Päl and Khim stood in the dinner reception line for nearly half an hour, greeting guest upon guest. Faces blurred with names and Päl felt a dull pain creep along the base of his skull. The muscles around his mouth ached and he worked his jaw back and forth as he preceded his parents into the dining room.

  Most of the conversation centered around the transfer of power to Tancred Sandoval, who had declined tonight’s invitation, begging pardon and needing to attend to his own family.

  Several guests asked him on occasion to retell the battle of Ashio—some wanting the bloody details of the Ranger’s retreat while they ate. But the young MechWarrior wasn’t ready to recount to strangers some of the more painful events of his life, and bowed out with grace and politeness most becoming a Baron’s son.

  As the meal ended he excused himself, pleading a headache, which was the truth. The Baron escorted Khim toward the veranda where he and the Baroness had planned an extravaganza of fireworks.

  Päl went down into the kitchens in search of Chauncy. The house Mistress claimed no knowledge of where his nanny had gone. Remembering aspirin in the medicine cabinet of his and Khim’s apartments, the Baron’s son took the steps two at time, pausing only briefly at the top to cast a glance at the door of his father’s study.

  So much of what he’d heard earlier jumbled about in his head. He suspected his father had lied to those family members—for he doubted Tancred would have agreed to work with Theodore Kurita if he suspected sabotage. And Päl believed the lie was meant to turn their family’s support away from Victor.

  Political intrigue and posturing was what had killed Arthur. Päl wanted no part of it. In the field there was no place for such games, but here within the walls of the Sandoval family, that was all that seemed to exist.

  Once inside his darkened bedroom, Päl pulled his sword from its sheath and set it on his bed. With a sigh he tucked his gloves into his belt and strode into the bathroom where he turned on a single light. Ignoring his tired reflection in the mirror, he found the aspirin and swallowed several without water.

  An old familiar noise, one he’d not heard since childhood, came from the bedroom. It was the sound of the old service door beside his and Khim’s bed. As a small boy Päl had often hidden inside that door, and sometimes traveled the tunnels behind it for adventure. But he’d sealed the door years ago.

  He looked from the bathroom to his bedroom. He saw nothing at first and he feared the events of the day—especially spying the intruder earlier—had him jumping at shadows. But since caution had often saved him in battle, he turned the bathroom’s light off to shroud himself in darkness and then crouched behind the door’s frame to peer out at the bedroom.

  Light from the hall gave subtle illumination to a movement in the wall to the right of their bed. As he suspected, someone was opening the hidden door. From the secret entrance came a dark-clad figure that crouched once it gained admittance. The door closed with an audible click.

  Päl couldn’t be sure if this was the intruder from before. He couldn’t see the figure’s detail in the shadowy light. The figure stood and pulled something from within the folds of his garment.

  Light glinted off metal. Recognition gave him pause. He had a Nakjima pistol.

  An assassin.

  Päl’s sword lay on the bed, between himself and the intruder. His knives lay nestled within the drawer of his nightstand. He had no weapon readily available to him.

  From the assassin’s movements he read that his presence was still unknown. It was best to remain hidden, and to watch. The dark-clad figure crept to the bedroom door. With his free hand on the frame, he looked from the left to the right, as if checking for someone.

  Once he was gone, Päl ran to the bed, grabbed his sword. He then pulled his knives from the drawer and tucked them, unsheathed, into the belt of his dress uniform. He then moved to the door and peered cautiously around. There was no sign of the assassin.

  With the sword ready, Päl moved to the stairs and caught the fleeting glimpse of dark robes at the foot of the stairs as the figure turned to the right in the direction of the ballroom.

  Once at the foot of the stairs, Päl told a guard of the intruder. "Gather the others and find him."

  The guard gave the Baron’s son a quick nod, then turned just as Päl’s father and mother approached from the other direction.

  "Päl, where have you—"

  He put up a hand to silence Marquin. "I believe an assassin has entered the estate from the old door of my bedroom. I’ve alerted the guards."

  "An assassin?" Marquin Wyndham-Sandoval’s usually ruddy expression had gone quite pale. "In my home?"

  "Where is Khim? I need you to take her out of here but don’t panic the guests. I’ll find him." He turned to go.

  The Baroness pulled on Päl’s arm as her son turned away. "Päl—Khim went to look in on your son. She’s gone to the open nursery." The open nursery was on this floor—opposite the ballroom.

  My son.

  Päl ran as fast as he could toward the nursery wing. His feet pounded against the tiled floor as guests yelled after him, curious as to his alarm. He hoped none would follow. When he entered, the room was dark. Autumn moonlight filtered in through the open windows, casting shadows over the bed and crib. Päl held his sword ready. The light flashed off his blade as he crouched low and looked into the bed where his son should be sleeping.

  It was empty.

  In the dark he heard the familiar sound of a weapon powering up. He moved out of the way as a blast lit up the room, the weapon’s energy discharge narrowly missing his head to splash off the far wall.

  The assassin stood just inside the door. He held Khim in his arms, her windpipe cut off by his left hand. He held the pistol aimed at her temple.

  Päl’s heart froze.

  "Drop your sword." The assassin’s voice was deep, unassuming. The Baron’s son found no accent, no place to claim the man’s heritage. "Drop it."

  "Where is my son?" Päl dropped the sword to the ground with a loud clanking.

  "I don’t know where your son is—he’s not why I’m here."

  "Then who is? My wife?"

  The man’s head moved back and forth slowly. Päl couldn’t make out his features in the subdued light. The assassin turned the pistol on Päl and fired again.

  A bright flash illuminated the room. Päl had anticipated such a move, though, and lunged for the safety of a nearby toy-chest. But this time he hadn’t moved fast enough, and as he landed, he realized the intruder’s Nakjima had struck its target. His left shoulder burned with fire as if someone was holding a hot branding iron to his muscle and bone. He stifled a cry as he landed on the burned flesh and was able to right himself into a crouch.

  Khim called out to him, but her voice was abruptly silenced. The assassin had closed his grip on her throat.

  "Who sent you?" Päl reached down to his belt and pulled out a set of knives. Their cold steel blades felt good in his hands. He peered around the box. The assassin had pulled Khim back several meters, into the shadows.

  The lack of light did nothing to sway Päl’s confidence, but the injury to his arm did. The pain when he rotated it experimentally was solid, and it would grow more intense until it was treated. He felt the warm trickle of blood down his chest as he sized up the distance and speed he would need.

  To compensate for his handicap, he needed an opportunity—a second when the assassin wouldn’t be expecting an attack from the dark.

  The assassin shifted.

  That was the opportunity Päl needed.

  Too late he realized he still wore his Battle Academy ring. He aimed, allowing his knowledge of position and skill to determine the best placement of his weapons. He might have made better aim if only his left shoulder hadn’t protested with sharp fire, or his ring had not caught the knife’s edge.

  But fate was on his side and the right knife found purchase in the assassin’s weapon hand, the blade piercing the palm. The assassin yelled and dropped the weapon.

  His second knife shot wide to Päl’s right, and embedded itself in his wife’s side beneath her breast. Blood streamed down her milk-white dress.

  "No!" Päl dove forward to catch his falling wife as the intruder released her and fell back into the corner’s shadow. She clung to him, her eyes wide.

  He lowered her to the floor as he realized the assassin moved toward the door.

  Vengeance drove him as he pulled the second set of knives from his belt. He narrowed his eyes as he studied the shadows, turned a practiced ear to the sounds of footsteps and gauged their distance. Päl pulled his ring from his finger and set it on the floor with swift ease. The assassin stumbled near the nursery’s entrance and Päl let fly his weapons, shutting out the fire that burned into his shoulder with the movement.

  A cry of pain answered the Baron’s son as he struck his target. The man collapsed in an untidy pile.

  Khim was hurt badly, bleeding to death. He had to take care of his wife, but there were things that Päl had to know. Duty pulled him in two directions, and he was too-recently a soldier. With a glance at Khim, he moved across the floor to the felled enemy. The assassin lay on his side and Päl pulled him onto his back. Both knives had found a home in the man’s neck, one to either side. Blood fountained over Päl’s hands as he grabbed the man’s collar and pulled him close.

  "Who sent you?"

  The assassin shook his head.

  He pulled the attacker closer. The coppery smell of blood was everywhere. No time! Päl had to attack quickly and with ruthless strength. How his mother would handle it.

  "I will know your name. Give over your employer, or I will see your family held accountable for your treachery this night."

  The man shuddered in Päl’s hands and he feared the assassin would expire before speaking. When the attacker opened his mouth, blood pooled over the sides as he whispered in a gurgled voice, "The Baroness Wyndham-Sandoval."

  Pälreleased the man, and the assassin’s head slapped against the floor. He was dead, his last breath uttering the one name Päl had never thought to hear. He stood on shaky legs and moved away as if afraid the man’s body would ignite in flame. He stared at the dead man, his mind a jangle of unfocused thoughts.

  He lied...it had to be a lie.

  Chauncy came to the door at that moment, her arms filled with stacked blankets. She yelled out and dropped the blankets when she saw Päl standing over the dark-clad corpse. Her gaze traveled back to her charge and her hands flew to her mouth as she went to him, staring at his bloodied uniform. "Päl, you’re..."

  He put up a hand. "I’m fine." Though the pain from the assassin’s weapon was now a debilitating vice around his shoulder. He turned and moved toward his wife, so still on the floor. He knelt beside her as Chauncy joined them, the house-mistress’ hands gentle as she touched Khim’s neck to find a pulse.

  "She’s alive," Chauncy said, then looked into the gaze of her grown charge. "What happened?"

  "He came in through our rooms—the old door," Päl reached up and rubbed at his temple, unaware of the blood he smeared across his brow. "Mother said Khim had come here to check on our son."

  The house-mistress’ eyes narrowed in a confused expression. "Päl, your mother had me bring him into my apartments before the party started. Away from the noise…."

  His gaze fixed on Chauncy’s wizened face. Päl swallowed back the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him, though he was uncertain at that moment if it were a reaction to his injury, or the realization his mother had just attempted to have him assassinated.

  "Päl?"

  He blinked at the pommel of the knife protruding from his wife’s chest. He knew better than to remove it. It would only hasten her bleeding. He saw the glint of his ring beside her and with a burst of anger he grabbed it and tossed it across the room. He hissed at the pain in his shoulder that threatened to pitch him into unconsciousness. He bent and kissed his wife tenderly on her cold cheek, then stood on uncertain legs. "Watch her, Chauncy. I’ll send for a doctor."

  Päl knelt beside the assassin and retrieved the Nakjima, then moved slowly out of the nursery toward the elevated voices below.

  Guests had spilled out of the ballroom and were now creating a ring of enclosure about the Baron. Many had been muttering and whispering among themselves. As news spread, the crowd grew louder.

  "It was as the Baron warned, the Dragon has come."

  "The snakes have tried to kill the Baron’s son!"

  Someone else was more certain. "Dead. He must be dead!"

  Päl stood in the shadows beneath the stairs, away from the guests. His shoulder burned and again he felt himself grow light-headed. He watched with distant fascination as the panic spread. Simple words, spoken with just the proper emotion—and all of them would turn on Tancred. Realization of what his true standing was within the family did not come as a surprise, but more as a sad revelation. I am a pawn. Nothing more. Nothing less.

  Carrying the Nakjima, Päl Wyndham-Sandoval stepped forward. Sharp intakes of breath greeted him as the crowd parted to allow him through. Many, seeing his bloodied uniform, gasped aloud. His father leaped forward, braced him with a hand on either shoulder, and then grabbed the weapon from his son.

  "Nakjima." He nearly spat out the name. "Combine manufacture."

  Neither Baron or Baroness appeared overly worried about Päl’s condition. But then his father was lost to his hatred for House Kurita. His mother, though, was calm. Far too calm. He found her eyes, and just below the surface of her calm, proud mask, he saw the truth of what the assassin said.

  She wanted the family’s loyalties turned, as did his father. As did most of those here in this room. But she had been the one willing to sacrifice her only son to achieve it. And why not? She had a new son to raise.

  The truth was there and then gone in an instant. As Margarette Wyndham-Sandoval stepped from behind her guests, a grand show of concern washed over her face toward her son. "Päl, was it the Dracs?"

  He matched her gaze with his own and said simply, and quietly. "No." He turned to the nearest guard. "Please, could you summon a doctor? My wife…."

  But the Baroness wasn’t going to be ignored. She moved even closer to Päl, the flash of her eyes toward the crowd of guests making it obvious to her son that she knew she was on stage. It was time to call the play together. "But it has to be." Her eyes narrowed. "How do you know it is not?"

  Päl kept his voice even, though the fatigue he heard in his words was genuine. The pain in his shoulder was like a smoldering fire, constant and fierce. The loss of blood was making it difficult to stand. The guard hurried off to summon help for Khim, so Päl allowed himself a moment. "Because he told me," he said.

  "He told you?" The Baron stepped forward. "Tell us, Päl. I demand to know!" A murmur of assent swept the assembled nobles. When the baron looked to his wife for support in his demand, however, he found only stony silence. Frowning, glancing between his wife and son, the Baron fell back on the will of the crowd. "Who did this?" he asked.

  A hush settled as all eyes turned to Päl. His own vision wavered, though nothing could erase the still image of his mother, standing close enough for assumed concern, yet far enough away should her son betray her to the assembly. He blinked several times, willing himself to stay conscious. Focused.

  He narrowed his eyes at her. Their very way of life depended on his answer, and he knew the use of ruthlessness at that moment. Understood it, for like his mother who had wagered the life of her son on the turn of history, Päl too had put the assassin’s family on the table to force the confession that now would change his life forever.

  He swallowed, blinking with sluggish control as the world seemed to spin slower around him, and looked to his father, who stood within the nexus of this moment.

  Päl saw the board clearly now—saw the position of the pieces. The game had just started. The Baroness held the kingdom in white—but it was Päl who now controlled the black. He saw the carefully placed moves that might have sent him and Khim to their deaths.

  Two moves of a pawn across the board.

  In truth, he knew she hadn’t expected him to live.

  But there was a little known move in chess called the en passant, where the first move of a pawn with two squares can be met and defeated by one move of the enemy’s opposing pawn.

  "Päl! Who has done this?"

  With a sigh, the Baron’s son moved his gaze from his father’s red, flushed face, to rest it calmly upon the serene visage of his mother’s composure.

  "Katherine Steiner-Davion."

  DESTINY’S CHALLENGE

  by Loren L. Coleman

  Tharkad, 2721

  Coming down off Wolstenholme Plateau, one of the Nagelring’s primary live-fire and piloting ranges, Alek Kerensky heard the order passed for line abreast formation. He scratched at the scale of dried sweat crusting inside his elbow. Swallowed hard against a metallic aftertaste. Throttled forward his eighty ton Striker. Two months out of summer-long OCS training, starting his first full year as a Star League cadet, the controls were fast becoming familiar in his sweaty hands. But he still overcompensated for the increased speed by swinging the BattleMech’s massive arms too quickly, and his cockpit dipped side to side, side to side.

  Alek knew that his ‘Mech would appear to stagger forward with a drunken swagger. Like a space-naval crewman on his first shore leave. A popular underground video, posted on the Nagelring’s OurSpace network, ran thirty seconds of footage of Alek’s lurching Striker set to hornpipe music. The aspiring (and anonymous) director had even dug up some ancient cartoon footage of an animated sailor with bulging arms and a corncob pipe, ending the homemade vid with a bray of corny laughter. No doubt, an ‘A’ for creativity.

  At least this brand of hazing came with fewer bruises. And no trips—yet—to the hospital.

  "Waiting on you, Cadet Kerensky."

  As usual.

  Cruising forward at forty-three kilometers per hour, Alek’s eighty ton BattleMech finally joined with three other Strikers being paced by Colonel Baumgarten’s Pillager. The Strikers were massive, hulking brutes. Blocky. Bow-legged. But in great demand among Nagelring cadets because of their assault-class weight and heavy weaponry.