Cursing the useless arm, Sorenson used the machine's remaining limb to lever the 'Mech into a more favorable position for firing the jump jets. As he did so, his sensors registered a tremendous explosion near the bow of the Startreader.Fearing that he would not clear the wreckage of the dying DropShip, he speared the red jump button.

Fire from the captive sun at the heart of the BattleMech's fusion engine vaporized a minute quantity of the mercury reaction mass, transforming it instantly to plasma. Flame and superheated air rushed out the exhaust ports in the Grasshopper'sback and legs, thrusting the 'Mech through the growing fireball enveloping the Startreaderand away from the doomed vessel.

Heat deluged the cockpit, and the Grasshopper'scomputer voice warned of imminent shutdown because of it. Sorenson, barely conscious, cut in the override, stilling the voice. Stubbornly, he worked the controls, trying to bring the wobbling 'Mech under control. As it spun, his cockpit screen gave him alternating views of ground and sky.

"At least we're not heading straight down," he croaked, his throat gone dry from fear and heat.

There was no answer from the jump seat.

Sorenson had no time to wonder if his passenger was still alive. The ground was coming up too fast. There was not enough time to gain control of the wounded 'Mech's flight. In a desperate attempt to minimize crash damage to the cockpit, he forced the machine around until its head was pointed away from its direction of travel. The legs and torso could absorb far more damage than the relatively fragile head structures of the BattleMech.

When the altimeter LED readout clicked to thirty meters, he opened the jets all the way, burning all his reaction mass in a single burst. The flight system monitor board flashed red. He had only begun to hope that they had burned long enough when the 'Mech smashed into the ground.

Thrown violently against his restraining straps, Sorenson felt his skin slice open along their edges. Red failure lights filled his board, then blinked out as cockpit power failed. He was thrown back into his couch as the 'Mech collapsed onto its back.

Pale light and a trickle of blessedly cool air filtered through a crack in the cockpit's shell.

"Alive!" Sorenson said aloud. The sound of his own voice, coarsened though it was from his ordeal, reassured him that he was right. Grimacing from the pain that movement sent through his arms, he forced the neurohelmet off and let it clatter to the back bulkhead, then unbuckled the straps and slid his bloody shoulders free. As he climbed from the couch and found that he had no grip, he reached for the overhead grab iron to steady himself. Puzzlement was all he felt as he slipped into darkness for the second time in a matter of minutes.

* * *

Sorenson opened his eyes to see the sun sinking into the fens. Backlit before him was the three-quarter-buried shape of his Grasshopper.Little more than its torso showed above the fire-blackened sedges and brackish water where it lay. The head, cockpit access hatch gaping, hung limply on a narrow thread of cables, and its right arm jutted from the marsh. Sorenson knew from its angle that the arm was no longer attached to the 'Mech's shoulder.

Grasshopper leaps far.

At home in an autumn marsh

Dies like samurai.

It took Sorenson a moment to realize that the words spoken behind his head came from a living person and not from some frog-voiced marsh spirit. He rolled on his side to see the speaker.

There was Takashi Kurita, sitting calmly. His folded legs showed bare and bruised, as did his left arm. He was smeared all over with mud and dried blood. A soiled, bloodstained white rag was wrapped around his head like a ancient warrior's hachimaki.

"Your BattleMech is a total wreck," Takashi Kurita told him. "Sacrificed in your effort to save us from the doomed Startreader.For some time, I thought you, too, had moved onward."

Sorenson tried to chuckle, but the sound he made was too ghastly to express humor. "I'm in too much pain to be dead."

"You have my gratitude and I shall reward you for today's deeds," Takashi said. "At the very least, I shall see that you receive a replacement for your machine."

"A new 'Mech would be appreciated, Tono,but I need no reward for doing my duty."

"Spoken like a true samurai. But you will be rewarded nonetheless. All scales must be balanced, and your reward must balance the punishment inflicted on those responsible."

Sorenson contemplated what that punishment might be. The lucky ones would have a quick death or a quiet life in the Black Tower. Somehow he didn't think there would be too many lucky ones involved in this plot. The conspirators' luck had run out when they failed to kill the Coordinator.

Takashi gazed at the sunset until the last rim of the orange sun dropped below the horizon. In the twilight, he spoke again, and his voice had that adamant quality attributed to Emma-Hoo, Judge of the Dead and Lord of the Buddhist hells.

"Those involved have forfeited the right to life. The conspirators and their families, all of the plotters' generation, their parents and their children, shall be put to death. No child shall survive to avenge a parent, nor parent take revenge for a child. I will see this conspiracy ground out completely."

13

Palace Hall, Reykjavik, Rasalhague

Rasalhague Military District, Draconis Combine

23 September 3019

Theodore looked up at the frowning gray stone facade of the sprawling Palace Hall, seat of government for the planet and the District of Rasalhague. Yesterday, he had expected that when he passed through its iron-bound, studded doors, he would be wearing a formal black kimono, his long nape hair oiled and bound into a topknot. Yesterday, he had expected to be on his way to his wedding.

He mounted the steps at an awkward pace, irritated at their shallow rise and exaggerated width. The strides he took would not have been possible in a kimono, but the trichloropolyester trousers he wore offered no restraint. The pants were the same dark gray as his jersey and matched his grim mood.

A full company of infantry from the auxiliaries of the Eight Rasalhague Regulars guarded the doors, but they passed Theodore without question.

He found his father in the Governor's office, seated behind a massive oaken desk. Aides and generals looked up at Theodore's sudden intrusion. Takashi bade them, leave. In a clatter of comp pads and murmur of hushed comments, they gathered their materials. Takashi swiveled his chair to one side and eased a bandaged leg gingerly onto a stool. The departing attendants kept their eyes low as they filed past

Theodore, who stood in the center of the room, hands clenched at his sides.

Last to leave was Subhash Indrahar, who touched Theodore's shoulder as he passed. An electric feeling of confidence shocked Theodore. He controlled his surprise and only nodded to the Director. Indrahar's smile was warm, but Theodore did not let it touch the icy resolve he had nurtured during his walk from the military camp at the starport. As the doors closed softly behind him, Theodore raged, "How can you sit there and let this go on?"

Takashi closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "To what exactly do you refer?"

Theodore strode up to the desk, slamming his palms against the wood and leaning forward. "The executions of innocent people. How can you do it?"

"How can I not?" Takashi replied, gently massaging one of the many plastiflesh patches covering the lacerations on his face.