“Who?” Alek asked, but he knew.
“The guard. Tanya. The one who wounded Leonard Kurita.”
He sighed. “Yes. I thought you might. And I obviously know the story, Colonel. Kurita pulled a dagger from his robes and stabbed her to death before fleeing. Her family was later awarded the title Defender of the First Lord and the right to attend any academy or university.”
Baumgarten spread his hands. “You see my dilemma.”
“Colonel. If you tell me here, in private, that I am not welcome at the Nagelring nor would I be of use to the Star League, I will accept that. I will not pursue it, even though it is important to me.”
“Why, Alek?” The colonel pressed forward, eyes intent. “Why is it so important that you do this? As a politician or historian you could effect such greater change.”
Michael laughed softly. “Ah, Colonel. ‘Everyone thinks of changing the world…’” he began.
And if Michael Steiner could learn Tolstoi, perhaps this effort by Alek wasn’t so futile after all. “‘No one thinks of changing himself,’” he finished the quote.
Baumgarten nodded slowly, digesting the words and never once breaking eye contact with Alek. He reached for the noteputer clipped to his belt, powered it up and pulled up a file. He showed it to Alek. The amber words glowed on the dark screen.
A formal contract, enlisting Alek into the Star League Defense Force, pursuant to his completion of training at the Nagelring military academy. It was all prepared, along with his identification number and full legal name, waiting for his thumbprint to seal the agreement. Alek reached out and thumbed the pad, letting the small device take a full scan and DNA sample, turning it into an unforgeable verigraph document.
Alek watched as Baumgarten confirmed it with his print, and Michael witnessed with his. As simple as that. He had not expected fanfare or ceremony. There wasn’t any. Just the mantle of the huge commitment he had just made settling over his shoulders with great significance.
“Not all of me is dust,” Alek whispered, bearing up beneath the weight.
Colonel Baumgarten was the first to offer his hand. “Welcome to the Nagelring,” he said, “Aleksandr Kerensky.”
POISON
by Jason M. Hardy
Tukwila, Tikonov
Capellan March
Federated Suns
21 February 3065
Seventy-five tons of metal should not be able to hide so easily.
Lukas looked through the shattered window onto the pockmarked street below, first north, then south. Nothing. He took a deep breath, but his pulse kept racing. Grit and oil coated his throat.
A moment earlier, a ’Mech—a Rakshasa, judging by the square missile launchers on each shoulder—had torn into the intersection just north of him, lasers firing. It had stopped, swiveled its torso, and scattered laser shots across the street, sending Lukas diving for shelter. A few blasts tore into the walls of the building serving as his bunker, but most flew past, leaving only yellow afterburn patterns in Lukas’ eyes.
By the time Lukas realized he was still alive and returned to the window, the ’Mech was gone. He hadn’t heard it move. ’Mechs could do many things, but sneaking quietly through city streets was not one of them. Yet this one was gone.
Of course it had moved on, he told himself. It didn’t care about him They weren’t after him. They didn’t know who he was.
He brushed plaster and glass dust from his pants, streaking the fabric with sweat. He shakily rose to his feet and poked his head through the ruined window. There was nothing—no ’Mechs, no infantry, nothing—on the streets below. At least, nothing he could see through the smoke and darkness.
Since no one was trying to kill him that second, Lukas took a moment to create his eighth survival plan of the day. The goals of his earliest plans had been lofty and, as it turned out, impossible. If they had worked, he’d be on a DropShip now, looking for a more peaceful place to stay until calm returned to Tikonov. Getting the rest he deserved.
But transport off the planet for a civilian was next to impossible while the battle raged. Transport for a civilian with forged papers (even high-class forgeries) was even more difficult.
He would not be leaving anytime soon.
Trapped on the surface, his goals shifted to trying to stay alive for a week, then to surviving the rest of the day. Now all he wanted was live another hour.
A cluster of missiles whined overhead, close enough to make Lukas flinch. He dropped to the floor again as they smashed into the roof of a building a block away. For the thousandth time that day, the streets of Tukwila shook.
Also for the thousandth time that day, Lukas Azhenov cursed military leaders and their pretended ethics. Put them in a quiet, locked room and they would drone on and on about the duties of a warrior and the Ares Conventions and keeping civilians out of warfare and other tripe, but as soon as they see an opportunity to gain an advantage on their enemy, all their talk flies away. Any civilians standing in the way of a strategically important goal had better get out of the way or get swept aside with the rest of the rubble.
Lukas always appreciated the honesty and directness of his kind of people when compared to the hypocritical nobility of generals and politicians. The underworld code was simple: anyone is fair game. Lukas, and people like him, did what needed doing, no matter whom was involved. Civilians, soldiers, or anyone else were all the same—if they were obstacles, they needed to be removed. One way or another. No nonsense about outside conditions or treaties or duty dictating what you can do or who you can kill. Anyone may become a target. That’s the deal going in, clear and transparent, unlike the games and deceptions practiced by politicians.
Another cluster of
