Lethal Heritage

Cox shrugged nonchalantly. "I don't think so, or if it did, it was the best-kept secret on base. I got this position because I volunteered for it."

Victor raised an eyebrow. "You volunteered to nursemaid me? Why would you do that?"

Cox stretched out in the chair. "Well, when we got the news that you were coming to take over Kommandant Sykes's battalion, lots of people started grousing. You know how it works—one guy talks to another and he talks to someone else. All of a sudden What started out as a minor irritation becomes a crisis. It's like the story of the MechWarrior who needs to borrow an actuator-wrench to make a repair on his BattleMech. As he's walking back to the supply depot through a rainstorm, he becomes convinced that the Tech won't lend him the wrench. The more he thinks about it, the more worked up he gets. When he finally gets to the depot and finds the Tech, he screams, 'I don't want your damned actuator-wrench anyway!' "

Victor chuckled lightly. "I don't want your damned actuator-wrench anyway! It's been a while since my cousin Morgan Hasek-Davion told me that story, but I understand the situation completely. They had me built up into a monster that was going to get them all killed."

"But only after you'd transformed this unit into a bunch of kiss-ass courtiers waiting on you hand and foot," Cox said with a devilish glint in his eyes. Even as Victor winced, Cox continued. "Anyway, I thought that was getting out of hand, so I looked up your school and service file. Scores on exams never stopped a particle beam, but yours looked good enough to deflect a few. I figured if you were going to get a chance to live up to all that potential, someone would have to cut you some slack." He sat up tall. "Galen the Knife, that's me."

That, Galen Cox, means more to me than you will ever know.Victor smiled and felt, for the first time since entering the Nagelring, that just a bit of the weight on his shoulders had been removed. "Thanks, Galen. I'll do all I can to be worthy of your trust."

"You'll do better than that, Kommandant," the blond man said, rising to leave, "I've read your file, remember? I hope like hell the rest of us can keep up with you ..."

12

Location unknown

Date unknown

Phelan Kell tried to focus his eyes, but the huge disk of light burning above the table to which he was strapped sent searing photon barrages straight into his brain. The backlight was enough to illuminate some of the people standing around and over him, but he could recall no details nor keep track of how many there were. Doing its spongelike best to soak up the chemicals being pumped into him, his brain no longer worked right. "State your name."

The harsh tone of the voice sparked faint recollections, but Phelan's desire to rebel against the command was fleeting. He managed to speak, despite the clumsy thickness of his tongue. "Phelan Patrick Kell."

"Phelan? Do you know what your alleged name means? Don't nod. Speak. Tell us what it means and why you have it."

"My name is Celtic and means wolf or 'brave as a wolf.' " Phelan's brow furrowed as he tried to remember what his parents had told him about choosing his name. "I was named Phelan for a friend of my parents and Patrick for my dead uncle." Out of control, he giggled, "And I am a Kell 'cause I am." A wave of vertigo washed over Phelan. They've juiced me good . I can't let them know what I know ...But stringing together even that much of a logical thought burned up his reserve of defiance, leaving him defenseless.

"Phelan, you have seen service in Rasalhague. How many regiments does Rasalhague have under arms? Include mercenary troops in this total." That new voice expressed a kind of dignified reserve that made Phelan label it the Confessor. And the other one, that's Hothead.

Phelan concentrated, letting his hatred of Tor Miraborg fuel his answer. "They have sixteen regiments under arms and a few mercenary companies, but those are employed mostly by independent lords."

Outrage filled Hothead's voice. "Why did you lie about this before?"

Hothead's fury gave Phelan more pleasure than the drugs flowing into his body. He smiled gleefully. "Because fooling you was fun."

The Confessor's voice cut off Hothead. "Phelan, how many regiments does the Draconis Combine have?"

Sadness welled up inside Phelan, pooling dark and heavy around his heart. "I don't know."

A soothing note entered the Confessor's voice. "But you must have an estimate. It must have been discussed during your schooling."

Phelan jerked as though a raw nerve had been hit. "No, no schooling. I don't like the Academy."

"Never mind the Academy. You do have an idea of the Combine's strength? Yes, I thought you would. Just between us, what do you think it is?"

Phelan tried to sit up closer to the silhouette he had assigned to the Confessor's voice, but the headstrap restrained him. Instead, he winked an eye in the voice's direction and dropped his own to a husky whisper. "Officially, the Snakes have 100 line units, but they've rebuilt the DCMS mostly in secret so it's hard to be sure exactly what's going on. My father also said that with the Genyosha and Ryuken training programs, the Combine's troops have become better."

"I see." The Confessor's tone dropped reflectively. "If the Combine's troops are so good, why have they not retaken Rasalhague?"

The young MechWarrior shrugged as best he could.

"When Rasalhague went independent, Theodore Kurita fought for the Republic against his own renegade troops. Don't know why. Ask him."

"What about the Lyran Commonwealth? What have they under arms?"

Phelan squirmed uncomfortably at that question from the Confessor. The Commonwealth is my home!"I don't know."

Phelan heard a new voice coming from outside the circle of light. "Spikes right to the top of the scale, sir. He is blocking."

"What does his SPL blood level look like?"

"In the seventy-fifty percentile."

"Go to the eightieth, but give me a clock so I only keep him there for fifteen minutes." The urgency and command in the Confessor's voice drained away as he again addressed himself to his prisoner. "Phelan, we are all friends here. You can trust me. How many regiments does the Lyran Commonwealth maintain?"

Phelan felt as though he'd been reduced to the size of a micron, then tossed to the winds. The corded wristlet felt like a diamond saw against his flesh. He saw the ribbons that had once been his legs twist together and twist and twist until they knotted up and pain burned in his thighs. Then his neck elongated and his head plunged back down past his feet, hurtling ever faster toward the ground. When it hit, he felt it would splatter like an overripe fruit.

The Confessor snapped a command. "Back SPL off to the seventy-seventh percentile. He has no resistance, no chemoimmunity developed in him. He has a strong will. Nothing more."

Someone snapped his fingers. The sound was like a gun shot to Phelan's senses, but Hothead's voice quickly overrode it. "Tell me, Phelan, what happened to you at the Nagelring."

Phelan's resistance crystallized instantly. "No!"

"Freebirth!" cursed the man tending the interrogation monitors.

"What? Are you getting spikes scaling up again?"

"I wish." A series of clicks came from the equipment. "Neg. Not a technical problem. I am getting full cycles off the scale here, not just spikes. He reacts as strongly to that question as someone does when forced out of their sibko."