BattleTech Legends: The Blood of Kerensky Trilogy, page 79
“That’s nonsense.” Ragnar’s blue eyes flashed. “They abandoned the Inner Sphere. What right have they to claim the Inner Sphere as their own?”
Phelan smirked slightly. “The same right your people invoked in claiming Rasalhague a free nation even while under the domination of the Draconis Combine.”
Ragnar opened his mouth to reply, but Phelan saw his charge hesitate as he mentally calculated where this argument would take him. Ragnar shook his head, knowing that a dispute over who had what rights to what slice of the Inner Sphere was a fight he would lose. “But you have told me that the ilKhan, Khan Ulric of the Wolf Clan, is a Warden. Why is he pushing this invasion?”
As Ragnar spoke, he tugged at the circlet around his right wrist as if the braided white cord irritated him. Phelan remembered how his own bondcord had annoyed him in his time as a bondsman of the Wolf Clan. He also recalled with pride his adoption ceremony into the Wolf Clan Warrior-Caste, during which the hated cord had been cut off. He let a grin slide across his face at the memory, and Ragnar’s expression darkened.
“It is true, Prince of Rasalhague, that the ilKhan is a Warden, yet he pushes this invasion. As you heard him tell the Primus of ComStar, the goal of the invasion has ever been the conquest of Terra, the former seat of the Star League. The Khan whose warriors take Terra will become ilKhan for all time, and his Clan elevated above all others.” Phelan raised his head proudly. “When that happens, the ilKhan can order a cessation of all hostilities and begin to rebuild what has been destroyed.”
Ragnar’s eyes narrowed into a fierce frown. “You obviously love this war of conquest. How is it that you, a cousin of the Davion heir, have come to embrace the Clans and their brutish ways?” He opened his hands in a gesture that took in the spartan cabin to which Phelan had been assigned. “You were once a mercenary, so I assume they bought you, but with what? This opulence? That woman, Ranna? What was your price, Kell-Wolf, or whoever you are?”
Even before Ragnar could finish speaking, the cabin door opened to admit a flame-haired warrior-woman. As ever, she did not hesitate to speak. “His price, Prince Ragnar, is the same one you may be asked to pay. If one has the goal of preventing as much destruction as possible, he must decide how to accomplish it. One may decide, as did you, to fight until defeated, and then to go on fighting, yet accomplish nothing.”
Ragnar was not cowed. “Or, Colonel Natasha Kerensky, you could become a quisling like Phelan and lead the enemy against your own people. It was Phelan who gave Gunzburg to the Clans!”
“And did it without a shot being fired. No one died when that world changed hands, Ragnar.” Natasha’s cerulean eyes sparked with anger. “Not only did he save lives in taking that world by himself, but it sent his stock soaring among Clan Warriors. It makes him a man of great influence, and that influence can be used to slow this juggernaut.”
The little prince blanched at the heat of Kerensky’s words. He looked down at the floor and blushed. Phelan, aware that it was something more than Ragnar’s statements angering her, faced his superior. “Natasha, what is wrong? What has happened?”
The woman known as the Black Widow let her shoulders sag disconsolately. Phelan felt an immediate desire to comfort her, but refrained for fear of disturbing her dignity. “I have news you will welcome, Phelan, and news that, I believe, will sadden you.”
A million horrible thoughts ran through Phelan’s mind, but he dismissed them immediately. He knew, given the Clans’ abrupt break with ComStar, that no word could have come to him regarding his family back in the Inner Sphere. He had already seen reports concerning the Smoke Jaguars and Nova Cats’ losses in the battle for Luthien. Both he and Natasha had shared secret smiles concerning the success of their old units—the Kell Hounds and Wolf’s Dragoons, respectively—in defending the capital of the Draconis Combine. Neither had seen casualty reports concerning the mercenary units to which they had belonged before the coming of the Clans, but they were confident their friends and kin had survived the fray.
Unable to puzzle out what might be distressing Natasha, Phelan waved her to a chair. “What is it?”
She exhaled slowly. “Cyrilla Ward is dead.”
“What?” Cyrilla was the matriarch of the House of Ward, the Bloodname family to which Phelan belonged. The last time he’d seen her, which had been just before the Clans resumed their advance the previous September, she had seemed healthy and hearty despite being in her early seventies. Ever since his adoption into the Warrior Caste, the white-haired woman had instructed and encouraged Phelan in the ways of the Clans. The idea of her death was, for him, inconceivable.
Natasha drew a holodisk in a clear plastic envelope from one of her black jumpsuit pockets. “She recorded this for you. It just arrived in a shipment from Strana Mechty.”
Taking the disk from Natasha, Phelan noticed her hand was trembling. “Natasha, I know Cyrilla was your close friend and that the two of you were raised in the same sibko. Though I only knew her for a short time, Cyrilla was my lifeline in the Clans.”
The woman nodded solemnly. “She still is, Phelan.”
“I do not understand.”
Natasha stood and smoothed the breast of her jumpsuit. ‘The holodisk will explain it all.” She glanced at Ragnar. “Come with me, Princeling. Phelan will want to view this disk alone, so let us find you something to do that will annoy Vlad and Conal Ward.”
Phelan looked at the disk, then his head came up again. “Wait, Natasha, how did she die?”
The Black Widow shook her head. “We will talk after you have seen the holodisk.” She sighed wearily. “Watch it twice or even three times. Remember that she believed in you and in Ulric’s vision for the Clans. That thought is just about the only thing that makes any of this even remotely sane.”
Phelan waited for the door to close behind Natasha and Ragnar before slipping the disk from its sheath and putting it in the viewer. As he settled down in a chair, he wasn’t sure he wanted to watch it. How strange to receive a holovid from someone who is dead. It is like a letter from a ghost.
From static, the disk focused the screen into the smiling face of a white-haired woman. She stared straight out at Phelan, and for the barest of moments, he was certain Natasha was mistaken. Cyrilla had to be alive because no one with such vitality could succumb to death. Unbidden, Phelan returned her smile, yet the ache of her loss had already begun in his heart.
“I hardly wish to be melodramatic, Phelan Wolf, but I fear I must. If you are viewing this, Natasha has informed you of my death. Please, do not mourn or grieve for me because I did not suffer. I did not linger. My death came cleanly and I departed this world with only one regret. Unfortunately, that regret concerns you.”
Her expression shifted to one that Phelan knew well from her countless lectures on the rites and customs of the Clans. “You know that the name Ward is one of those accorded the honor of being a Bloodname because Jal Ward fought alongside Nicholas Kerensky during the war of reunification. You also know that, of all those in the Ward bloodlines, only twenty-five warriors may claim the right to call themselves Ward at any one time. Only by defeating all other claimants to a name may a warrior win that right, and with his victory also comes a seat in the Clan Council and eligibility for election as a Khan of the Clan.
“I had great hopes for seeing you win your Bloodname, Phelan. Your service to the ilKhan, your conquest of Gunzburg, and your capture of the heir to the throne of Rasalhague all mark you as a Warrior more than worthy of the honor of a Bloodname. Your actions have guaranteed you a berth among the twenty-four claimants chosen by members of the House of Ward. Another seven will be selected by a committee overseen by the Loremaster. In this case, that is Conal Ward, and he is no friend of yours. Even so, you will not have to battle through the preliminary contest to win the thirty-second spot, so your chances in the Trial of Bloodright should be good.”
Cyrilla’s face knotted with consternation. “At least, that is what I had assumed concerning your chances in the next Bloodname contest. Now I have learned that certain parties, Crusader parties, are dead set against your ever winning a Bloodname. As Vlad suggested when he tried to kill you in your testing on Strana Mechty, Conal Ward and others would openly welcome your death. Whereas we are not given to assassination, it is entirely possible that, as your fame grows, you might be left to your own devices on a battlefield and die of neglect.
“I have no reservations about your ability to handle yourself in battle, and I am proud of all you have accomplished. I know you can and will accomplish yet more, but if your wisdom is to help guide the Clans, you must be able to give it voice in the Clan Council. That means you must fight to win a Bloodname, and events dictate that you must do so very soon.”
Cyrilla sighed and shook her head. “So far this invasion has not resulted in the death of anyone with a Ward Bloodname for which to fight. That reflects well on the Warriors of the House of Ward, but it leaves me with only one choice: the name for which you shall fight will be mine.”
A lump rose in Phelan’s throat and his stomach seemed to plummet into a bottomless pit. “No!” he cried. “You can’t have done this! Not for me!”
Cyrilla’s expression became somber. “I would have preferred to die fighting against the Smoke Jaguars, much as Natasha and I had vowed to do so long ago. I would have settled for hunting down bandits, but all available Wolf Clan forces are in the invasion, and no one will give an old woman a ’Mech. Do not worry, though, for I have seen many before me do what I must do, so I shall know how to do it correctly and cleanly.”
Cyrilla continued, forcing a smile again. “I have declared, in my will, that you are the designated heir to my Bloodname. That decree has the force of law among us, and even Conal would not dare try to cheat you of your inheritance. I have also arranged that if you and Vlad are to meet in the contest, it will only be in the final battle. This will give you time to study his methods. If there is any justice in the universe, someone from the Inner Sphere might rid you of him even before it comes time to fight him.
“Phelan, none of my gene children have excelled, which has made me feel like a dead end for the House of Ward until you came to us. You are my child, a Child of the future. With Ulric and Natasha, you will be one to lead the Clans into a new future where we can recognize our full potential—as warriors and as human beings.”
She looked out at him with a satisfied expression. “Do not mourn me, Phelan Wolf. Rather, make me proud of you.”
The screen’s image dissolved into fragments of white and gray, then went black. Phelan continued to stare at it, hoping and praying for something more, something that would tell him what he had seen was false. He knew that among the Warrior Caste, a Warrior was considered too old at the age of thirty-five. From that point on, his role was to raise and train new generations of Warriors. Many decided to take their own lives when they considered themselves no longer useful.
Not Cyrilla. Involving herself in the politics of the House of Ward, she had become its head, and skillfully brokered power in the Clan Council. She approved or negotiated exchanges of DNA with other Clans in an attempt to strengthen the House of Ward bloodline. Her life had meaning and use beyond what a member of the Warrior Caste could normally expect. For her to die, for her to kill herself...
Phelan’s mind rebelled at the frustrating stupidity of it all. Natasha, Jaime Wolf, and even his own father, Morgan Kell, had long ago proved that MechWarriors were not washed up after their mid-thirties. And he knew hundreds of other warriors from the Inner Sphere who didn’t consider a Mechwarrior dry behind the ears until he’d seen ten years in a cockpit, which would certainly put the warrior beyond his prime by Clan standards.
Though Phelan knew the Clan system was madness, the Clan’s overwhelming success in invading the Inner Sphere also marked them as the finest warriors. He might have wanted to dismiss their ability as due to the advantage of superior technology, but he also knew their training was far more rigorous and demanding than that undergone by Inner Sphere warriors. Still, his own success in joining the ranks of the Wolf Clan Warriors pointed out that their way was not the only way.
The door to his cabin opened again, this time admitting a tall, slender woman clad in a gray jumpsuit. “Phelan, I just heard. Vlad was down in the gymnasium preening himself. I had to leave. I am so sorry for your loss.” She started to reach out for him, then dropped her arms in a gesture of helplessness.
Phelan managed to muster a brave smile for her, despite the sudden, violent urge to hurl the remote control through the view screen. “Thank you, Ranna.” When he held out his hand to her, she came to perch beside him on the arm of his chair.
Ranna nervously brushed a wisp of short white hair back behind her left ear. “What Cyrilla did was for you and the Clans,” she said. “You must know that.”
He looked again at the blank screen and nodded slowly. “Maybe that is it. Maybe Cyrilla believed her sacrifice was the only way I would be able to prove to the Clans that your system is not the pinnacle of human development. God knows that is a lesson Vlad and Conal Ward could stand to learn.” He pointed his remote control at the viewer and started the disk playing again.
Ranna kissed him lightly on the top of his head. “If the result is anything less, my love, her sacrifice will have been wasted.”
As Cyrilla’s smiling face again came into view, Phelan did his best to shut his heartache away. Settling back to listen to Cyrilla’s words once more, he stroked Ranna’s back.
“All right, Cyrilla,” he said, speaking his thoughts aloud. “If what you are bequeathing me is the chance to show the Clans that there is more than one way to live, I will make the most of it. Never again will the Clans need someone to do what you have done.”
3
COMSTAR FIRST CIRCUIT COMPOUND
HILTON HEAD ISLAND
NORTH AMERICA
TERRA
18 JANUARY 3052
Raising himself up to full height, Precentor Martial Anastasius Focht glared angrily at ComStar’s First Circuit. “How dare you even intimate that some incompetence on my part is the cause of this shocking news!” Standing in the center of the wood-paneled First Circuit chamber, he slowly turned, fixing each Precentor with a stare from his single eye. “You are the ones whose arrogance set ComStar on a course of aiding and abetting this invasion of the Inner Sphere.”
Gardner Riis, the auburn-haired Precentor from Rasalhague, slammed his fist on his crystal podium. “I never agreed with this policy!”
“Nor I,” shouted Ulthan Everson, the thickly built Precentor from Tharkad. “I have opposed this invasion since the beginning, and I have regretted every act of treason against the Inner Sphere I have been forced to commit.”
“Bah! Your empty words mean nothing.” The Precentor Martial clamped a brake on his anger. Control is the key. As befit his station, he let his slender body slip into an appropriately stiff military stance. “The situation is now painfully clear. The Clans have stated their intention to wrest Terra from us. They say that as Terra was the seat of the old Star League, their invasion was staged for the single purpose of retaking this world.”
Huthrin Vandel, Precentor New Avalon, raked ringers back through his salt-and-pepper hair so violently that Focht thought it a mere prelude to the man tearing his hair out. “It seems equally clear that we must sever all relations with the Clans. We should cease administering their captured worlds for them. Our personnel on those worlds should go underground and supply complete intelligence reports that we would pass on to the Draconis Combine and Federated Commonwealth so they can drive these invaders from the Inner Sphere.”
“Go underground! And how, pray tell, will they hide their hyperpulse generators?” Looking serene and unperturbed in her golden robe, the Primus of ComStar let scorn drip from her words. “We will do no such thing. We will continue to administer the Clan-occupied worlds. As a show of good faith, we will also continue to blackout information coming from the occupied worlds. We will react to this move of the Clans as though the conquest of Terra would mean nothing to us.” Myndo Waterly smiled coldly. “In fact, we will enter into negotiations with the Clans for returning Terra to their control.”
Focht spun as Ulthan Everson began to speak in an almost incoherent sputter. “Madness. This is complete and utter madness! They are coming to take our world away from us, and you say you will help them do that?” Precentor Tharkad looked at Focht. “Precentor Martial, you must oppose this plan.”
Focht clasped his hands behind his back. “It is not my place, Precentor Tharkad, to protest anything the Primus chooses to do. I am merely her advisor. We consulted on this course of action during the journey from Satalice to Terra. The constant change of ships and the numerous jumps did make the discussions less than fluid, but the agreement we reached will, we believe, be the means by which the Clans can be stopped.”
“But the Primus just said she will negotiate with the Clans to let them have Terra.” Everson looked decidedly confused.
The Primus beamed triumphantly. “The offer of negotiations will buy us time to regroup our troops into a force to lead the way in driving the Clans from the Inner Sphere. Our key has ever been ComStar’s role as the deliverer of mankind. We have acted as a shield between the populace and the excesses of the Clans on occupied worlds, and we will continue to do so. Already many people believe that our intervention is the only reason the Clans have not committed more atrocities like the destruction of Edo on Turtle Bay. With some careful manipulation of perceptions, we can make our military opposition to the Clans look as if it has come after the Clans pushed too hard, too far.”
“But that is the truth, isn’t it?” Vandel stared down at the Precentor martial. “This plan presumes you can stop the Clans. But can you?”
Focht remained silent for several moments to give the Precentor from New Avalon the impression he was being appropriately cautious in his answer. “The battle for Luthien has proven the Clans are not invincible. All across their front, the Clans have had to adapt their tactics to more closely resemble those of the Inner Sphere forces. With this change and their superior weapons, they are still a formidable force. But the troops we have under arms are not raw recruits, and our equipment is some of the best in the Inner sphere.”
