Robert Thurston - Falcon Guard

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Published by the Penguin Group

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First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library, a division of

Penguin Books USA Inc.

First Priming, December, 1991 1098765432 1

Series editor: Donna Ippolito

Cover: Bruce Jensen

Interior illustrations: Jeff Laubenftein

Mechanical drawings: Steve Venters

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To the memory of my parents

Prologue

Star Captain Joanna, in her darkest fantasies, saw herself dying with a

projectile ripping through her body, or incinerated in a BattleMech, or

destroyed by a lucky shot from an enemy MechWarrior's weapon. In her wilder

nightmares, she imagined being murdered in her bed by a vile freebirth, or

mauled by a bloodthirsty creature on some planet where she was stranded, or

perhaps ejecting successfully from the cockpit of her 'Mech only to drown in a

deep lake before she could free herself from the restraints of her ejection

seat. Once she had dreamed that the best death would come in heroic combat or

even during a Trial of Bloodright, where she would meet her end in a ferocious

final round of the competition for a Blood-name.

But now her dreams had faded, for she had become an old warrior. She still

piloted a 'Mech as a warrior of Clan Jade Falcon, but no longer would any

Bloodnamed warrior sponsor her for a slot in any Trial of Bloodright. Without

a nomination, Joanna's only hope for eligibility was to take part in a Grand

Melee, but to that she would never stoop. (Joanna knew of only one warrior who

had eventually won his Bloodname via that route, and the man was high on the

long list of people she despised.) Her best hope now was cremation after death

so that her ashes would return to the same sibko system that had spawned her

existence, to be blended with the amniotic fluid of the artificial wombs.

Without a Bloodname, Star Captain Joanna could never achieve the ultimate goal

of all Clan warriors, the inclusion of her genes in the sacred

8 Robert Thurston

gene pool. Letting that dream die had been the most difficult of all, even

after Joanna realized she would never win a Bloodname. Since then she had

added an even more dread possibility to her fantasies about death, this one of

surviving to the time when she would die in her bed either from disease or

sheer old age. Of all the ends she could imagine, that was the most appalling.

Despite all the conjectures, Joanna had never foreseen being buried alive

while trapped in the cockpit of her 'Mech, which was exactly where she was at

this moment. The Clan invasion of the Inner Sphere had been going on for nine

months now, and Joanna had just been assigned as a replacement to the Falcon

Guards. Almost immediately after she had reported to the Cluster commander,

Star Colonel Adler Malthus, the Cluster had been ordered to defend against an

Inner Sphere counterattack on theplanet Twycross.

The Falcon Guards had been traversing a pass called the Great Gash, when a

single, battered Inner Sphere Hatchetman crested the ridge line. The

BattleMech pilot identified himself as Kai Allard-Liao and issued a clumsy

batchall for the pass. The enemy's bravery was admirable, but Star Colonel

Adler Malthus went too far. Instead of simply refusing to grant Clan-warrior

status to an Inner Sphere MechWarrior, he halted the Cluster's advance, and

went out to finish off the Inner Sphere warrior alone. Star Colonel Malthus

advanced and raised the arms of his Summoner to smash the Gash's defender into

rubble, but before the blow could land, the Hatchetman exploded.

As though in sympathy, the Great Gash itself blew apart, sending rocks and

dirt spouting and flying, boulders bouncing off the surface of Joanna's

Hellbringer with a horrible clanging that nearly deafened her. Then another

nearby *Mech exploded, and before Joanna knew what had happened, she was

staring through her viewport at a wall of geological debris. With enough air

trapped in the Hell-bringer's cockpit to keep her going for awhile, she kept

her panic at bay, using the 'Mech's still-functional computer to calculate the

compartment's volume plus the amount of air that might still remain in the

circulation system. It looked like it might be enough to survive for at least

fifteen minutes, perhaps more. Who could be sure?

FALCON GUARD 9

When it came to survival, the human organism sometimes went beyond its own

limitations. Perhaps she had even more precious moments than she estimated.

Joanna briefly considered using some of the deep' concentration techniques she

had learned during warrior training so long ago. By slowing her breathing

profoundly, she might be able to remain alive even longer. Then she decided to

hell with it. She needed her wits about her and did not particularly want to

sink into some deep meditative funk. What she needed now was to keep her mind

busy enough to figure a way out of here.

With so much of her Hellbringer apparently still operational, Joanna thought

that perhaps she might still accomplish some miracle. Was she not a warrior,

the product of a scientific program that engineered the production of superior

humans by mating only the most superior genes? Add to that the abilities of

the massive piece of fighting machinery called a BattleMech—and who knew what

might be possible? Joanna had neither much faith nor liking for humanity in

general, but she had confidence to spare in herself. As for 'Mechs—she

respected them to the point of reverence.

She tried her communications system, which produced plenty of crackle and

static, but no response from anyone on the line. Perhaps it was because fallen

rock and dirt had cut off communications. Or perhaps all the other Jade Falcon

warriors were as trapped in their 'Mechs as she was, but had not escaped

death. Scanners proved inoperable also, so she could not tell how deep she and

her machine were buried in the debris.

Staring at her secondary screen, Joanna tested other systems. It was

immediately obvious that operating any of her weapon systems would be

dangerous. If she tried to fire any of them, the weapon would simply explode

and that would be the end of her. A mercifully quick end, to be sure, but not

the one she craved.

Neither of the 'Mech's arms seemed functional, either, so she could not use

them to dig herself out. Then she tried the right leg. Nothing.

The left leg, however, surprised her. She felt it strain at her attempts to

move it, though that was about all. When she switched her concentration to the

left foot, at first it failed to respond. With a little more effort, she

10 Robert Thurston

felt it move, but ever so imperceptibly. Not much more than a twitch, but

movement nonetheless. Pressing the foot pedal that operated the 'Mech's legs,

Joanna tried again to move the left foot forward. This time it seemed to budge

slightly. Not much, but enough to keep her trying.

Bit by bit, she kept at it until she had the left foot moving more freely. Now

she made it slide from side to side, each time sensing its movement to be

easier. If only her sensors were working, she could get an external view of

the leg's movements and thus a clearer idea of its cur* rent mobility.

The air in the cockpit was getting hotter, the excess of carbon dioxide making

her dizzy. No telling how much time she had left. But then, what did it matter

when the time you had left was all the time you had left?

She decided to try to kick out with the Hellbringer's leg. A dumb maneuver in

most battles, but one that might prove useful when buried alive. Working the

foot pedal, she was pleased and astonished to feel the whole leg wrench free.

Then she kicked again, laughing aloud just to feel the leg's freedom. With

that kick, Joanna had a sense of the outward thrust dislodging even more rock

and dirt. That was a start, she decided. With her next kick, she noticed a

slight movement of the 'Mech at hip level. Perhaps it was the 'Mech's design

that was working in her favor. The machine's wide shoulders might be blocking

any further avalanche of debris from tumbling down to re-bury the 'Mech's leg,

while the outward thrust of the hip was giving it sufficient leverage to

escape from the trap.

Joanna was beginning to feel drowsy, her lids wanting to flutter shut. The air

was very close. If only she could get the cleaner working again, it might be

the difference between escape and death—a matter of minutes. She swallowed

hard, with a sense that she might not ever be able to swallow again. Then she

swallowed once more, just to prove it was not true. Joanna had always been

stubborn, whether in jeopardy or at ease.

She realized now that she had no more time to wait through the minuscule gains

won with each slight move of her 'Mech. She would be dead long before she

could get to good air.

FALCON GUARD 11

Setting the controls at high, Joanna attempted to maneuver the BattleMech

forward with all the force the control systems could generate. At first

nothing happened. The right side of the 'Mech seemed completely trapped, so

she concentrated on its left. Urging the machine's left shoulder forward, she

discovered that it would move slightly, no more than a mild spasm compared to

a human shoulder's muscular convulsion. But when she repeated the action, the

shoulder gave way more. In successive attempts, she sensed the shoulder's

jerking motion, like a warrior punching in a hand-to-hand battle. The 'Mech's

right side was still wedged too tightly for the whole machine to break free.

Her only hope was in the jerky thrusts of the left side. Frantically, she

continued to shove the left shoulder forward until finally she saw some of the

debris in her viewport move. It was a slight shift, but enough to tell her she

still had a chance.

Though the cockpit was stifling and almost airless, Joanna kept at her

desperate actions until daylight suddenly showed through on the left side of

the viewport. She could still not call up a computer diagnostic of the 'Mech's

internal condition on her secondary screen, but she knew the odds were good

that the area beyond the cockpit hatchway was now clear.

At the hatchway, she yanked on the manual release lever for the hatch, but the

plate did not budge. The heat inside the cockpit was now almost unbearable.

Forcing herself to calm, she tried once more to pop the hatch, which seemed to

loosen but still did not open. With two hands now, first she pushed in on the

control, hoping to release the pressure, then with a lifting motion, she

pulled back once more. She tried this several more times, even though it took

all her strength. Then came a sound that was music to her ears, a soap that

might be the hatch lock releasing. Carefully now, gently, she continued to

pull, side to side this time, gradually opening a crack wide enough through

which she could wedge her body into the rocks and dirt beyond it. Some of the

rocks fell inward, onto the cockpit's metal flooring, creating an odd clanging

sound.

Wondering if she might have gotten enough movement from the 'Mech to free it

from the heaviest layer of rocks and dirt, Joanna tried again to move the

machine, but it

12 Robert Thurston

did not budge. She was panting, the breathable air nearly gone. Clawing

frantically at the rock wall in front of her, she dislodged rocks and flung

them behind her, pushing dirt to either side of her.

Soon most of her torso was out the hatchway and into the tunnel she had dug.

Instead of feeling exhilaration at the success, her body wanted to collapse,

close its eyes, rest, and fall asleep. Fighting the urge to give up, she began

to dig even more ferociously.

At just the moment when she might suddenly have tipped over the edge into

unconsciousness, Joanna's left hand broke free into the hot, humid outside

air. Knowing escape was so close, she rallied what little reserve energy still

remained and frantically began to scratch, dig, and claw forward. Soon she had

created a substantial hole. Air flooded in and she hungrily drew in a normal

breath. Pushing herself headfirst, she forced her body through the opening,

and emerged into the scorching air of Twy-cross. Joanna nearly collapsed just

as she worked her legs out of the hole, rolling three or four meters down the

slope of the rockfall. She landed on her back. Looking up, she saw the

Hellbringer*s shoulder, its launch mount bent backward, and a small part of

the head. It seemed to peek out from beneath a rock pile.

With great eifort, she hoisted herself to a sitting position and then looked

around her. Various BattleMech parts were strewn all over the slope and down

onto the floor of the pass. From what the wreckage showed, it looked as though

the avalanche created by the explosions must have buried the entire unit. The

Hatchetman's own fiery death must have set off the demolition charges buried

in the sides of the Gash.

This Kai Allard-Liao was a courageous warrior, free-birth Inner Sphere pilot

or not. The honor that should have gone to the Jade Falcons was now due him,

whoever he was, wherever he was.

That grim thought was the last of which Joanna was conscious before passing

out.

The Summoner, Aidan Pryde's 'Mech, lay on a plateau, looking for all the world

as though it were merely resting, taking a breather before confronting another

foe. Looks were deceiving, however. This 'Mech had met its fate in Clan Jade

Falcon's battle to take the lush but undeveloped Inner Sphere world of

Quarell. The enemy warriors left behind to defend Quarell had fought

courageously, but Aidan's forces had overwhelmed them despite the low number

of forces he had bid for the battle.

As for the Summoner, the BattleMech had been ripped apart. Its left arm lay

elsewhere on the field, and its entire left side was a tangle of metal, wires,

and other components. Aidan's chief tech, a grizzled old man named Lenk,

reported severe damage to the fusion engine and that several other systems

were inoperative. Lenk told him that any repairs would be makeshift, and so

the 'Mech could not possibly operate at peak efficiency.

Aidan agreed, ordering Lenk to tag the spare parts that might still be useful

to other 'Mechs, then assigned the rest of the Summoner for salvage. A good

Clan officer always searched for the means to turn his defeats into virtues. A

downed 'Mech, no matter how damaged, was never entirely scrapped. Someone

somewhere would have a use for its remains. Nicholas Kerensky, he who had

created the Clans, had instilled in his followers the absolute necessity for

the severest economy measures. Nothing must be discarded until it had been

squeezed dry of any possible new use. And, Aidan had noticed, there always

seemed to be at least one more.

Warriors, too, wore out, for they were soon too old to fight. They often moved

to support positions, training

14 Robert Thurston

units, but failing that, these old warriors could still perform one more

service for their Clan. In many battle situations the commander's only hope

was to buy time by sending expendable troops into the fray. These warriors

willingly sacrificed their lives. Aging warriors were often organized into

such solahma units, then sent into the field for one last battle. Aidan

thought of Ter Roshak, the training commander who had so changed the course of

his life. Only weeks before, Roshak had given his life as a member of a

solahma infantry unit.

A sad fete, thought Aidan, for a valorous warrior. Ter Roshak had survived

heroically only to die as cannon fodder, an ignominious end. But perhaps

survival had been the man's fatal mistake. Aidan would sooner die in battle,

preferably in his BattleMech and while destroying both his enemy and his

enemy's 'Mech, than live to see his worth as a warrior used up.

Having served for twenty years, he, too, was edging toward being an old

warrior. Aidan was almost forty, an age when a warrior was supposed to be

considering his options as an aging member of his Clan. Fortunately for him,

however, there was a war on, a war the Clans had been living, dying, and

preparing to fight for centuries, ever since the Exodus of their ancestors

from the Inner Sphere after the fall of the once-glorious Star League. A Star

Colonel now, Aidan could conceivably rise to high command levels, become part

of the guiding forces of the long-awaited invasion of the Inner Sphere. That

would certainly add a few years to his usefulness as a warrior. But he knew

such ideas were mere delusion. Though he had legitimately earned all his

promotions to this point, including his Bloodname, he carried a taint as a

warrior that would let him go only so far as a warrior. His codex showed too

many black marks. There was, for one, the dark cloud over the means by which

he had earned warrior status. After Aidan had failed his first Trial of

Position, Ter Roshak had schemed, even murdered, to give him an unprecedented,

and illegal, second chance at the trial to become a Clan warrior, one of the

highest honors to which any eligible young trueborn could aspire. The second

taint involved Aidan's posing as a freeborn, the false identity he'd assumed

for his second trial. The freeborn stigma still clung to him even after

FALCON GUARD 15

he had confessed his true identity. The third black mark was that he had

competed for a Bloodname despite his past record. Only a day before the Trial

of Bloodright competitions began, he had been forced to fight a Trial of

Refusal to protest his Clan's denial of his right to compete for a Bloodname.

Only by winning that contest could he overrule the Clan's decision, rfe had

won the Trial of Refusal through a combination of intelligence and skill, yet

he had never escaped the taint of the accusations against him. Last, but

hardly least, Aidan had won the Bloodname through a last-ditch maneuver that

no one could have imagined would succeed. Until the last instant, Aldan's

opponent seemed to be on the verge of crushing Aidan totally.

And yet, it was Aidan who had won the contest and his opponent who died. He

recalled the moments immediately after winning the Bloodname. He had passed

out and been rescued from Rhca, the moon over the planet Ironhold, where the

final Bloodname combat had taken place. Upon recovering, he had expected that

winning the Bloodname contest would also win the respect of his fellow

warriors. Instead, they regarded him with more suspicion than ever. Even the

official ceremonies seemed to smack of perfunctoriness rather than the usual

solemn Clan ritual. Perhaps, Aidan thought, his life would never again be free

of the stain of scandal no matter what Trials or battles he won or lost.

Even with a Bloodname, his warrior assignments had been not much better than

his assignments as a ''free-born" warrior. Over the years, Aidan sometimes

thought he must have served in every backwater military facility in the whole

globular cluster that was the Clan empire.

"You're thinking bad thoughts again," Horse said, coming up alongside him.

Aidan had qualified with Horse during his second warrior trial, and the two

had served together ever since, with only three short interruptions. This time

Aidan had specifically requested that Horse be assigned to his new command.

Many of his trueborn officers grumbled secretly about that because Horse was a

jfreeborn. Trueborns did not like serving with freeborns, especially within

the same Star.

"I am famous for being unreadable, Horse. How can you know my thoughts?"

16 Robert Thurston

Horse stroked his new full beard, which he had recently grown. Freeborns often

chose clothing or grooming styles in direct opposition to what the trues

favored. Trueborn warriors were generally clean-shaven, and if they chose to

be bearded, theirs tended toward thinner, less full growths. Horse's flowed

outward like hairy flaps on either side of his jaw.

"I've known you for a long time. You're like an open book to me, one that IVe

read many times."

Aidan was so used to hearing Horse speak that by now he barely minded the

man's excessive use of contrac-tions:—excessive even for a freeborn, who often

used them

out of defiance.

"How many books have you read many times?'* "More than you, especially since

you made Star Colonel."

Horse was right. Lately Aidan had little time for his secret library, those

paper books he had discovered so long ago in a Brian Cache. He had carried

them hidden away and undiscovered from one assignment to the next. Now that he

was a Star Colonel, he could read them openly, but no longer had the luxury of

time.

"Well, what are you going to do now?" Horse said, pointing to Aidan's downed

BattleMech. "We have no more Summoners."

Aidan had fought almost exclusively in Summoner 'Mechs during his military

career. He liked their tonnage, their various configurations, their jump

capacity. Some warriors called him a "jumping fool" for the daring leaps he

took with his 'Mech in battle. Yet there were few warriors who could attack

while descending from a high jump as well as Aidan Pryde.

"I will take out MechWanior Carmen's Timber Wolf."

"The Timber WolfT' Horse's eyebrows went up in surprise. "That's a killer

'Mech.'*

"You should not call it that."

"Should I call it Deathtrap then? That's the name for it among the

Elementals."

"Our Elementals have a morbid sense of humor, always have. But it is wrong to

ascribe traits to a BattleMech. The fact that a few warriors have died

piloting this particular—"

"A few? The Deathtrap has had more pilots than—"

FALCON GUARD 17

"Stop, Horse! I need no statistics quoted at me. I know them as well as you.

And the truth is that many pilots have survived this Timber Wolf."

"Most of them with crippling injuries or lost in madness."

"Now you exaggerate. At any rate, I will take the Timber Wolf, and that is the

end of it."

The two fell silent as they watched the techs working around the Summoner. It

reminded Aidan of a story from his secret collection, the book that told of a

human who landed in a strange land peopled by beings so small that they could

swarm like ants over the stranger's fallen body. The techs were larger in

proportion than those lilliputian literary creatures, but the effect was

similar.

"Oh," Horse said suddenly, threading his fingers through the beard, "I almost

forgot the purpose that brought me here. The reinforcements we requested have

arrived in-system and should be landing at first light this morning. Just in

time to miss the battle, as it happens. Do you want to greet 'em and brief

'em, once they are down?"

Aidan felt weariness and pain all through his body, the typical aftermath of a

fierce battle. He wanted to lie down, like the Summoner, and sleep straight

through the next two days. But duty was always of the utmost importance to

him, even routine duties like inspecting a new contingent of warriors.

"All right," he said, straightening his shoulders and lifting his head

proudly. "Wake me two hours before their arrival. Shall I give them the

abandon-hope speech?"

"I hope not. That might be like something you read, but it definitely would

not be Clan."

"No it would not. Anything I should know about these reinforcements?" Aidan

stopped suddenly, puzzled. "Why did your mouth fall open, Horse?"

"You are sometimes uncanny. It's not the first time you seem to read my mind.

Yes, there are things you should know. First, a number of freeborns are in

this lot."

Aidan shrugged. "No problem there. We are experts on freeborns, you and I."

"You speak of me as if I, too, were trueborn."

18 Robert Thurston

"I do forget. I do."

"Anyway, I know these freeborns will be trouble. A lot of anti-freeborn

resentment has developed among our Cluster, and that could lead to disputes

and fights. In a war zone, we cannot afford to lose personnel to stupid-

ity."

Aidan nodded. "And if I seem to support the freeborns, the trues will be

against me. If I support the trues, not only the frees, but you, will resent

me. A dilemma, but I can handle it."

"I am sure you can," Horse said drily, "but I am not so sure you can deal with

my other piece of information."

Aidan said nothing for a long moment, but let his gaze sweep the once-green

Quarell landscape, which was now battle-scarred with scorched trees and long,

deep gashes in the land. Then he turned to face Horse once more. "Well?" he

said finally.

"It seems that this replacement pool includes a Star Commander. She is, well,

an old warrior. She was one of the Falcon Guards who dishonored us on

Twycross. In fact, this warrior is one of the few survivors of that

debacle."

"I did not think you cared so much for abstractions like the honor of the Clan

and such."

"I do not. I am merely presenting the situation the way most of your trashborn

warriors will see it. The defeat on Twycross has shamed the Jade Falcons

deeply. Anyhow, this new Star Commander carries that dezgra with her. She was

formerly a Star Captain, but has been retested and reduced in rank to Star

Commander."

"Ah, Horse, perhaps I understand you now. This dez~ gra warrior is none other

than our very own Joanna, quiaffT*

"Aff."

Aidan frowned, the lines forcing his expression into something unfamiliar, The

Star Colonel so rarely showed emotion that even a frown looked fresh on his

skin.

"This is bad news, Horse," he said. "Very bad news indeed."

As always in battle, Diana faced her adversary with a stare as grim as it was

threatening. It was a pose she had developed long, long ago, even before

becoming a warrior. She had assumed this look in her early childhood games,

which she had tried to model on her mother's tales of her warrior father.

Diana always played her father's part, pretending pots and other utensils were

parts of a BattleMech. Then, with proper battle shrieks, she would run after

the other village children. Diana always won, for most of the children had

neither her ambition nor, for that matter, her tenacity.

Those childhood games had borne significant fruit. Diana knew she would never

be satisfied with any caste less than warrior. Even though she was not

trueborn, she knew she must become a Clan warrior. It was that fierce

conviction that had taken her with ease through training and her first warrior

assignments. Unlike many other freeborns, she simply accepted her inferior

rank in Clan society, easily ignoring the cruel remarks the trues often hurled

at her. The word freebirth, a curse among warriors, did not ordinarily inspire

her to seek retribution, as it did so many other freeborns.

She had two goals in life: to be a fine warrior and to find her father. Her

skills in the first she had already proven time and again. As for the second,

Diana was content that she would achieve it in time.

Now she stood poised in an improvised shipboard Circle of Equals, facing off

against—of all people—another dedicated freeborn warrior. The several

trueborns who had joined the observers at the outer rim of the circle seemed

amused by the sight of two frees going at one

20 Robert Thurston

another. They shouted encouragement now to one, now to the other warrior,

always peppering their cheers with scornful insults. As usual, Diana noticed

the condescension, but did not let it affect her. If she were a trueborn

standing outside the circle, she would be shouting the same insulting remarks.

Her opponent, a stocky, muscular warrior named Trader (the nickname deriving

from his origin as the son of a merchant), growled at her in the traditional

manner of honor duels. His challenge had come over the right to pilot the

Warhawk that had become available when its regular pilot took ill during the

interstellar journey to the Jade Falcon corridor of the invasion of the Inner

Sphere. The 'Mech assignment would normally have fallen to Diana because the

Star's new commander had claimed her Timber Wolf.

After hearing the assignment, Trader had stepped forward to claim that his

seniority and longer battle record made him more deserving to pilot the

Warhawk. While acknowledging privately that Trader's fighting prowess was

enviable, Diana could not, as a Clan warrior, merely acquiesce and back down.

No, the two of them must battle it out for the 'Mech.

The new commander had insisted that the contestants bid their way into the

Circle of Equals. Diana had cut off the batchall immediately with her bid that

she would meet Trader with no other weapons but her gloved hands. The bid drew

some admiration because the tall, slim Diana seemed no match for the shorter

but definitely more muscular Trader.

At the signal to begin, Trader gave a great yell that seemed to bounce off the

DropShip's walls, then charged like a wild boar straight for Diana. He landed

the first two blows, one to Diana's midsection, knocking some of the wind out

of her, and a punishing punch to the left side of her face. That one drew

immediate blood and sent her reeling backward. Her low kick in response was

ineffectual, connecting with nothing. If anything, the effect was comical.

Joanna watched with some pleasure the brawling between the two freeborn

members of her new Star. Though she hated this new assignment, she had

mellowed with

FALCON GUARD 21

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Robert Thurston - Falcon Guard.pdf

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Robert Thurston - Falcon Guard

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