As soon as I learned of his message to you, I tried to stop you."
"You did not try to stop me,Jarl," Ricol drawled.
Sjovold, his concentration on Theodore broken, looked blankly at the Duke.
There was something between the two men that Theodore did not understand. It was unimportant compared to what the Governor had said. "You say that you were involved with my cousin Marcus in a plot to kill my father."
"It was necessary. But Marcus double-crossed us. He wishes to be Coordinator. It was always my intention to see you on the Coordinator's throne. We did this for you."
"And now you expect me to work with you."
"You will be Coordinator. We will all benefit. As your Warlord here, I can assure you of a peaceful, loyal district."
Theodore stood and paced across the compartment. Sjovold's ambitions had been revealed, naked and ugly. He was now double-crossing Marcus even as he said the Warlord had double-crossed him. His back to the Governor, Theodore said, "You have an interesting opinion of the Kurita clan, Governor Sjovold. In general, and of me, specifically. If you know me so well, you should realize that I will not be a party to regicide."
A sudden, meaty smack and yelp caused him to turn. Ricol and Sjovold were wrestling, rolling back and forth across the deck.
Theodore stared at the struggling men, disturbed that he had felt no warning, no sense of danger to himself. His early training with Tetsuhara -senseiand later sessions with Director Indrahar had taught him to trust that sense. He did not believe it would betray him here. This was between the two of them. He held himself aloof from the struggling men on the floor of the compartment.
The combatants bashed up against the aft bulkhead, Sjovold on top. The Governor's hands were locked around the Duke's throat. Ricol's arm snaked out to one side, slamming a fist into Sjovold's left elbow. Having weakened the grip, Ricol broke it completely in a convulsive heave. He drove a stiffened arm forward, catching Sjoyold's chin with his palm. The Governor's head snapped back with a brittle crack and he collapsed onto the Duke. Ricol untangled himself and slowly rose from the motionless body of his opponent. Stepping back, the Duke clearing Theodore's line of sight and pointed to a slim blade lying next to the Governor's outstretched hand. "He meant that for you, your Highness."
"And you threw yourself in his way to save me," Theodore stated flatly.
"As you say," Ricol said, inclining his head, "Coordinator."
Theodore was taken aback at being addressed by his father's title. It did not sound right. He wondered about Ricol's motives, about the fight he had witnessed. "Did you wish to cover your own connections to him, or did you act only out of loyalty to the Dragon?"
"Coordinator, I shall face any allegations of disloyalty in the circle of honor," Ricol replied, nonplussed by Theodore's bluntness.
"And triumph, no doubt. I have heard of your skill with blades. Of all kinds."
Ricol's face betrayed nothing.
Theodore shrugged. "Tell the pilot to take us to the Hotel Kiruna. My mother must be informed of today's events." Ricol bowed, as befitted a loyal servant of the Dragon.
12
West of Reykjavik, Rasalhague
Rasalhague Military District, Draconis Combine
22 September 3019
Sorenson had no idea how long he had been unconscious, but he knew it must have been only briefly. When he came to, the Startreaderwas still plummeting toward the surface of Rasalhague.
Ignoring the warning buzzes and flashing system failure lights, he forced the Grasshopperfrom its bed of smashed machinery. The BattleMech wobbled as it reached its feet, sending a feedback of dizzying vertigo through the neurocircuits to increase the ache that filled his skull. The 'Mech staggered forward toward the rent his missiles had torn in the bay door. He reached out with the machine's arms and grasped the ragged edges. Metal tore like paper as he applied the herculean strength of the seventy-ton machine's myomer muscles.
A high-pitched whine warned him of an actuator failure. He stabbed a hand forward even as his eyes registered the lights signaling a myomer failure, but was too late. Before he could hit the cut-off, the Grasshopper'sleft arm twitched, then went rigid as the motivating myomere, already stressed by the cold start, locked in spasm. Sorenson snapped the switch, cutting the power and unlocking the tension on the main myomer bundles. The smoking arm flopped uselessly to the side of the 'Mech, but the irregular motion of the failing arm twisted the 'Mech off-balance. Before the dazed Sorenson could compensate, the 'Mech crashed into the edge of the bay door, its upper torso jutting through the opening. The screaming wind of the DropShip's passage smashed the Grasshopperfirmly against the frame of the ship, doubling it over like a ragdoll.
Cursing the useless arm, Sorenson used the machine's remaining limb to lever the 'Mech into a more favorable position for firing the jump jets. As he did so, his sensors registered a tremendous explosion near the bow of the Startreader.Fearing that he would not clear the wreckage of the dying DropShip, he speared the red jump button.
Fire from the captive sun at the heart of the BattleMech's fusion engine vaporized a minute quantity of the mercury reaction mass, transforming it instantly to plasma. Flame and superheated air rushed out the exhaust ports in the Grasshopper'sback and legs, thrusting the 'Mech through the growing fireball enveloping the Startreaderand away from the doomed vessel.
Heat deluged the cockpit, and the Grasshopper'scomputer voice warned of imminent shutdown because of it. Sorenson, barely conscious, cut in the override, stilling the voice. Stubbornly, he worked the controls, trying to bring the wobbling 'Mech under control. As it spun, his cockpit screen gave him alternating views of ground and sky.
"At least we're not heading straight down," he croaked, his throat gone dry from fear and heat.
There was no answer from the jump seat.
Sorenson had no time to wonder if his passenger was still alive. The ground was coming up too fast. There was not enough time to gain control of the wounded 'Mech's flight. In a desperate attempt to minimize crash damage to the cockpit, he forced the machine around until its head was pointed away from its direction of travel. The legs and torso could absorb far more damage than the relatively fragile head structures of the BattleMech.
When the altimeter LED readout clicked to thirty meters, he opened the jets all the way, burning all his reaction mass in a single burst. The flight system monitor board flashed red. He had only begun to hope that they had burned long enough when the 'Mech smashed into the ground.
Thrown violently against his restraining straps, Sorenson felt his skin slice open along their edges. Red failure lights filled his board, then blinked out as cockpit power failed. He was thrown back into his couch as the 'Mech collapsed onto its back.
Pale light and a trickle of blessedly cool air filtered through a crack in the cockpit's shell.
"Alive!" Sorenson said aloud. The sound of his own voice, coarsened though it was from his ordeal, reassured him that he was right. Grimacing from the pain that movement sent through his arms, he forced the neurohelmet off and let it clatter to the back bulkhead, then unbuckled the straps and slid his bloody shoulders free. As he climbed from the couch and found that he had no grip, he reached for the overhead grab iron to steady himself. Puzzlement was all he felt as he slipped into darkness for the second time in a matter of minutes.