All the blood drained from Lestrade's face. He looked at Noton, then glanced at his notebook, and back up at the mercenary. "That's way over budget..."

Noton smiled like a fox. "No, it isn't. They can supplement the payments by collecting ransoms from the families of the passengers. My people will have to take serious risks in this operation, and they won't even consider it unless the price is right."

The Baron swallowed hard. "I will pass the message along."

Noton nodded. The only person bound toward Terra that could possibly interest the Steiner/Lestrade faction of the Lyran Commonwealth would have to be a courier from Archon Katrina Steiner to Prince Hanse Davion of the Federated Suns. Kidnapping that courier would delay the growing alliance between House Davion and House Steiner. While that alliance was gaining Katrina Steiner more power with each passing day, it stood squarely in the path of her cousin, Frederick Steiner, who had his own designs on the Lyran throne. Noton assured himself that Frederick Steiner and his ally, Duke Aldo Lestrade—Enrico's uncle—would pay well to sabotage that Steiner-Davion alliance.

Noton stood and guided the visibly perspiring Baron to the curtain. "Contact me when you have some real figures to discuss, Baron. Until then."

Noton half-turned back to his alcove, but a bold voice shouted his name. "Noton, did you watch my fight?"

Noton shook his head slowly. "No, Capet. If I wanted to see the sort of battling you do, I'd have only to toss a C-bill in the street and watch the crippled orphans of Cathay scramble for it."

Philip Capet, seated on the dais at the room's far end, slammed his flagon against the table. It struck hard, shattering against the oak wood surface and spattering golden ale over his companions. "How dare you!"

"How dare I what, Capet? How dare I point out that the Emperor has no clothes?" Noton turned to face the front of the room and rested balled fists on his narrow hips. Capet, you fool, have you begun to believe you’re as invincible as the fight commentators claim?

Noton's voice dropped to a razor-edged growl. "Your Riflemangrossly outclassed those two Vindicators.Your fight should have ended quickly. In Steiner Stadium, with all that open ground, you should have killed both pilots in a minute or less. Five minutes. Ha! You toyed with them. You did not treat them like MechWarriors."

Capet shook his head. His curly salt and pepper hair was cropped closely to his scalp, but his bushy black moustache gave his visage a menacing, angry look. Added to that were a hooked nose broken once too often and a jagged scar plucking the corner of Capet's right eye into a perpetual squint that matched his habitual sneer. He now graced Noton with one of those looks.

Capet forced a harsh laugh. "You washed-up fighters are all the same. I've been in the wars, Noton. I've seen combat the likes of which you'll never know." Capet spat on the floor. "I didn't toy with those Capellans. I gave them a few more minutes of life than they deserved."

Capet stabbed a finger at Noton. "If I'm such a street-brawler, why don't you come out and defeat me, eh, Noton? Or has retirement softened you?" Capet faced his audience. "Noton's been gone these last few weeks getting a tummy-tuck and a facelift." Turning back to Noton, he added, "You should have gotten some backbone while you were away."

Noton laughed aloud. "That's the difference between us, Capet. You don't know when to shut up. You also don't know how vulnerable you really are. I don't care about your hatred for Capellans or your God-awful ego, but stay clear of me. If you don't, I swear that the Legend-killerwill be your death."

7

New Avalon

Cruris March, Federated Suns

27 December 3026

Consciousness seeped into Justin Allard's brain drop by drop. As the doctor slowly dialed 10ccs of dexamaline into the IV monitor, the drug slowly ate away the narcotic coma induced by other drugs. The doctor looked over at the EEG monitor, smiled as brain activity increased steadily, and quickened the pace of the dexamaline infusion.

Disjointed and fragmented, words and feelings flashed across Justin's consciousness like firefish striking at the surface of a murky pond. Shrapnel bits of pain and memories of fire stung him, and he latched onto the pain long enough to give his mind some focus. He located that pain—a tiny, almost lost shard of it—in his right forearm. From that pinpoint of awareness, he began to recall that he had an arm and a body, which led him to the knowledge that he was still alive.

Random scenes from memory suddenly bombarded him. First came the intense fear for his command that he had felt up on discovering that Rifleman.Then the battle began to play itself out again, but in such shifting colors and slow movements that his recollection twisted into a surreal nightmare. Missiles exploded into flowers that sprouted teeth and bit into 'Mechs made of balloons.

The doctor watched brain activity increase rapidly and so brought down the dexamaline level again. A nurse pressed a cool cloth to Justin's forehead and drew his sheets down to the waist to cool him off.

Justin's dream battle evaporated in a cold rush of reason. Impossible to happen. It cannot exist. I do not wish to dream it.Those three thoughts, short but connected, descended into the black pit where Justin found himself, and he clung to them like the lowest rungs of some ladder. Slowly, laboriously, he reached up and grasped another thought. I have pain. I am alive.

The acrid scent of his own perspiration almost blocked the room's harsh antiseptic odor, but Justin caught it. Memories of hospital visits tore at him, but he refused to succumb to them. I am in a hospital. I must have been injured.With that thought came another impression that confirmed it. Justin finally felt the bandages circling his head and covering his eyes.

Panic shot through him with a jolt. No, not blind. Dear God, anything but that!He tried to lift his right hand to touch his face, but the doctor restrained him gently to keep the IV needles from tearing free. Justin, feeling resistance, immediately abandoned the effort to use his right arm and commanded his left hand to act instead.

It took almost superhuman strength, but his left arm responded. Bending at the elbow, it jerked upright, then flopped over and struck Justin heavily in the chest. In that instant, terror and confusion ripped away at Justin's sanity.

What is it? What's wrong with my arm?He could feel his forearm pressing against his chest, and there was a dull ache where his fingers had poked hard into his ribs, yet he still felt his left hand and wrist extended straight down from his upper arm!

A sharp, authoritative voice drilled through Justin's blind panic. "Stop, Allard! Wait! Stand easy, Major." The command, voiced like an order from a superior officer, hit Justin with the force of a physical blow. It shattered the chaos of anxiety that was swallowing him, and he grabbed at it like a drowning man at a life preserver.

Justin's parched lips opened with difficulty. He tried to speak, but only a harsh croaking came from his throat. Smashing down another jolt of fear, he again tried to speak. "Water."

Instantly, the bed began to rise, elevating his head and torso. Whatever had fallen on his chest no longer pressed against him. Justin heard the gurgle of water pouring from a pitcher into a cup, and his burning thirst swept away all other considerations.