Lethal Heritage

Is it so easy as that?Phelan thought bitterly as the message droned on. Is it so easy for people to abandon themselves to some greater cause? Don't they ever question the motivations of their leaders? Don't they ever look out for themselves? What does one do when his loyalty to a great cause comes in conflict with his own best interest?

During the ad, the camera pa

The echoes of Miraborg's voice recalled to Phelan his first meeting with Gunzburg's Varldherre, when he'd traveled down to Gunzburg with Captain Gwyneth Wilson in a shuttle to ask Miraborg for the liquid helium needed to repair the Cu. I guess the Captain must have thought it would help to have the son of a legendary MechWarrior along when visiting the high and mighty. Such a good icebreaker: "Oh, Morgan Kell is yourfather?" All Wilson wanted was enough liquid helium to refill one of the tanks surrounding the Kearny-Fuchida jump drive, but she hadn't counted on tangling with the Iron Jarl.

Phelan spat at a snowbank. The way Tor reacted, you'd have thought we were the Periphery raiders the Kell Hounds had been hired to fight. He took special offense with me, as if my father's accomplishments somehow diminished his own bravery. Of course, I didn't help things by bristling as he insulted my parents.

Phelan stared at the Varldherre's stern visage as it appeared on another holodisplay set further down the street. "Why didn't you just give us the freeze-juice and be done with it? If you had, none of this would have happened." His chest tightened as he crossed the snowy street to a row of brick buildings. I'd not have met Tyra and the Kell Hounds would have been off fighting Periphery pirates instead of being stuck here for three months.

Stepping into the mouth of an alley shortcut he'd discovered, Phelan hunched against the cold and thrust his mittened hands deeper in his pockets as he walked. "Couldn't do it the easy way, could you?"

Stars exploded into shimmering blue and gold balls as the roundhouse right slammed into the left side of Phelan's face. The punch snapped his head around to the right and sent him flying back out into the street. Staggered by the blow, Phelan clawed ineffectually at the air as he fell. His feet slipped on the icy layer beneath the powdered snow on the ground and he crashed heavily to the roadway.

Snowflakes burned on the bare flesh of his face. Scrambling to gather his limbs beneath himself, Phelan shook his head to clear it. Jesus, I've not been hit that hard since ... since ... Blake's Blood! I've never been hit that hard. Gotta focus.

His attempt to concentrate on his martial arts training was interrupted by a booted kick to the stomach that flipped Phelan over on his back. A wave of nausea washed through him as he continued to roll onto one side and then vomited. His attacker's derisive laughter mocked Phelan's agonized moan.

Snow crunched beneath the attacker's booted feet as he closed for another kick. Phelan, lying on his right side, scythed his legs backward through his foe's shins, dumping the man onto his face. Striking before his enemy had time to react, Phelan rolled to his back and snapped his left heel down onto the base of the man's spine. He didn't hear the crisp sound of bones breaking, but a harsh cry of anger and pain told him he'd hurt his foe.

Unsteadily gaining his feet, Phelan spat at the ground and wiped vomitus from his lips with the back of his right hand. "Now I can see you, you bastard. Come on." The pain in his stomach made his words come in short, clipped bursts. He bent his knees slightly, lowering his center of gravity, and balled his fists.

Beyond his downed assailant, from every tiny snatch of shadow that defined the buildings on the darkened street, human forms moved forward. Phelan's heart sank. Four, five, no ... six. You've really screwed up this time. If they don't kill you, Captain Wilson and Lieutenant Tang will. Focus, focus, Phelan, or you 're worm food.

"Mercenary scum," someone cursed. "Take our money, take our women. We don't need your kind here."

Phelan pulled off his glasses and tossed them backward. They know about Tyra. This is going to be nasty.

The Kell Hound forced himself to relax for the second or two it took the mob to gather its courage and attack. He let his head bob for a moment and his hands hang limp, as though the effects of the initial punch had not worn off yet. As they moved toward him, Phelan's years of training allowed him to spot which of the approaching men could hurt him most. There, that trio of them. If I take them first, then the others might scatter.

The mercenary slid a half-step to the right and jabbed straight out at his nearest attacker. His punch crushed the man's nose, whipping his head back to the right. The man spun away, careening into a second attacker and knocking him aside. Phelan pivoted on his right foot, turning his back to this opening in the circle of enemies and expanded it by lashing out with his left fist to catch another man in the throat.

Spitting and coughing, that man went down, but his defeat did not daunt the trio still standing. The centermost man, a burly, bull-necked individual, burrowed in low and fast. Phelan straightened him up with a knee to the face, but his bulk just carried him forward. He locked his arms around Phelan's waist, pi

Phelan desperately rained blow after blow on the head and shoulders of the man holding him. The Kell Hound ducked and dodged his head as much as possible, but his lack of mobility meant body blows found him an easy target. The thick padding of his parka and the sweater underneath prevented the punches from breaking any bones, but the pounding sent Shockwaves through his stomach, kidneys, and lungs.

A forearm smash to the side of the wrestler's head finally broke the man's grip and sent him off to the side. The Kell Hound immediately moved so that the stumbling wrestler blocked another man's approach. Phelan used the chance to turn around and face the man coming in on his right. He landed two quick blows on the man's chest, then rocked him back on his heels with a choppy uppercut.

When the man dropped into a crumpled heap, Phelan's hopes that he might actually escape soared for a nanosecond. Then, as he sca

Silhouetted against the street lights, the first attacker eclipsed Phelan's view of the street. His right fist again arced in toward the left side of Phelan's face, but Phelan saw the blow coming and ducked. As he pivoted to drive a short right jab into the man's ribs, his left foot slipped on some ice, dumping him down hard on his tailbone.

A bolt of pain shot up Phelan's spine and exploded in his brain. His pelvis felt as if it had been shattered in the fall, and the pain in his midsection numbed all sensation from his legs. Time slowed as his foe's left hand slammed down over Phelan's right eye and blasted him back against the street.

Sprawled out like a dead man, Phelan's view of the world went black for a second or two, but snapped back into stark and painful detail as fingers tangled themselves in his hair to pull him to a sitting position. With a free hand, the mob's leader do