, for the murder of the Coordinator would shake the Combine.

Abruptly, Takashi seemed aware of Subhash's presence. The ISF man bowed and said, "The Otomo have captured the assassin near the tea house, Takashi -sama."

Takashi grunted acknowledgement. Starting to rise, he slipped on the fouled mats. As he reached out his left hand to steady himself, it fell into a puddle of blood, splashing his sleeve and sliming his hand. Takashi stood without further incident, oblivious to the bloody picture he presented.

Subhash fell in behind his friend and they headed for the garden. Throughout the room, Otomo and ISF men bowed to the new Coordinator.

The two friends entered the garden, stepping out into the starlight and shattered peace. Around them, the palace churned with reaction to news of the night's disaster. Handheld lanterns bobbed among the cryptomeria trees as servants and minor officials scurried about asking each other for information concerning the disturbance. More Otomo and ISF agents stood scattered among the bushes and rocks, silent and still as the stone and bronze statues that graced the gardens.

Before the two men were halfway to the teahouse, the slap of bare feet on the wood of the garden's drum bridge caught Subhash's attention. He turned to speak to Takashi, but found him already looking in that direction. Coming toward them was Takashi's wife, Jasmine. She wore a hastily wrapped evening kimono and her long black hair was still tangled from sleep.

"Husband!" she cried, relief flooding her voice as she recognized Takashi's familiar, stocky silhouette. She slowed her run to a more sedate walk. "I awoke to find you gone and heard the guards running. I feared something had happened."

"Something hashappened," Takashi stated in a quiet voice. As he turned to face her, the lights from the house caught the dark stains on his uniform and hands. Jasmine halted. Her fist rose, covering her mouth and masking all of her face save the horrified eyes. Comprehending her reaction, Takashi said quickly, "I am uninjured, but Hohiro is dead."

Subhash watched Jasmine's face as relief at her husband's safety struggled with grief at the passing of his father. The ISF man noted that she came no closer to her husband, her fastidiousness seeming stronger than her need to confirm Takashi's words with more than her eyes. She was a delicate flower to be wed to a samurai like Takashi, a man who would soon take the reins of controlling the destiny of billions of loyal citizens.

A slight movement in the crowd caught Subhash's attention. Forcing his way between the legs of an ISF man, a small figure burst through the assembled servants and courtiers. Subhash memorized the agent's face. He was lax to let a child past his guard, even if that child was Takashi's son and a member of the ruling Kurita clan. The agent did stop the taller figure toiling in the wake of the scrambling boy. The boy's pursuer was the portly old monk Zeshin, an initiate of the Order of the Five Pillars and the man charged with watching over the nights of Takashi's child. Subhash observed the chagrin on the monk's face as his struggles with the guard drew the attention of the exalted personages in the center of the garden. Subhash could see that the monk expected punishment for the failure to control his charge.

Jasmine stooped and held out her arms to her son as he ran across the garden. She gathered him close and hushed his excited questions with shushes and soft promises of explanations to come in the morning. She rose, lifting the gangly weight of the six-year-old with a mother's quiet strength. Their way was blocked by a stocky shadow that raised a bloody hand to seize the boy's arm.

The boy looked down at the hand gripping his left arm and saw the blood that slicked it. His head jerked up to find the owner of the hand was his own father. Subhash could see the child's eyes go wide, not with fear but with anticipation.

"Has there been a war?" the boy asked, voice full of excitement. "Have you been killing Fedrats, Father?"

"Hush, child," Jasmine admonished. "Children should not be out this late at night."

The boy frowned at his mother, making clear his opinion that mothers always spoiled the fun. Before he could reply, Jasmine continued, "You are going back to bed. Tomorrow. ..."

"No!" Takashi's forceful interruption startled Jasmine. "You have shielded the boy long enough, woman. I have humored you until now, but tonight that must end. Let him see the world as it is."

Takashi pulled the boy from his wife's arms and into his own. The boy went gladly, ignoring his mother's protests.

"My son," Takashi said, "this blood you see on my hands is not that of the enemies of our clan. It is not that of a Fedrat, not that of House Davion. Nor does it belong to any weak-spirited popinjay of House Steiner, nor of any other House who shares the Inner Sphere with us. This is the blood of our clan and our House, the blood of the Dragon."

"Do not do this," Jasmine protested, light glinting from the tears in her eyes. "He is too young."

She started to take the boy back, but Subhash reached out to grasp her arms. She turned to him. "You are his friend. Tell him. The boy is too young to be frightened by the death that surrounds us."

"Takashi-sawa does what he must, Lady Jasmine."

Facing such adamant will, she slumped in surrender. Takashi turned away as Subhash gave Jasmine over to the care of her maids hovering at the edge of the crowd, fearful of intruding until summoned. Now they came forward to escort her back to her own chamber.

With Jasmine cared for, Subhash again became a shadow at Takashi's back. Still holding his son, the new Coordinator strode into Hohiro's bedchamber. Subhash stepped up in time to see the boy's eyes go wide at the carnage in the room.

"Grandfather?" asked a young and tentative voice.

"Yes," Takashi answered, leaving no room for pity in that single word. "That was your grandfather. He was also the Coordinator of the Draconis Combine. That is your future if you are not strong.

"I am Coordinator now, and you are my heir. We are Clan Kurita. We must have the strength to rule, the strength to avoid such an end. We must always do what is necessary for the survival of our House and of the domain that we rule. It is a trust we must never betray. Not for any man or woman, nor for any personal feelings or weakness of spirit. If we are weak, this is the fate that awaits—ignominious death. Wakarimasu-ka!"

The boy said nothing. Wide blue eyes still riveted to the corpse of his grandfather, he swallowed, then nodded.

"Good," Takashi said as he turned to leave the room. "We must see to his assassin."

"I want to kill him," the boy declared in a small voice full of determination. His earlier excitement had turned to grim seriousness.

"You cannot," Takashi told him, but seemed pleased at his son's response. "I know that clan honor calls out to you. I know this because it calls to me as well. Let this be your first lesson as you now step from your mother's shadow. Personal violence is not the way of the Coordinator. Our destiny requires us to work through others. This assassin must meet justice, not vengeance. It is best for the Combine. Wakarimasu-kaT

This time the boy shook his head, a confused look on his face.

"In time you shall, my son," Takashi assured him.

The trio stepped back into the chill night air. Despite the dark, Takashi missed no step in the short walk to the group assembled around the teahouse.

In the center of that gathering was an Otomo Tai-iwho stood behind the huddled figure of a man. As Takashi came to a halt, the Tai-ireached down and grabbed a handful of the man's hair. He yanked the assassin's head back, letting light fall on the blood-streaked face. One eye was swollen shut and already purpling from the blows he had received.

"Talon Sergeant Ingmar Sterenson," the Tai-iannounced.

Subhash could see that the man was nearly dead from the battering his captors had given him, but a defiant light still shone in his open eye. That eye fixed on Takashi. Subhash felt the man focus on the Kuritan lord, narrowing his world to include only himself and the Coordinator.

The assassin started to speak. The Tai-iraised his hand to cuff the man to silence, but froze into immobility at a small shake of Takashi's head.

"Tonight a lie comes to an end," Sterenson croaked. "For years, I served you as a trusted and valued aide. I espoused the cause of House Kurita. Tonight, no more."

Sterenson could speak no more for the coughing that racked his whole body, but when he finally found his voice, it was stronger, tinged with the conviction of the true fanatic. "Tonight I have struck a blow for freedom in killing the tyrant. Independence for the people of Rasalhague!" he shouted. "Death to the oppressors!"

The Tai-islammed his fist into the side of Sterenson's head, and the bound man crumpled to the ground. He twisted and moaned as Otomo kicked and spat upon him.

"Enough!" Takashi barked.

The Otomo ceased instantly. Sterenson twisted around and raised his head to stare Takashi in the eyes. Subhash felt the passage of understanding between the two, each acknowledging and accepting his part in the night's drama.

"Shoot him," Takashi said, his voice flat and dead.

The Tai-i,eager to win the regard of the new Coordinator, drew his pistol and fired. The gunshot rang from the garden walls.

In the dying echoes, Subhash whispered to Takashi, "My superior, the Director of the Internal Security Force, would have wanted to question him, Takashi -sama."

Takashi looked his old friend full in-the face. "Do you question my judgment?"

Subhash searched Takashi's blue eyes, testing the strength of the Kurita lord's kishell. Impressed, he replied, "It is not my place, Tono."

"A man must know his place," Takashi observed as he looked away. "I will see the Director at dawn, with questions of my own. A traitor should not have been allowed to reach such a trusted position. This is not the Free Worlds League."

Takashi turned back to meet Subhash's eyes. "Kendoat noon, Subhash -san? We will have much to discuss."

Subhash bowed, acknowledging and accepting the appointment.

He straightened to watch his childhood friend, now the Coordinator, walk at a calm, steady pace toward his own bedchamber. Takashi held his son secure in his arms. In the darkness, the pale oval of the boy's face shone over his father's shoulder. Even in the poor light, Subhash could see that confusion and fear had taken over from the boy's initial reaction. Subhash offered the child a smile of reassurance and reached out with his kito calm the child from his own well of tranquility and strength.

I will guard your future, young Kurita.

The boy managed a half-smile and Subhash sensed his relief.

BOOK 1

Bravery

1

Streets of Kuroda, Kagoshima

Pesht District, Draconis Combine

17 May 3018

 

Breath came hard through the suit filters and sweat ran into his eyes. Rising nausea forced Theodore Kurita to take a risk. He pulled out the heat vents on his suit, cracked the seal on the faceplate, and slid the visor up over his forehead. The open vents would increase his heat signature to any observer with infrared capability. Without the light-amplification circuits and the bi-level circlevision device that made up the faceplate, he was almost blind in the oily darkness of night in Kuroda. More visible and blind he might be, but at least he could breathe again. As he struggled to keep his gulping breaths quiet, the rush of oxygen cleared his brain and fought back the nausea that had threatened to overwhelm him.

The ISF sneaksuit he wore was not designed for the sustained exertion of his run across the warehouse district. The infrared signature-suppression fabrics and noise-deadening air filters had been overworked, becoming dangerous as they overheated his body and limited his air. Theodore's instructors had often warned him that it was hazardous to try a long-distance run while wearing such a suit. Only a fool or a desperate man would make such an attempt, they said. Theodore did not consider himself a fool, and he hoped his pursuers would not consider him desperate enough to try it. In fact, he was counting on it.

His plan seemed to be working. He had neither seen nor heard any sign of them for half an hour. That meant nothing, of course. They wore sneaksuits like his, standard-issue for the Combine's Elite Strike Teams and the storm troops of the Internal Security Force. That meant that whoever was behind this attack had powerful forces at his disposal, men expert in "black" operations. Such men would be relentless. And very dangerous.

Such considerations made his decision to run justifiable.

The need to open the suit had strong justification as well, but it annoyed him all the same. He needed to stop the fire in his muscles, needed the air. So Theodore took another risk on top of the risky run, and stopped before being sure he was in the clear. He expected better of himself. He wanted to cover three kilometers before resting, but his body betrayed him. Too much easy living at the academy, he concluded.

As his breathing steadied, he considered how differently the night had begun. He was not expecting any trouble on the eve of his graduation from Wisdom of the Dragon School. Four long years of advanced strategy and combat training were over. He had thought that a tryst with his current paramour, Kathleen Palmer, would be an ideal tension-reliever before the ceremonies tomorrow. Kathleen had been a breath of fresh air when they first met four months ago while Theodore was on holiday from the school. She had seemed so far from the taint of political intrigue, uninterested in talk of war and warriors. She had been truly an anodyne after his years of study and training. In her arms, he could forget his obligations and duty.

One way or another, that was over now. Theodore had seen the assassin's image reflected in her eyes as the black-clad figure approached. That warning allowed him the fraction of a second he needed to avoid the knife-hand the man aimed at his neck. His sudden reaction had thrown the assailant off balance. While Kathleen fled screaming from the room, Theodore counterattacked and struck the man down with a well-placed kick. She had been aware of the intruder's presence, but she had not warned her lover. That was something Theodore could not, would not, forget.

He had wanted to follow and force an answer from her, but decided that questioning Kathleen would have to wait. Instead, he had stripped the man of his sneaksuit. Assuming that the failed assassin had back-up, Theodore knew that his sneaksuit would be far more useful than his own fancy dress clothes, strewn about the room with abandon. He had taken the man's gear as well, not having armed himself before a peaceful lark in the old town. Except for the traditional katana,a blackened steel blade with black braiding and non-reflective fittings, the man carried no lethal weapons.

Presumably, his master wanted Theodore alive, perhaps to be used as a bargaining chip. If they wanted him alive, Theodore reasoned, they would be holding back, careful of harming him seriously. He had no such qualms regarding their health. His first priority was to escape and survive. He had no desire to be anyone's prisoner.

Once outfitted, Theodore had exited the building, rappelling down the side with the man's utility line. Thus had he avoided the doors, which must surely be under close watch. His short cut had allowed him to elude the mesh of their net. When he hit the ground, only one black-clad figure opposed him. He took the man down without needing the sword, and started directly back toward the academy. Then he noticed three more assassins on his trail.

Fearing that they would catch him, or worse, call in reinforcements to intercept him, he cut away and headed for the Desolation. There, amid the ruined buildings and rubble of that long-abandoned quarter of Kuroda, he hoped to throw them off his trail. The academy often conducted city-fighting exercises in the Desolation. To improve his scores, Theodore had memorized maps of the region and made a regular effort to keep up on the changes the exercises wrought in the cityscape. He hoped that such knowledge would give him the advantage he needed to elude the pursuit.

As soon as he had lost sight of them, he began to run. Now he stood here, less than a kilometer from the academy. His panting had almost stopped, but his breathing was still ragged. Concentrating on his hara,he willed himself to center. Slowly his breathing became regular. He accepted the fatigue in his limbs and banished it. Calmness suffused him, and in that calmness, he found another presence.

He snapped his head up, eyes working to pierce the darkness. There, standing still on the roof of the gutted shell across the road, was a silent, black-clad figure, starlight glinting from the circlevision visor. The figure bowed to him. Theodore snapped his own visor down, only to find that the slim figure had vanished. One has found me.

No,he admonished himself. I have seen one. I might hope only one is there, but I cannot assume so. Never underestimate an enemy.

He checked the street and found it deserted. Deserted of people, that was. The derelicts and criminals who occasionally hid among the ruins had gone to roost. Only the night vermin prowled on their own life-and-death hunts. Theodore decided that the small scurryings were a good sign, for it meant that no human presence disturbed their ground-level hunts. Perhaps there was only the one. That thought set him to scanning the roof again, but he found no sign of his pursuer. While checking the ground level, he had left himself open to a long-range attack from above.

No attack had come. He did not know why, but he did know that he was lucky. He presumed that the other was on his way to street level. By heading up, Theodore hoped to confound that maneuver and recover the moments he had lost.

Peeling back the leather palms of his gloves, he uncovered the microhooks set there. A swift crouch and spring started his climb up the side of the building that sheltered him. Fingers and toes sought the minute purchase offered by the crumbling mortar between bricks. Where there were no useful cracks, the microhooks penetrated and took hold of the porous surface of the brick, the barbs offering a secure grip. A flexed palm released tension from the hooks and they slid free, allowing him to reach for a new, higher grip.

All the way up the wall, Theodore berated himself for his foolish lapse. In his mind, he heard the voices of his teachers. Two were most insistent. Brian Comerford, his Special Operations tutor, had nothing good to say about his delays or his physical stamina. Tetsuhara– senseinagged him to reach for and trust his center, promising him all the strength he needed if his haracontrol were strong. While listening to those inner voices, he climbed the fifteen-meter wall in less than half a minute.

On the roof, Theodore checked his surroundings again, but found no sign of the other. He set out across the roofs at a pace that would not overtax the sneaksuit. Eventually, the deteriorating quality of the buildings he crossed forced him to abandon his aerial path and return to the ground. His speed increased when he was no longer concerned that a misstep might send him plummeting through a rotted roof.

Theodore knew that he was not alone, but none of his tricks succeeded in forcing the other to show himself. Discarding the attempt to confront this lone hunter, he resumed the effort to lose his dogged pursuer.

Suddenly, Theodore sensed the other's presence very near and cursed himself for having missed its brief absence. Another mistake,chided the ghostly voice of Comerford– sensei. This time a costly one,Theodore agreed.

A hand snaked out of the gutter to snare his ankle. Before he could react, he was toppling to the pavement. He tucked to minimize the shock and realized that the hand was gone. That's bad,he told himself, feeling the agreement from Comerford– sensei'sspirit.

Rolling as soon as he hit, he caught a glimpse of a manhole cover blowing into the air, impelled by a near-silent huff of compressed gas. A shadow followed the disk, erupting like a demon from the nether hells. The dark figure landed lightly on the street and ran toward him.

Theodore regained his feet and cleared his sword in time to parry a passing cut as the other snaked by, turning in a rustle of black fabric and the glint of polished steel.

The two stood frozen for a moment, the other in muniken,Theodore in tensetsu.He recognized the other's command of the ancient Yagyu sword technique and shifted to katsuninken.The other hesitated a moment, then started a shift to kojothat was never completed. At that instant, the manhole cover returned to the street with a ringing clatter, startling Theodore. The other, clearly expecting the clamor, converted the shift of stance into a lightning attack. Theodore's counter was too slow. The other flashed past.

As he turned to face his opponent, Theodore knew he had been hit because there was blood on his opponent's blade. The sword was so sharp that he had not felt its touch. He felt for the pain as he readied himself. The wound felt small, a tiny cut just above the left hip. He hoped his body was not lying to him, concealing the awful truth of a mortal wound. He had no more time to wonder. The other was moving and Theodore must defend himself.

The next exchange was no passing attack. Each black-clad figure stood its ground, trading attack for counter. Unexpectedly, in the middle of Theodore's attack pattern, the other crumpled to the ground. Theodore's stroke whistled through the air above the falling body, pulling him off balance when it did not meet the expected resistance.

Theodore recovered, returning to a cautious guard-posture as he looked down at the unmoving figure. He was puzzled. He had not thought that he had pierced the other's guard.

There was no time to consider. In the distance, he heard the soft slap of running feet. Whether it was his pursuers or local inhabitants drawn by the clamor of the manhole cover, he did not know. Either was more trouble than he wanted. Turning, he ran down a narrow alley, risking a look back just before he rounded the corner. Three black-clad figures pounded down the street toward the alley, but of his recent opponent, there was no sign.

Knowing that the shadows offered no protection from the light-amplification equipment of his pursuers, Theodore ran on.