As he settled into the command couch and keyed in his computer identification code, he heard the Coordinator strapping in. Sorenson slapped on the biomonitor patches and jammed the plugs into their neurohelmet sockets before rocking the massive helmet free of its cradle. He settled the helmet over his head, feeling the weight pressing down onto his unprotected shoulders. Damn! That will bruise,he thought, but there was no time to don the cooling vest whose padded shoulders normally protected a Mech Warrior from the oppressive mass of the neurohelmet.

The lack of the cooling vest was a problem. No MechWarrior ever wanted to operate his machine without one. As heat built up in the cockpit, a man could be cooked. He and the Coordinator would have to take their chances.

"All belted in, Coordinator?"

"Hai,"came the answer, still cool and sounding far more ready than Sorenson felt. "The reactor is cold."

The Coordinator hit upon another flaw in Sorenson's plan. It normally took several minutes to safely bring a Battle-Mech's fusion reactor to operating temperatures. Minutes they didn't have. Starting the 'Mech cold was another risk that only a desperate man would take.

"We're going to have to chance a cold start, Tono.I'm trying to set up a power feed through the DropShip's monitor cables."

Sorenson completed the circuit just as an explosion rocked the ship. Damn, Beorn. Nothing left to chance. You set explosives as well.

The BattleMech jerked as power flooded into it. Limbs spasmed as random surges activated the myomer pseudomuscles that moved the massive alloy bones of the machine's skeleton. In the midst of the jerky dance, Sorenson sent the signal to open the bay doors.

There was no response.

He tapped the unlock code again. And again. The titanium alloy doors remained immobile, as unmoved by his repeated signals as by his curses. The damned traitor, had been too thorough.

There was only one chance left.

Sorenson triggered the 'Mech's head-mounted missile launcher.

Crashing detonations filled the bay as its door shattered under the explosive power of the warheads. Strips of steel ripped free of the ship, scattering free into the sky like chaff. The Grasshopperwas knocked free of its mooring as a tremendous blast spun the ship. A tumbling whirl of clouds was the last thing Sorenson saw as the BattleMech toppled backward, jarring its pilot, and sending him straight into darkness.

* * *

"Good to see you again, Duke Ricol," Theodore said, straightening from his bow and extending his hand to the man.

"The pleasure is mine, Highness." Ricol's tone was as suave as his dress. His natty red garb was a distinct contrast to the drab gray and brown that dominated Theodore's uniform. "What brings you out so early in the morning, after so long a night of celebration?"

"A message from my cousin Marcus," Theodore answered, wondering if Ricol really knew how he had spent his night. "He asked me to come to the control center."

"I would have expected him to be here to meet you," Ricol said. "His lack of grace in not meeting meis understandable. I am but the lord of a minor house, expected to wait on the whims of the mighty."

Theodore gave Ricol a sidelong glance. He couldn't be sure just what part of the man's comment was sarcasm and to what part he was supposed to respond. Theodore elected to deal only with the factual statements.

"Then you were to meet him, too."

"So his message implied, Highness."

"Curious."

"Yes, isn't it?"

The two men lapsed into thoughtful silence. Theodore looked out of the command center at the dawn rising over the starport. Condensate clouds rose from vents on the roofs of buildings across the field, as heated exhaust met the chill atmosphere. Workers moved about their business, taking care to spend most of their transit time in the light of the rising sun, avoiding the frost-cloaked shadows. Less lucky were a company of Tai-shoSorenson's Eight Rasalhague Regulars. The MechWarriors' physical fitness instructor led them on a prescribed course that took no account of personal comforts as they jogged off to begin an early morning run.

All was ordinary, another typical day. Order was serenity, something Theodore wished he had more of after the bustle of the previous day's hectic wedding preparations and the uneasy night with Tomoe.

"Ah," Ricol said, drawing his attention. The Duke pointed at a speck in the distance. "A DropShip is approaching. I believe that your father will be making planetfall soon."

11

Draconis Military Starport, Reykjavik, Rasalhague

Rasalhague Military District, Draconis Combine

22 September 3019

 

A commotion in the outer reception room drew the attention of those awaiting the incoming flight. Through the transparent barrier wall, Theodore could see Tourneville arguing with a new arrival. The newcomer still wore an aviation helmet concealing all his features except for the salt-and-pepper beard that bobbed up and down as he spoke and gesticulated at the main reception area.

Theodore recognized the beard as belonging to Ottar Sjovold, Governor of Rasalhague District and his future father-in-law. Excusing himself from Duke Ricol, Theodore headed for the other chamber. As he penetrated the white-noise curtain masking the observation area, his ears filled with Sjovold's urgent demands to see him.

"What is the problem, Jarl Sjovold?" Theodore inquired.

Slipping past Tourneville's outthrust arm, Sjovold hurried toward Theodore and grabbed him by the arm. "Hurry, your Highness. Your man wouldn't let me through and there is little time. We must get you out of here."

"What are you talking about, Governor?"

Sjovold swept his eyes across the chamber before stammering nervously, "Ah ... an accident. Yes. There's been an accident! You must come with me."

"Have you notified the authorities?" Theodore asked, suspicious of the sudden shift from assurance to distress.

"No. No time," Sjovold babbled as he continued to rug the resisting Theodore toward the exit. "It's . . . it's your mother."

Concern swept away Theodore's wariness. "She's been injured?"

"No," the Governor answered. "At least, nothing serious. But she wants to see you immediately. We must hurry!"

The Governor urged Theodore into a waiting VTOL craft. Theodore dropped onto the perforated metal bench seat in time to see Duke Ricol and Tourneville climbing in after them. Sjovold seemed as surprised as he was. Ricol made a remark, but his words were lost in the scream from the turbines as the craft rose from the pavement.

Theodore was forced into his seat as the craft lifted rapidly. The thunder of the rotors changed pitch when the wing tilted, bringing the whirling blades down into position for effective forward flight. The pilot had begun a sharp bank over the outskirts of the spaceport when the VTOL bucked as a shock wave hit it. The sound of thunder followed.

As the craft banked in the other direction, Ricol tugged Theodore's sleeve and pointed out through the still-open hatchway. Framed in that patch of sky was a scene of horror. The incoming DropShip was trailing smoke and flames. Explosions erupted along its length, scattering smoking debris and burning fragments. As they watched, a BattleMech toppled out through a great rent in the heavy metal bay doors on the ship's side. It fell in a loose-jointed tumble to crash and shatter on the ferrocrete. A huge fireball erupted from the descending spaceship's nose and enveloped the fuselage. Out of the flames shot another 'Mech. One arm flopped loosely, trailing fire as the 'Mech traveled in a low arc away from the the burning ship. The DropShip's nose lifted slightly, as though the pilot had somehow regained control of his plummeting craft. The illusion was shattered as the ship plunged into the control center and erupted in flames.