The temptation that had nagged at him since the rumors of Davion’s flight from Tukwila rose again. All he’d need to do was find some loyalists. If they knew who he was, if he could tell them the role he played in getting Davion to abandon his troops, he’d be a hero. It was just an act of war, he’d tell them. They’d listen. They’d understand what he’d done for them. The need for his secret contacts, for hiding places, for skulking through ruins, would disappear. Maybe, just maybe, they’d get him to a military DropShip. Get him off planet. Get him the rest he deserved. Hope, which had been pronounced dead as recently as half an hour ago, stirred lightly in his chest.
Of course, he hadn’t really acted as a patriot, and he’d not given a thought to the Archon-Princess—or anyone else—when he’d made the sale that eventually drove him off Luthien. But no one needed to know that. He really didn’t care about either side in this war, or how it ended, as long as it ended with him alive. Right now, his sympathies lay with the loyalists only because of his actions taken more than a year ago.
Someone had given Lukas a tremendous sum of money to buy two doses of fulmitoxin. The tremendous price had aroused Lukas’ curiosity, but he had been in business long enough to not ask questions.
It was only much later, when the news broke, that he understood why so much money had been paid, and why he had been forced to flee Luthien soon after the sale
Seven months after he sold the fulmitoxin to a grubby courier whose headless body was discovered a week after the transaction, Omi Kurita was dead. Poisoned by fulmitoxin, reliable sources told him.
Lukas was willing to bet his life that it was his carefully crafted poison in her blood. He had not been present to deliver the blow, but that distinction mattered little. He made the fatal poison. He, in essence, murdered Omi Kurita.
He pressed himself deep into a pile of rubble for shelter as lasers flashed overhead. Autocannon fire immediately followed, a few rounds smashing into the wall above Lukas. A large piece of stone fell, shattering on the pavement and sending shards into Lukas’ exposed skin. Nearly a dozen pinheads of blood sprang up on his face.
That was enough. This was insanity. This was not what he deserved. He was as heroic as any man in this field—he’d taken out a bigger target than anyone, because his actions had taken Davion off the field. He needed to find someone. He’d make them understand. He’d make them remove him from the hell of battle. They’d have to. He was a hero. An unconventional one, maybe—he knew that people like him usually were rewarded with torture and death, not protection and acclaim. But this was different. It would have to be. He had helped this army, crushing the opposition’s morale. They’d have to recognize what he’d done. Have to. It was what he had earned, and it was the only way he might survive the day. He just needed to find someone to talk to.
• • •
The ’Mech towered above Lukas, as if pondering what Lukas had said. He’d somehow found an officer loyal to the Archon-Princess, screamed himself hoarse getting the MechWarrior to see him, to listen what he had to say. And he had. He had listened. Lukas spilled the whole story. Now he just had to wait for the order to come down, the order that would finally get him the rest he deserved.
Lukas waited. How complicated could this be? The order was simple: “Take this man to safety.” Five simple words, and Lukas would escape.
The ’Mech turned, pointed itself north, and walked away without so much as a gesture to Lukas. He watched in disbelief.
There had to be a mistake. He was a hero.
Gauss rounds sped overhead, flying into buildings with punishing blows. Smaller rounds flew lower to the ground, surrounding Lukas like a swarm of bees. And the ’Mech walked farther away.
Anger and fear rose together in Lukas’ chest. How dare this pilot simply ignore someone of his stature? Who was he to leave him behind?
Lukas ran after him, a two-meter human futilely chasing a fighting machine five times his height.
After a quarter mile of Lukas somehow avoiding the bullets and flying shrapnel, the ’Mech stopped. It stopped. The pilot must have heard.
Lukas shouted gratitude with his ruined voice, waving at the ’Mech as it twisted its torso. Salvation.
The side of the ’Mech exploded. Metal and white heat collapsed on Lukas.
He was on the ground. He couldn’t feel his legs. The ’Mech he had pursued lay on its side, motionless, fifteen meters away. Another ’Mech —a Wyvern, maybe the same Wyvern Lukas had seen earlier—walked toward the metal corpse.
Lukas tried to scramble to his feet, but they didn’t respond. All he could do was creep backwards, pushing himself with his arms. The rebel Wyvern drew closer.
He had one last desperate idea. He still had something, something the rebels wanted. Information. They needed to know what he knew, he needed to tell them, that was worth keeping him alive, wasn’t it? They’d listen. They’d want him alive. He could tell Davion’s men whom he sold the poison to. They could use that to track the assassin. That would be enough. They would save him. He was worth more alive than dead. They may kill him eventually for what he’d done. But not today.
He raised one arm, propping his torso up with the other.
“Wait!” he screamed, but his voice was buried by the noise of battle. “Wait!” he screamed again. The Wyvern continued forward.
“I can help you!” Lukas screamed. “I can tell you things! Things you need to know!” The pace of the Wyvern remained steady.
Lukas was right in its path. The
