Phelan fought against the Shockwave of the fusion engine's explosion, but it shook the Wolfhound'shead furiously and upended the muzzle. It also caused the escape pod to prematurely deploy its parafoil, which failed to expand properly in the thin atmosphere and became fouled as the pod slowly flipped up and over in a lazy imitation of the dying Blackjack.
Phelan pulled his feet off the thrusters and snapped the gyrostabilizers on line with the press of a button. The asteroid's inhospitable surface filled his viewports as a massive spark arced across the command console. Controls flickered and monitors died in a puff of acrid white smoke. As thick as it was, the smoke could not obscure the vision of the asteroid as it grew larger and larger.
Stabbing both feet down on the thrusters, Phelan threw his head back and braced for a collision. Hope it's just the monitors that shorted out, not the jets themselves. This better work!
Phelan Kell never found out if his effort did succeed, for the escape pod's third bounce across the surface tossed him against his restraining belts and one of them parted. Slewed half out of the command couch, he could do nothing to help himself as the fourth bounce smashed his neurohelmet against the command console and blackness stole his sight.
BOOK II
Claws of the Beast
9
ComStar First Circuit Compound, Hilton Head
Island North America, Terra
15 September 3049
Myndo Waterly, Primus of ComStar, extended a hand to her visitor. "The Peace of Blake be with you, Precentor Martial."
The tall man genuflected with the same crisp motion he might have used to salute another warrior. Then he took her hand, allowing her fingers to curl over his index finger, and raised her hand to his lips. "Thank you, Primus," he said, straightening up. "And with you as well."
The rarnrod-straightness of his stance made her marvel at his body's power despite age and the traumas inflicted in a long career. The black thong of his eye patch circled his head, holding his flowing white hair in check and covering the empty socket of his right eye. The crow's feet radiating from his left eye might have hinted at his age, but the sense of inner peace Myndo read in his stance contradicted it.
I fear my time as Primus has not allowed me to age as well as you.A soul-sucking weariness seemed to fill her bones with lead and make her feel as though each breath were drawn from a vacuum. Your calm is your power. Is this something the years in that Combine monastery granted you, or did you pick it up during your training in the ways of ComStar?
Myndo forced herself to smile as she slipped her right hand into her left sleeve. "Before we begin, I wish to congratulate you."
The Precentor Martial looked confused. "Congratulate me?"
'Today you are 78 years old. That is quite an achievement, Anastasius Focht."
Focht folded his arms across his chest as though warding off a chill. "I suppose it is. My birthday, that is. That is so much a part of my old life, though, that I hardly consider it. Really, I mark my life as starting with my conversion." A smile caught at the corners of his mouth. "That makes me less than a quarter of my chronological age."
Hiding her envy behind a mask of friendly pleasure, the Primus said, "Then you are truly blessed with the Peace of Blake."
The Precentor Martial acknowledged her kind words with a courteous bow, but his grin faded. "I came as soon as my staff and I had completed our preliminary study of the material you sent. The suborbital plane had to change its reentry vector to get around some bad weather in the gulf or I would have been here sooner."
"Did you find the material as disturbing as I did?"
"Yes, Primus. Perhaps even more so. I found the reports of fighting in the Periphery curious."
Myndo arched a brow. "Obviously. If I had not found the messages entrusted to our center at Verthandi unusual, I would not have sent copies down to you and then summoned you away from the training exercises in Azania. My concern was due to the Kell Hounds spending so much of their own money to transmit a message to their home base."
Focht opened his hands. "Battling in the Periphery, especially in the area of the Oberon Confederation, is not at all remarkable. The warring bands of pirates out there generally let people know when they've stomped on a rival or sent a mercenary unit home with a bloodied nose. Granted, their reports seldom check out in terms of casualties or 'Mechs lost for either side, but the outcome of the battle is seldom in error because the losers cannot afford to advertise their weakness."
The Precentor Martial began to pace, his white robe gathering and clutching at his long legs as he moved back and forth. "In this case, we've not heard from Kenny Ryan, which means he did not win this contest with the Kell Hounds. Nothing short of his death would prevent him from bragging about a victory. The Kell Hounds themselves have acknowledged defeat, but deny it came at the hands of Ryan's band. That rings true, despite the fact that the Hounds only sent out a company to chase the pirates. Even without Morgan Kell, his nephew Christian, Dan Allard, or Akira Brahe leading them, the Hounds would have been more than a match for that lot of bandits."
Myndo found herself becoming irritated. "Your analysis eliminates some of the more obvious answers to the mystery, Precentor. Could it be that Captain Wilson lied in her report to cover Phelan Kell's death? Certainly, the death of his son would make Morgan Kell very angry."
Focht's left eye narrowed as if summoning up an ancient memory. "That is true, and an angry Morgan Kell is not someone I would want to deal with, no matter what the circumstances. I would accept your explanation had the battlerecorder data not been appended to the message they asked us to send."
Myndo shook her head, then hooked a lock of hair back behind her left ear. "Not being a Mech Warrior, perhaps I don't understand the significance you attach to that information."
Focht smiled indulgently. "Aside from the data being unique, the fact that it was broadcast is remarkable. Each 'Mech has a battle recorder that keeps track of everything from sensor inputs to a complete diagnostics record for the 'Mech. After a battle, providing the recorder remains intact, the action may be reviewed. When plugged into a simulator, for example, pilots can see exactly what happened in the battle, including all their monitors and instruments."
The Precentor Martial pressed his hands together. "Kell's broadcast was a desperate move, because sending the data out on such a widebeam meant his enemies as well as his friends could get it. Granted the transmission quality was bad, but that is more due to the electromagnetic properties of Sisyphus's Lament than any problem with the equipment at that point."
Something dreadful tugged at the corners of her consciousness, but the Primus could not identify it. "So, Morgan Kell's whelp does not have his father's nerves of steel and panicked ..."
Focht raised a hand to stop her. "Phelan may not be his fattier, but that battle tape shows no lack of nerve. He identified the forces he faced as unusual in the extreme, and realized he would not escape that encounter. His broadcast was a message from the dead—a warning to those who survived."