Lethal Heritage

Phelan relaxed his fist, but the tension in his body remained. "Not you too, Nik." A sour expression drew his black eyebrows together. "I thought you were free of the anti-mercenary feeling that runs through the Republic."

"So did I." She matched Phelan's green-eyed stare with one of arctic blue and forced him to yield. "You Kell Hounds, during this unpla

Phelan laughed angrily. "A myth you cling to like a drowning man."

Anika tightened her right hand, letting the nails dig into his wrist. 'There you go, making me wonder if I'm right to give you a chance at all. Just when I'm about to agree with you, you take a cheap shot that gets my back up. I don't deserve that and you know it."

Phelan looked down and picked at a set of initials carved into the lacquered table-top. "You're right, Nik." His eyes came back up. "Sentiment among the Hounds has gotten nastier now that we're leaving. You know that the merchants in the restricted zone have gouged the hell out of us, and that there are citizen groups patrolling the area, just waiting for some excuse to bust mercenary skulls."

Anika winced as she nodded in agreement. "And I don't like it any better than you do. But can't you see that even though Rasalhague is a young nation, we fought for centuries to win back our independence from the Draconis Combine. Then just when we thought we had it—with the Combine's blessings to boot—we had to fight renegade Combine soldiers in the Ronin Wars. A lot of mercenaries deserted our cause because of technicalities in their contracts, and that left a bad taste. People here resented the mercs even more when we had to turn around almost immediately and hire more to supplement our armed forces to hang on to our freedom. Is it any wonder so many of us hate mercenaries?"

"No, I don't wonder about that," Phelan said, a twinkle in his eyes. "In fact, with so much of the resentment coming from the Royal Rasalhague Army, I'm proud to count you and Tyra as friends. Even if you areaerojocks ..."

Anika gri

Phelan raked a hand back through his thick black hair. "So, where is she?"

Anika stiffened. "I told you before that I don't know."

The young mercenary's eyes narrowed. "But what about the other half of what you said? You do care where she is, Nik." Phelan chewed his lower lip for a moment. "I bet you're out looking for her yourself, aren't you?"

Anika stared hard at Phelan. "Yes, I do care where she is. She's my wingmate and my flight leader and my friend. Your deduction about why I'm out tonight, however, is grossly off the mark. In point of fact, I was out looking for you." She pointed at his parka and the mirrored sunglasses. "Did you really think that borrowing a Home Guard's jacket and wearing those glasses would disguise you? You're brighter than that."

Her remark struck home, kindling both anger and frustration. This is getting to be a majority opinion, Phelan."Perhaps I'm not that intelligent, Lojtnant Janssen."

Anika pounded her fist into the table, then cast a quick glance around to see if anyone had noticed. "There you go again," she said in an angry whisper. "Most of the time I forget you're just an eighteen-year-old kid because you act so much more mature."

Phelan's eyes focused distantly. "Growing up in a mercenary company doesn't give you much of an opportunity to be a kid." Especially if your father is a living legend and your cousin is heir to the thrones of the Federated Suns and Lyran Commonwealth. Everyone treats you as though you're different."Not much of a chance to be a kid at all."

"Thisis not the place to be making up for lost time," Anika told him. "You go from being intelligent and understanding to pig-headed and pouty in an instant No wonder the Nagelring bounced you out when it had the chance."

Phelan's head came up sharply, but he said nothing. How could you? I "thought you were a friend.He stared at Anika, unbelieving, then slid from the booth and pulled his glasses onto his face like a mask.

Anika grabbed his left wrist to turn him back to face her. "Listen, Phelan ..."

The outrage in Phelan's voice cut her off. "No, you listen, Nik. I don't know what Tyra said about my leaving the Academy or what she told you about the Honor Board's findings. I had my reasons for what I did and those Academy morons chose to ignore them and the positiveconsequences of my actions. Well, I didn't need them and I don't need you patronizing me and trying to direct my life!"

He loomed over her, but never lost control of his fury. "One thing I do know is this: no matter why Tyra told you about all that, I know she wouldn't have done it if she knew how you'd use that information. You've betrayed her trust." He straightened to his full height and zipped up the black parka to his throat. "Tell her I was looking for her, or don't—as you wish."

* * *

By the time Phelan's anger cooled off enough to let him see straight, he was a block down from the Allt Ingar, his course unconsciously taking him further from the mercenary quarter. Dammit, Phelan, you totally and utterly blew it. Nik's been the only Rasalhagian who's not told Tyra she's crazy for continuing to see you after finding out who and what you are. She was probably just trying to keep you from getting into trouble. Her remark might have been out of line, but it was the only way she could get through to you.

He hunched his shoulders against the cold, then fished mittens from his pockets and pulled them on. Looking up at the orange and gold striations of Gunzburg's nearest planetary neighbor, Phelan shook his head. "Yeah," he said to the deaf world floating above him in the dark void, "wandering off the reservation was stupid. If I get chucked into the local jail, I'll not be out before the Lughleaves this dirtball to rendezvous with the Cucamulus.The idea of being stuck here until our transport returns from the Periphery thrills me not at all."

Phelan snorted out twin plumes of steam. And it would be just one more instance of how insubordinate you are. Jack Tang is going to have your head for this little outing. Why do you have to be such a loner? Just like Tyra, the people in your lance would be your friends if you gave them time.

Time, that's the key, isn't it? You're always in a hurry to do what you think needs to be done. That means Phelan answers only to Phelan, and that's what lands you in so much trouble. And your familiarity with trouble is what keeps most people back. No one in his right mind wants to play toss with live munitions.

As Phelan crossed the snow-dusted, cobblestone street and started back toward the outskirts of Stortalar City, the holographic display on the wall of a building flashed to life with a new advertisement. The image of a silver-maned, graybearded man burned onto the screen. Dressed in a military uniform, the man gave off great power and vitality. He greeted the nearly deserted street with a confident smile, but the jagged scar that ran from over the man's left eye down into his beard robbed the smile of its warmth.

The expression faded to a more serious one as the man began to speak and the translation scrolled across the bottom of the screen. Though Phelan could not read the text written in Swedenese—the bastardized Swedish and Japanese dialect used by most people on the planet—he knew it to be an admonishment by the planet's military governor that the people of Rasalhague pull together to help create an even stronger union.