As the heavy door to the private audience chamber slid open, Hanse Davion looked up at his visitor with a smile of welcome. “Special delivery, Quintus? Not bad news, I hope.”
“I am not sure whether it is news at all, my Prince.” Allard drew a green and gold holodisk from his pocket and held it up.
Hanse was puzzled. If Quintus Allard wasn't sure, circumstances must be confusing, indeed.
“It's not that the circumstances are confusing,” Allard continued, as though reading the Prince's mind. “What confuses me is the motivation that urges your beloved brother-in-law to send this message. I am wondering what he hopes to gain.”
“Well, you've got me wondering as well. Let's see this message.”
Allard nodded and placed the disk in a slot on the viewer. The lights dimmed as the viewscreen came to life. The first image was that of Michael Hasek-Davion's personal heraldry, a golden lion against a green field. The artwork then dissolved into an image of Michael seated at his desk. The holotech had carefully composed the shot to place the lion's eyes where Michael's own green ones would appear. The conceit identifying Michael with the noble beast was marred by the restlessness in the real eyes. The voice that came from the speaker was a better match. It was a politician's voice, deep and sonorous.
“Salutations, brother. I hope that these greetings from Marie and myself find you well. I know what a tiresome job it is to rule the Federated Suns, and so I will take little of your time.”
Hanse and Allard exchanged glances at that. Both knew how quickly Michael would grab that “tiresome job” if he could. In the holofilm, the Duke of New Syrtis twitched his long braid of black hair off the shoulder of his spotless uniform. “I have recently come into a bit of information that might interest you,” he said.
Michael flicked his hand at someone out of the recorder's view. The holo image changed, flattening to an ordinary black and white video. The scene thus revealed was a darkened room, lit fitfully by a flickering blue glow-globe on the center of a table. A small, rumpled man sat at that table, the light throwing strange shadows across his sharp features. The man's shifty gaze ran about the room before focusing on something or someone not in the picture.
The sparse furnishings and grubby walls were little help in identifying its location. Alcohol advertisements proclaimed it as belonging to a drinking establishment, and so it was probably the back room of a seedy bar that could have been almost anywhere in the Inner Sphere.
Michael's voice explained. “My agent intercepted this on Le Blanc. It was addressed to a certain Sten Weller, a notorious freelance hunter. I believe it was data intended to accompany an invitation to partake in some work.”
The Duke stopped talking just as the man on the screen began to speak. “I told you in the 'gram. Wuz her, all right. Couldna been anybody else. They wuz even black 'Mechs.
“Wents out to Kempis town myself, I did. After things was quiet. Talked to a guy'd seen her. Nailed her phiz and red hair. Even told me 'bout that fancy iron she carries. Gots the word on her Hammerfrom another rube.
“They wuz real professional-like. I seen the Fed 'Mech arm they left ta throw the trail. They wuz in and out real quick. Gots what they wanted and cleaned them Snakes out real good. Real pros. It all ties up. Had to be them.
“Done good work for ya. I did.”
Another man came partially into view. The cyan light from the glow-globe reflected off a cuirass and vambraces heavy with compartments and protuberances. Though the man's head was in shadow, stray gleams revealed that he wore a helmet as well. The reedy snitch flinched as the armored man moved forward, hand outstretched. That hand opened to drop a wallet onto the table. The rat-faced man snatched it up as though afraid it would disappear. Then it did, into his shabby clothes.
“Lordy, man. It's good work. Like a real detective, I wuz.”
“It had better be good cop, my well-paid friend.” The armored man's voice was electronically modulated, indicating either that his helmet was sealed from the environment or that he had an expensive voice distorter to conceal his voice as the helmet concealed his face. “If it's a set-up, Billy, ain't no place you can hide from me.”
“It's good cop. Honest. On my life.” The man was plainly frightened of his associate.
“That's right.” The cold voice made it a promise.
The scene dissolved, bringing Michael's face back to the screen.
“If you haven't already guessed, brother, the subject of that conversation is the notorious Black Widow, Natasha Kerensky. It seems that she and her ragtag collection of misfits and malcontents have been committing atrocities against House Kurita on the planet of New Mendham.
“As the little man said, they are real professionals. Professional killers, not soldiers.
“I know of your fascination with Wolf's Dragoons, and I thought this might open your eyes to see past their glamour. They are little more than bandits, rogues from the Periphery. It's true that they are well-equipped in these days of hand-me-down 'Mechs and half-functional factories. No doubt they have plundered some forgotten waystation left over from General Kerensky's exodus.
“Well-equipped or not, they are mercenary scum hiding behind the carefully constructed lie of being professional soldiers. They are professional looters,working their way through the Sphere, and they should be crushed rather than courted.
“As you know, I have only the best interests of the Federated Suns and our own glorious House at heart. I thought that you should see this before your agents on Galatea conclude a deal that could affect our prestige.
“I said I would take little of your time, and so I will sign off, leaving you to consider this revealing information.” Michael's face changed from earnest seriousness to his bland, everyday smile. “Farewell until we meet again, brother.”
The holo faded and Allard brought the room lights back to their normal level.
Hanse was frowning. “Atrocities. That's not like the Natasha Kerensky I knew twenty years ago.”
That Kerensky was twenty years younger and had not lost a lover to a Successor Lord's betrayal,Allard thought. She could have changed.
“I'll grant that she's bold and outspoken, but she's a showdown type. She's not a backstabber.” In spite of his defense of Kerensky's character, Hanse found it necessary to ask, “Is the story true?”
“That's what confuses me,” Allard confessed. “A Kurita supply convoy was looted and destroyed in Kempis on the date in question. Many civilian casualties occurred as well. There is no doubt that the atrocity occurred.
“The question of the identity of the perpetrators is open. The mercenary expeditionary force we dispatched to New Mendham reported no contact with the Black Widows, and my subordinates cannot reliably determine the location of the Widows during that time period. It is possible that Kerensky's company was on New Mendham and behaved as the witnesses report.”
“Why is Michael sending us this tape now?”
“If the allegation is true, he is acting as any loyal Davion concerned for our honor.”
“Michael, loyal?” Hanse laughed.
“As much as he wants what he thinks is due him, even Michael would not see the Federated Suns destroyed by her enemies,” Allard reminded the Prince. “Whether the story is true or false, he may simply be a message boy, passing on things that the friends of his Liao friends wish us to hear.”
“An intriguing possibility,” Hanse said, his expression becoming thoughtful. “Despite my 'well-known fascination,' I have lost track of what Wolf and his people are up to these days. Weren't they in on that business on Barlow's End?”
“They were, my Prince. Battle intelligence reports that the raiding force was composed of the bulk of Alpha Regiment and Zeta Battalion, along with a substantial Kurita component.”
“House troops? Was that some kind of response to Operation Galahad?”