Mechwarrior: Dark Age #27

The blisteringly bright red-orange sun turned the endless field of white on the slopes of K20—broken only now and then by harsh pinnacles of the blackest ballast thrust up like a giant’s fingers reaching for the sun—into a glaring canvas of flame that ate at his vision and his brain’s ability to cope.

Squinting, Christopher Marik hunched precariously forward, desperate to keep control of the hoverboard. He screamed, a cry of fear and pure animal joy as the hoverboard shot out into an abyss and his stomach clawed into his throat; the rebreather’s vibrations on his back spiked up a notch as it worked for more airflow.

For what seemed an eternity Christopher danced above a flame-washed winter wonderland, screaming with exultation before gravity finally tugged hard enough to pull the board down the almost thirty-meter vertical drop-off. Windmilling his arms helped him keep his balance and the small cushion of air under the board managed to soften the blow as he reconnected to the sheer face, but a sheet of powder sprayed around him like a wave thrashing a rock during a surging tide. The force of the impact almost drove his chin into his knees, and pain spiked along his entire body, accentuated by the subzero weather.

Despite the conditions and the numbing cold working its way through the layers of insulated clothing, another shout slipped out as he expertly raced ahead of the avalanche started by his impact. Slaloming in a short s-track, he began a mad dash down into a large defile, careening through flashing patches of stark white and darkest night: a mad blur of sight and adrenaline that pummeled his senses until he cackled.

He snatched a desperate look at the lower portion of the heads-up display on his helmet visor, which showed a compacted 180-degree window of what lay behind: a sluicing tide of white, climbing ever higher as the defile compressed the snow wave, rushing forward with increasing speed; an albino monster, ravenous with hunger and seeking its prey. Bright green eyes sought the speedometer in the upper-right corner of the heads-up display and another scream of triumph ripped free as he saw the digital readout climb past two hundred kilometers an hour.

Crouched low, head almost between his knees, Christopher finally pegged the bright outline of the end of the defile shooting toward him as the wall of snow nearly engulfed him. With all the skill he could muster, Christopher pushed the hoverboard forward, as though increasing its speed by will alone, launching out of the defile as the avalanche detonated around him. The sharp decline following the slight rise at the defile’s end—along with his speed and the concussive blast of snow swirling under him—sent the board into a dangerous canted-edge slew. Christopher bent almost lateral to the left, as far as his binding-encased boots would allow, but he knew he’d lost this fight.

‘‘Gamma Release,’’ he shouted, and the outer casing on his bindings exploded away from his boots, kicking his feet off as he thrust farther to the left, toppling him in the opposite direction from the hundred-kilogram hoverboard as it hammered on its side into the snow and began a series of flips that would have shattered his ankles. In an instant, the smooth-as-silk hoverboard would have become a cumbersome death trap.

While his mind chewed on that curiosity, he slammed into the ground, the wind knocked from him in a painful creaking of ribs. He felt ligaments tear in spasms of pain across his body.

As quick as that the avalanche was on him, the rebreather in overdrive to fill his battered lungs. He ignored the pain and kicked hard to the surface, stroking through the snow like he was swimming. He’d felt the impact tear away his communication antenna, so screaming into his communicator wouldn’t bring anyone . . . yet he screamed anyway, anger that he’d managed to traverse nearly the entire Kallfield ice slope of K20 only to be dumped by a little decline sloshing away his fear.

A small part of his mind wondered if the avalanche could have expended most of its energy coming out of the defile. Yet that thought hardly sparked on a conscious level as he concentrated on trying to keep above the cresting waves of white. Knew it to be hopeless when darkness brought cool relief to his ravaged eyes and he sank into the bowels of the frosty beast.

The exasperated voice caused Christopher to wince. He couldn’t see Charlie through the cool packs secured over his eyes with gauze, but from experience knew a dark frown pushed the man’s petulant lips into a pout that would do a five-year-old proud.

‘‘Thought it was a good idea at the time,’’ Christopher said, careful to not move any muscles beyond his lips. About the only part of me that doesn’t hurt. At least not too much.

He swallowed and winced as he discovered that even his throat muscles were sore (not to mention the foul taste of multiple medications coating his tongue); he was already growing tired of Charlie’s presence. You need a better name than Charlie. Charlie’s a good buddy to hang out with. Grab some air with. You? You’re a Reginald. Or a Dwight. Officious bastard your mom sticks on your coattails. That still stung— handing him the sports tour with one hand and saddling him with a chaperone with the other.

The slap of Charlie’s hand on a counter sounded like a shot in the small hospital room. ‘‘You keep saying that. And while you repeat that mantra, I have my own litany. You were specifically told about the Kallfield ice slope. You were told it’s a protected region of K20. They’ve opened up the entire mountain, except for one small section, to men and women stupid enough to strap on a board and try skiing down a natural formation that pierces the atmosphere. That one small section protects an endangered species. But no. You can’t stop yourself. You’re right in the middle of a marathon competition and you simply can’t resist pulling out and going down the most dangerous part of the mountain. By yourself.’’

‘‘Not just because it’s the most dangerous part of the mountain, but because they told you no,’’ Charlie forged on, voice growing ever more strident. ‘‘Her Grace specifically asked permission for you to enter the Commonwealth. She didn’t need to ask, but she felt it to be a courteous gesture before one of her blood entered another former League realm. Particularly a realm where we aren’t exactly welcome. And now you go gallivanting around without a care for how this affects your mother or our diplomatic relations. . . .’’

Behind the blackness of his gauze compress Christopher didn’t try to hide his sigh as his mind wandered. Not even a ‘‘glad to see you alive.’’ The second they wheel me in here after digging me out of the snow and he’s all over me with the same tired crap. Sure, Mom was all about being courteous. That’s exactly it. Had nothing to do with taking my ultimate extreme trip and turning it into her own tool of state. And I don’t even understand the point. Do what I want to do; I’ll get instructions from her later. And then she slaps Courteous Charlie on me like a deadweight shackled to my board.

Charlie’s sharp tone dragged Christopher from his own bitter thoughts. He resisted the urge to scratch his nose, unwilling to subject his tired muscles to the pain; he knew Charlie wouldn’t help, nor would he ask. ‘‘Boarding.’’

‘‘It’s all over the local news. They’re calling you ‘Hellion Hughes.’ A slap in Our Grace’s face and smear on her rightful use of the Marik name and you’re laughing? You’ll be kicked off-world. Perhaps even out of the Commonwealth.’’

He shrugged and then hissed as his muscles protested. ‘‘Damn it. Leave me alone now, eh, Charlie? So they’re going to kick me off the world. Been there, done that. Plenty of other worlds to conquer. Plenty of other mountains. My mother, Your Grace, gave me permission to go on this trip . . . so I’m gonna take it.’’

Janos looked at the man gravely after returning the salute. He had never cared for Ivan Casson, and knew that the force commander was aware of his feelings. He didn’t know or care how the man felt about him. Despite the fact that you enjoy Mother’s patronage, I don’t like loose cannons, and you and your Eagle’s Talons are powder kegs.

Janos’ hand carefully straightened the pen on the desk until it sat perfectly parallel to the stack of papers and flicked away an imagined mote of dirt. Always impatient, Force Commander. It’s what cost you your raid on Wyatt. It’s why you’re still stuck here, even if Mother has given you a new rank. He let the silence lengthen until the other man betrayed his nervousness by running his hand over his salt-and-pepper flattop.

‘‘I have to ask, Force Commander, why have you come to me with this request? It seems to me such a request should go directly through your own chain of command. Is that not so, Commander?’’ Janos settled more firmly into the high-backed chair in the well-appointed office, as though settling in for a long philosophical conversation to while away the evening hours.

‘‘Sire,’’ the other man finally responded, looking him full in the face, ‘‘this training has been ongoing under the direction of Her Grace. It was initiated under her signature and continues at her will.’’

Janos frowned, reached forward and lifted the paper he had been examining when the force commander arrived; a report detailing how Ambassador Rikkard from the Magistracy of Canopus had spent almost twice the usual length of time—in twice the usual number of visits—with Duke Ari Humphreys of the Duchy of Andurien in a month’s time. He certainly didn’t need to review the report again; he’d already decided that the ambassador likely was lobbying for a renewal of the contracts for a Pleasure Circus to cycle through Andurien space. He had jotted a note to himself in the margin to check when their own contracts expired. The Canopians were notorious for getting the upper hand in such negotiations, and Janos meant for the Protectorate to be on top for once. Something to show Mother when she returned. No, he was reviewing it now just to put Casson in his place.

Mother. There is a chain of command for a reason, and it should be followed. Why will you not see that? Such loose cannons as Casson can only go off in your hand. After reading the page several times and not remembering a word of it, he finally placed the paper back on the table. Took a moment to realign it on the stack.

‘‘I am only a regent in my mother’s absence. I’m well aware of my mother’s actions concerning your Eagles, and I’ve already countersigned the approval for the additional funding.’’

He firmly placed Casson into a mental stack of finished business and picked up the next report. He read the page several times—something about a request from a border world for a formal reception with his mother—but his mind was distracted and he couldn’t make sense of it.

You think as little of me as I do of Casson, Mother. Even Father doubts. That painful realization came years ago, creating a wound that refused to scab over for a long time. Now it was simply a scar that he rubbed now and then, that ached when the weather of politics darkened and he discovered anew that his mother no longer believed him fit to rule. Their mother felt the same about Julietta, and that made him angry; how dare she think so little of his best friend?

I’ve given you everything, Mother. I have been a perfect son. Someday, when you see that the wild sides of Christopher and Nikol cannot be tamed, you will find that the son who has stood by your side is the one right for the Protectorate.