Lethal Heritage

An edge entered the voice. "Deception will not help you."

Phelan sat back against the chair, but tipped his head forward to shade his eyes. He already felt heat from the light collecting in his mop of black hair. "I am Phelan Patrick Kell."

"Very well." The tone implied belief that he was still lying, and suggested dire consequences would result, but it moved on. "Where is your codex?"

Phelan blinked at his own reflection. "My codex?"

"Where is your codex?"

The young mercenary frowned. "Explain what a codex is."

"Deception will not help you. We will go on with this until we are satisfied."

Phelan forced himself to unknot his hands. "I don't know what you are talking about."

"Who is your father?"

Phelan's expression eased. "Colonel Morgan Kell, Morgan Finn Kell."

"Who is your mother?"

"Salome Ward Kell."

The inflection change in the voice surprised Phelan, almost as much as his answer seemed to surprise the questioner. "Deception will not help you. Who is your mother?"

"Salome Ward Kell."

Another voice, clearly male, came through the speaker. "Does your mother claim a Captain Michael Ward of the Star League Defense Forces?" The second voice gave off more feeling, and Phelan almost instantly felt a desire to please that person with his answer.

Easy, Phelan. Be careful. This is the standard good guy/ bad guy interrogation technique.He stared forward at the glass. "Yes, on both sides of the family. Her father and mother were distant cousins."

The harsh voice snapped a quick question. "What does the name Jal mean to you?"

The irritation in the harsh voice infected Phelan. "How the hell should I know?" Even as he snarled his answer, something nibbled at the back of his mind. "Wait! Jal was Michael Ward's son. Someone said he took off with General Kerensky in his father's place."

Curiosity seemed to fill the pleasant voice's next question. "Are you sure of this?"

Phelan shrugged as much as the restraints would allow.

"As sure as I can be of ancient family history. We have it all written down somewhere so I never bothered to memorize it."

The harsh voice returned. "Where is your codex?"

Phelan ground his teeth. "What is a codex?"

Neither voice answered his question. The speaker went dead, and for a second, the irrational fear that he had been abandoned shot through Phelan like a laser bolt. Get a grip! You've been in solitary confinement for so long that any contact seems like a godsend.He looked up at his own reflection. Those questions and answers could have been programmed into a computer easily.

Phelan grinned to himself and chuckled lightly. Hell, you were only twelve when you cobbled together that soundactivated synthesizer. When your mother opened the door to your room to check on you at night and the hinges squeaked, the synthesizer made those sleepy sounds and snores that convinced her you were asleep. At least, it fooled her for a week while you learned how to play poker in the bachelor Officers Quarters.

He glanced at the silvery mirror again. Nothing in those voices or words that proves them to be human-generated. Especially the harsh one. If that is a human voice, its owner has a serious attitude problem.

The pleasant voice again crackled through the hidden speaker. "Please forgive the delay. I would like to keep this initial debriefing friendly. Do you think this is possible?"

"Sure."

"Excellent." Phelan heard some clicking come over the speaker— the sound of fingers on a keyboard?—before the next question. "You are certain you have no knowledge of a codex."

Phelan shook his head. "It doesn't manipulate a hologram for me. I've no recollection of ever having heard of it at all."

"A codex is a readout of your genetic pattern. It is quite important."

Phelan chewed his lower lip. "I still don't know what a codex is, but I have had some genotyping. I mean, everyone in the mercenary company has. We use it for identifying people in the event of a death. But that's all kept back with headquarters."

"Interesting." The voice seemed grateful for Phelan's frank answer. "You mention being a member of a mercenary company. What is it?"

Phelan rocked back in the chair. "The Kell Hounds." How odd. Everyone knows about the Kell Hounds."I serve in the Second Regiment."

Shocked disbelief flowed through the pleasant voice. "Tworegiments. This mercenary band has tworegiments?"

Unfocused dread gnawed at Phelan's guts. He sounds surprised and unsettled by that news, but the Hounds have had a second regiment for the last nine years. When Katrina Steiner died, her will pledged enough money to raise another regiment for the Hounds. The original bequest left to my father and his brother by Arthur Luvon, Katrina's husband, was how they formed the original Kell Hounds. Katrina's money doubled the Hounds' size and gave us far more financial freedom than we'd known before.

He looked up at the mirror and forced himself to keep his expression as relaxed and friendly as appropriate under the circumstances. Behind his eyes, though, his mind had already dropped filters in place to keep from spilling damaging data until he could assess the threat his captors posed. Phelan had assumed, when taken and imprisoned, that he was a captive within an internecine Periphery war. He was not so sure now.

The pleasant voice had regained its composure. "You said you served with a mercenary band with two regiments. Are those BattleMech regiments?"

Phelan nodded earnestly, ignoring the cold sweat running down his spine. "Yes. I know, that makes us one of the smaller merc units, but we try to make up in quality what we lack in quantity." His heart pounded in his ears as he waited to see what effect his lie had on his interrogator.

"And these units are truly that: mercenary? They have no allegiance to a lord?" Doubt had bled out of the voice, but an urgency seeped in to replace it, along with something else.

Careful, Phelan. There's a lot riding on this answer.The young mercenary swallowed hard. "As mercenaries, their loyalty is to their employer first. But," he rushed to add, "many mercenaries will not accept offers from nobles they consider unscrupulous. Many don't like doing crowd control or acting as a police force, either. Mercenaries fight wars and that's it."

The harsh voice returned full of triumph. "But was not your pursuit of the pirates a police action?"

The condescending tone of the question stung Phelan. "You ask that as if pursuing bandits is somehow less than honorable. If it is, why were you out there?" Phelan snorted derisively. "At least my companion and I were evenly matched against our enemies. It would have been a fair fight without your interference."

The mirror shook as something hit it from the other side with a muffled thump. Phelan brought his head up and smiled broadly at his unseen interrogators. If they reacted so well to that small a verbal jab, wait until I really stick it to them.

The pleasant voice resumed the questioning, but the lighter tone of the queries told Phelan he'd won some respect by nettling the owner of the harsh voice. Though the harsh voice did not return as the session wore on, Phelan realized from the way some of the questions were phrased that Hothead—as Phelan mentally tagged him—was still in the room and listening. Phelan's defenses came up whenever he heard a hostile question, which happened often enough to make him give away very little information.

* * *

The middle-aged man leaned against his high-backed chair. His left elbow rested on the chair's arm, his left hand stroking his white moustache and goatee. As his blue eyes followed the lines of text flowing up over his data terminal, the monitor's amber glow brought golden highlights to his short white hair. As the information ended, he tapped a key with his right hand and shut the terminal down.