Vebber pushed open a door and waved his guests into the dark, cavernous command center. In the backlight from hundreds of display terminals, Andrew saw a legion of technicians moving around the room. He whistled involuntarily. "This looks like the cockpit on a JumpShip, only a hundred times larger."

Vebber smiled and pointed down over rows and rows of technicians seated at command modules. They sat facing a wall on which was projected a map of the whole planet, with the trajectories of various satellite factories plotted over it in glowing detail. "On that map, we track all factories, communication satellites, and incoming ships. We know where everything is at any time."

Morgan moved to the nearest station, smiling down at the friendly looking man at the post. "From here, you track factories and feed them power?"

Vebber nodded, patting his hair into place. "We make sure each plant gets the power it needs. This requires delicate work as it passes from energy zone to energy zone. We power down one feed at a rate inverse to the powering up of the next feed so there's not an overload."

Andrew frowned. "Why track satellites? They all have their own reactors on board, don't they?"

Vebber smiled condescendingly but massaged his right hand nervously. "True, Captain. They do not require our power. If, however, they got caught in one of our energy feeds, well,"—he made his hands fly away from each other in a mock explosion— "our insurance carriers would be upset with us."

Morgan turned toward Vebber. "Your equipment is good enough to track a satellite? I mean, you could hit it with a microwave beam if you wanted to?"

Vebber glowed under Morgan's attention. "Yes, Highness. Easily. In fact, our equipment is good enough to hit a dinner plate up to 400,000 kilometers away with no focal distortion or waver."

Morgan smiled. '"Then you could hit a DropShip running into the atmosphere on a raid."

Vebber stiffened. "No, Highness. That could never happen."

Morgan raised an eyebrow. "Even if I wanted it to happen, Mr. Vebber?"

The plant owner shook his head. "No, Highness. I would not permit it."

Morgan smile slowly and cruelly. "Even if I gave you an order, Mr. Vebber?"

Vebber's jowls trembled as he shook his head. "No, Highness. This is a privately held firm, and you cannot give orders here."

Morgan's smile died, replaced by a darkening look of anger. "If I order it, Mr. Vebber, you will do it!" Morgan pointed back at the map. "If Liao invaders are burning their way into this atmosphere, you will do it!"

Vebber's jaw dropped and, for a moment, Andrew thought the administrator had seen the light. The hope died at Vebber's derisive reply. "You're not Hanse Davion, and you're certainly not your father. I take no orders from you."

Morgan looked down at the man sitting at the command station. "What's your name?"

Swiveling his chair about to face Vebber, the operator adjusted his glasses. "Lyekiz, Highness. Tim Lyekiz."

Morgan unholstered his pistol and charged it with a metallic snap. "You could use your station here to hit a Liao ship coming insystem, right?"

Lyekiz nodded.

Morgan looked up at Vebber. "And you'd do it if I told you to, right?”

“Yes, sir."

Morgan raised the gun and aimed at Vebber. "Then we have no need for Mr. Vebber, do we?" Lyekiz grinned. "No, sir."

Vebber's eyes popped wide open as he stared down the bore of Morgan's pistol. Sweat beaded on his brow, then coursed down his face. Strands of hair splayed down over his forehead as Vebber's mouth opened and closed like a fish trying to breathe air. For a moment, Vebber looked as though he might faint, then some color returned to his ashen face and a low, slightly mad laughter rolled from his throat.

"Oh, Highness, I misunderstood." He glanced back at Andrew, eyes begging for someone to confirm the lie he was about to tell. "I thought you meant one of ourDropShips. Rainstorms always affect my hearing . . . you know, Liao . . . our—the words sound so similar. I thought you were testing my loyalty to the Prince, Highness."

While Vebber was pleading for his life, Andrew noticed that the expressions on the faces of a number of the operators showed hope that Morgan would pull the trigger. Hell, it looks like a Maskirovka hit team could get directions to Vebber's office from just about anyone in this company.

Morgan held the gun on Vebber, letting the man blubber on until he realized no one believed his outlandish story. "I understand your confusion, Mr. Vebber," Morgan said, pointing the pistol toward the ceiling. "You were correct that I am not Prince Hanse Davion, nor am I my father. I was sent here to do a job. No one and nothing will stop me."

With those words still echoing through the command center, Morgan Hasek-Davion turned on his heel and left to accomplish more important work.

* * *

Though the Kathil Militia Reserve auditorium was less than half-full, Andrew felt as though it were packed to bursting. It's the anticipation and fear. It radiates off all these MechWarriors like heat from a BattleMech.Seated in the front row, Andrew felt the pressure increase as Morgan Hasek-Davion stepped behind the podium to address the crowd.

Morgan's green eyes swept over the assembled MechWarriors. Hanse Davion's heir nodded slightly, his smile communicating his approval to those gathered in the room. He glanced at the sheaf of notes on the podium, then set them aside. When Morgan looked up, his red hair framed his head like a mane. He gripped the edges of the podium with strong hands and leaned forward to speak. "This is a meeting that historians without number will study and remember. We are the metal to be heated in the crucible of battle and shaped into something incredible—or desiroyed on a cold anvil named Kathil. Our old lives end here and now, shed like a snake sloughs its skin, to give birth to a legend."

Morgan straighted up, head high. "Many of you may believe that glory and fame can only be won on the front with the Capellan Confederation. You may be thinking that your failures in that theatre are the reason you've been transferred to a backwater like Kathil. You wonder if this is a kind of punishment, as history marches past you, leaving you in the dust of obscurity. This, my friends, is an error of the greatest magnitude because everything, everything,in this war hinges upon what we do here on Kathil."

Morgan opened his hands to encompass his whole audience. "We know from impeccable sources that Maximilian Liao has sent a force to destroy this world. Liao, like an animal blinded by mortal pain, is striking out in desperation. He does not realize that in hitting Kathil, he will repeat the gross errors of the First Succession War.

"That war, as everyone knows, resulted in destruction so widespread that mankind has not yet recovered from it. Kathil, this jewel of lostech,is a prime example of the pitiful consequences of such intemperate assaults. One of the jewels of the Star League because of its JumpShip production, the planet was nearly destroyed by successive Liao attacks. Only with great effort and expense has the Federated Suns been able to enhance production in the past few years. Orbiting overhead are factories that produce JumpShips, yet nowhere within the Succession States do we have the knowledge of how and why JumpShips work. We are children assembling kits, with no idea how to improve the parts we use. Because of the First Succession War and the slaughter of the intelligentsia that accompanied it, mankind has been in decline for 250 years."