Tyra saw something flash through the malachite depths of Phelan's right eye. You call it a Radstadt Academy scar, but you know what most people call it. It's a Miraborg scar, just like the one the Varldherre has. Many of our warriors wear it as a symbol of their willingness to make the same sort of sacrifice as he did in the name of nationalism.Tyra stroked the right side of Phelan's face with her left hand. "Tall and blond, I'll bet. It must have been Hanson Kuusik. He was out last night and seemed very pleased with himself this morning."
Phelan nodded wearily. "I thought I recognized him from that first Liaison meeting I attended on your base."
"You should have told me."
The Kell Hound sighed. "What good would it have done? My word against his and no jury of his peers would believe a mercenary against a loyal aerojock." Phelan's characteristic smile struggled to return. "Besides, I figured that I'd look him up and settle our account after we returned from the Periphery."
Tyra flinched at Phelan's use of the word "we." His good eye shut and he turned away from her. "I guess I was wrong when I said you couldn't hurt me." He hung his head. "You're not coming, are you?"
Tyra looked down at her hands. How do I tell you this?"I am honored and flattered that you managed to make room for me in the Kell Hounds ..."
"Hey, don't imagine it was my word that got you the offer," Phelan cut in. "I suggested Captain Wilson take a look at you, and she liked what she saw. I'm not an officer and being my father's son makes things lots harder for me—just as her knowledge of our relationship made things tougher for you. Despite that, she made you an offer."
Tyra nodded and rubbed her right hand up and down Phelan's hunched back. "I know, love. I know." She paused, choked up with emotion. "All that we discussed is true: my skills are not being fully realized here in the Gunzburg Eagles. And it's not that I can't stand the idea of being a mercenary ..."
"Could you, Tyra? Could you really accept being a mercenary?"
It was a question she'd pondered deeply so many times since knowing Phelan, but it was still a hard one to answer. "I think I could," she said, continuing to stroke his back,
"despite the prejudice I've grown up with. Even here, all the stories about Wolf's Dragoons, the Kell Hounds, and the Eridani Light Horse work their magic. No matter how suspicious many people are of mercenaries, some units still have that aura of the noble outlaw about them."
Phelan scratched gingerly at his left eye. 'That makes me feel better. I'd hate to see what folks here do to mercs they don'tlike."
Tyra ignored Phelan's comment. "It's not that I couldn't handle the idea of being a mercenary. It's the idea of becoming a person without a nation that I couldn't live with."
Phelan frowned. "What are you talking about? I was born on Arc-Royal. I'm a citizen of the Lyran Commonwealth. I have my loyalties ..."
Tyra's blue eyes narrowed. "Do you? Phelan, I've come to know you intimately in the three months the Kell Hounds have been marooned on Gunzburg. I think you have loyalties, but not to any nation. You've told me yourself how much traveling you've done in your life. The Hounds have seen service in the Federated Suns, the Lyran Commonwealth, and then the St. Ives Compact since your birth. You've spent more time on the Dragoons' baseworld of Outreach than you have on Arc-Royal. You have loyalties, but they are more to your family and your friends than to any place."
"Is that bad?" Phelan said quietly.
Tyra took his left hand in hers and gave it a squeeze. "No, not in itself. But it can get you into trouble. It got you bounced from the Nagelring ..."
Phelan's face closed. "And it made me lose you."
Tyra took Phelan by the shoulders and twisted him around to face her again. "Yes, but not in the way you mean. I can no more give up being Rasalhagian than you can give up being a Kell Hound. Both of us are tied strongly to our backgrounds because it's shaped us and given us our sense of justice, our sense of right and wrong."
She reached into the pocket of her silver flight jacket and removed a paper-wrapped object. Placing it in Phelan's left palm, she folded his fingers over it. "You've made me think about many things, Phelan, and for that I am far more grateful than you could ever know." She swallowed hard again.
"The reason you couldn't find me last night was because I'd gone to my father's house to finish making this for you."
Phelan slowly unfolded the paper, then stiffened as the treasure within it fell into his open palm. Cast in silver, the belt-buckle took the form of the hound's-head crest of the Kell Hounds Regiments. Inlaid onyx filled the face of it and malachite colored the Hound's eyes a fierce, cold green.
Phelan's mouth hung open. "God, Tyra, this is beautiful. How can I ever ..."
She pressed a finger to his lips, then quickly kissed him. "I know the hound's eyes are supposed to be red to match the unit crest, but I used malachite to match your eyes. I made it to fit your gunbelt because you like to wear a sidearm while piloting your 'Mech. I want it to keep you safe."
Phelan swept Tyra into a bearhug, hanging on tightly until she actually felt the tremors of strain in his body. She rubbed both hands on his back, then eased herself out of his grasp. "We'd best head into the office for our joint audience."
Clutching the belt buckle in his right hand as if drawing strength from it, Phelan rose stiffly. "Whatever happens in there—and I'm making no promises—I want you to know that my loyalties include you as well." He shook his head. "I guess we should have believed it when everyone said it couldn't work—that nothing but trouble could come if a mercenary and a daughter of Free Rasalhague tried to get together."
Tyra smiled gently. "But it did work, Phelan ... for three months. Can't we be thankful for that?"
Phelan was smiling again. "We did defy the odds, didn't we?"
Tyra winked, took his left hand and led the way into the Varldherre's office.
* * *
Seated behind a massive mahogany desk, Tor Miraborg did not look up as they entered. Trimmed with gold piping, his gray jacket matched the color of his hair and beard except for the black whiskers running down either side of his mouth. Miraborg's dark eyes glittered as he closed the folder he was reading and set it atop the data monitor on the corner of his desk. As he looked up to see Phelan and Tyra holding hands, his scarred face openly displayed his anger.
"I trust you found our accommodations to your liking, Herr Kell." Sarcasm laced Miraborg's deep, rich voice.
Phelan straightened up as though his body didn't hurt at all. "Room service is less than stellar, but the complimentary massages were great fun. And I also enjoyed teaching the cockroaches to do tricks."
Miraborg's head came up. "Indeed? And how is that done?"
Phelan laughed. "It's not hard. First off, though, you have to be smarterthan the cockroach."
As the mercenary's cut hit home, Miraborg's eyes glowed with anger. "Be careful, Herr Kell, that someone doesn't mistake youfor a cockroach. And here, cockroaches often get stepped on and crushed!"
Miraborg rolled himself back from the desk, bringing his wheelchair into view. The sight of it killed Phelan's cruel riposte before he could vocalize it, but Tyra and the Varldherre read it in his eyes. No, Phelan, don't...
Miraborg's eyes narrowed to black slits in a pinched face. "That's right, Kell. I cannot do the stepping and crushing, but it's the fault of your kind that I cannot! I did not hire you mercenaries to protect us from the Periphery pirates, nor did I welcome your presence on myworld!"
"Ha!" Phelan's explosive laugh echoed off the glass wall behind Miraborg. "You wanted us here, all right. You wanted us right here on your world so you could torment us. You could have given us the liquid helium we needed to repair the Cucamulusthe second we showed up in your system and blew that seal. I stood here in this office when Captain Wilson made her request, but you said that you couldn't give us the helium because it was a strategic stockpile—even though we offered to pay for it and replace it!"