CHAPTER TWO

Corinne kicked off her boots and shrugged out of the dark blue coveralls that served as Clan Ghost Bear’s working uniform, leaving her dressed in nothing but khaki shorts and a black sports bra. She folded the coveralls and handed the uniform and the boots over to MechWarrior Paula, who accepted them with a grave nod.

Then Corinne pushed off against a crate, drifting towards the circle. The warriors of the 48th Striker Trinary stood along the rough chalk figure drawn on the deck, their boots tucked into footholds or their bodies braced against crates, a Circle of Equals.

Her fellow warriors parted to let her through.

She found Richard waiting for her in the circle’s center, clad in nothing but shorts, his bronze skin already glistening with sweat in the hot cargo hold. She selected a spot a couple meters from him and slipped a bare foot beneath a cleat, anchoring herself to the deck.

Richard was taller than her by a good ten centimeters, his body lean and muscular. His jet-black hair was cut short, and the hard lines of his face were somehow both strong and beautiful.

He met her gaze. His gray eyes gave away nothing.

Like her sibkin, Corinne had seen the shape of things to be the moment she had learned of Aaron Hall’s death. What she had not understood, what she still did not understand, was why she had told Richard she intended to destroy him. Such an admission could do nothing but make an already formidable opponent just that much more dangerous. Her revelation could only increase the likelihood of her defeat—and yet she felt compelled to warn him.

Why?

She looked at that face and remembered the soft touch of her fingers running along the strong line of his jaw, remembered being held by that intent gaze, the feel of his hands on her, the feel of his mouth on her.

He caught her looking at him and she glanced quickly away, wrenching her mind back to the subject of combat. To a warrior, the contemplation of battle was familiar, even comforting. So she studied the circle, her sharp eyes marking every potential grip and leverage point within the combat area, confirming what she had seen from the catwalk.

The circle had been drawn in such a way that it pushed up against corner where the DropShip’s hull met an interior bulkhead, so that its edge was tangent to steel walls at two points. Cleats used to tie down cargo littered the rust-colored deck. The crates and equipment that had been cleared away were stacked high along the circle’s perimeter, arranged so that some of them actually overhung the circle’s border. And then, overhead, there was the broad underside of the mezzanine, supported by a quartet of columns that would break up clear lines of attack and provide much needed opportunities to change velocity in mid-fall.

She wondered if Richard was truly prepared for a fight in zero gee. For his sake, she hoped that he was.

Because she definitely was.

From among the warriors ringing the circle, Star Colonel François Cote, commander of the Third Bear Striker, raised his chin and filled the space with his deep, sonorous voice. “The death of Aaron Hall requires us to select a new commander for this unit.”

None of the gathered warriors spoke. There were no whispered side conversations, no sound in the cargo deck but the echo of the star colonel’s powerful voice.

Cote was a tall, severe man, his skin a dull bronze, his skull shaved clean, his expression empty of all feeling. Corinne could not remember ever having seen an emotion cross the face of the Third Bear Striker’s commander.

“Because Clan Ghost Bear is at war,” he said, “I have forbidden augmented combat. We cannot risk our BattleMechs in a Trial of Position. Nor does our mission allow for any delay. In compensation, I have allowed Star Commander Corinne to select the time and place of the Trial.”

He turned to look at her.

“I have selected the Sharp Claw’s cargo deck,” she said. “Thirty minutes prior to jump.”

“Bargained well and done,” said Richard.

Corinne had considered her choice with great care. Richard’s earlier statement had not been an idle boast. He was the better fighter.

If she had chosen to fight during the WarShip’s long run to the zenith jump point, Richard’s superior strength surely would have decided the issue. But she had chosen a time when the Bear’s Den hung motionless in space. No acceleration meant zero gee. And Corinne had calculated that free fall gave her an advantage.

François Cote looked first at Richard, and then at Corinne. “Victory goes to the combatant who first pushes his or her opponent outside the circle,” he said.

Simple as that, the Trial had begun.

Corinne jumped.

As soon as the words were out of the Star Colonel’s mouth, Corinne slipped her bare foot out from beneath a deck cleat and leaped, angling for the mezzanine’s steel underside.

It was exactly what Richard had expected.

Corinne was brilliant and aggressive, always ready to seize the initiative. If she could reach a leverage point opposite Richard, it would give her a point from which she could launch her body towards him and force him out of the ring.

Except once she leaped, she was committed.

Richard waited a fraction of a second to assess her speed and angle of ascent—then he jumped.

Only his target was not the mezzanine.

Once they lost contact with the deck, there was little either combatant could do until they came into contact with another hard point. Corinne’s leap had been impressive, but Richard’s legs were stronger.

He was going to cut her off a half-second before she reached the mezzanine.

She saw him coming and tucked into a ball, trying to deny him a target.

But not before his hand shot out and snared her ankle.

Quick as a snake, she lashed out with her left foot and caught him across the jaw with a savage kick. Sharp, brutal pain lanced through his face. A wave of darkness washed over him and he lost his hold on her.

She kicked him again.

Pain exploded in the center of his face. Suddenly he could not breathe and he was choking on something, choking on—

Blood.

He tasted its warm, iron tang at the back of his tongue, felt it sliding down his throat. He touched his chin, and his hand came away bloody. Touched his nose and almost blacked out from the sudden stab of molten agony.

She had broken his nose.

But that was not the greater danger. Her second kick had sent him flying through the air at a shallow angle. He could not stop himself.

Not until he hit the pile of crates on the other side of the circle.

He might hit in as little as two seconds. Until then there was nothing he could do.

Two seconds.

Her kick had changed Corinne’s momentum, had launched her upward. As Richard watched, she pushed off against the underside of the mezzanine and shot toward him.

For a warrior with the superior skill of Corinne, two seconds might just be long enough to destroy him.

And just like that, it was over. Corinne watched Richard drift backward through empty space, traling droplets of blood, unable to maneuver, helpless.

A pulse of joy surged through her.

But it was tinged with something darker. She desperately wanted to win—but she did not relish Richard’s destruction.

Corinne hit the mezzanine and pushed off, launching her body at his. She hurtled through the air, arms outstretched, coming for him. If she hit him at this angle, she would punch him right out of the ring.

He kicked with his left foot, aiming at her face.

She jerked her arms up, blocking the blow.

Then Richard kicked out with his right foot, pushing off against her shoulder, using her body to change his trajectory and launch him into a series of backwards somersaults. He tumbled towards a tower of crates, oriented so that he was upside down and facing the structure. He grabbed the big wooden box, his hands clawing at the crate’s frame, as he tried to arrest his motion. She saw him wince as the rough wood ripped his hands, but he stopped himself from bouncing off the crate.

Stravag! She had been certain of his defeat—and yet somehow he had managed to hold on. Richard Bekker was cunning and dangerous. He was not a man who made mistakes. For him to make even one error during battle was extraordinary.

She could not possibly hope for him to make two.

Corinne hit the deck and caught a cleat in her right hand, arresting her motion, holding herself in place as she crouched on the deck.

She looked over at him, six or seven meters away and clinging upside down to the crate. Despair welled up inside her. He was never going to make another mistake.

She was already defeated.

Again.

Keeping one hand on the crate, he swung his body down so he was facing her. He was a mess, his chin and the flattened ruin of his nose stained with brick-colored blood, but he flashed her a ghastly smile, his even teeth filmed with crimson. “I am not defeated yet,” he said.

She punched out a frustrated scream and leaped, aiming for the mezzanine that would give her the leverage and angle to push him out of the ring.

Richard immediately followed her.

Again she kicked out at him. This time he rolled into the blow, catching it with his left shoulder and then striking across his body to grab her right foot. She felt his hand clamp down on her bare skin like a steel vise.

A savage blow from her left foot caught him square in the face. For a moment his eyes went glassy again.

But this time he did not lose his grip.

With a quick flip of his wrist, he snapped her foot backwards. Cruel pain stabbed through Corinne’s ankle.

And then she heard the terrible crack of breaking bones.

They smashed into the mezzanine. The impact punched the air out of Richard’s lungs, but somehow he managed to wrap his left arm around one of the columns that supported the deck while still keeping hold of Corinne’s ruined foot.

His opponent was not so fortunate.

She caromed off the hard steel surface, headed back down toward the deck.

Richard let go of her foot and reached up, getting a better grip on her broken ankle, using it as a handle to wrench her body to a stop.

Corinne screamed.

And then her eyes rolled back into her head and she went limp, knocked out by the fierce pain that must have coursed through that broken ankle.

For a moment, despair squeezed Richard’s heart. He had not wanted to hurt Corinne so badly, so terribly. But he had not had a choice. She was a dangerous opponent and if he had given her even the smallest opening, she would have taken him apart. What had she said to him?

It is the Clan way.

He let go of the broken right ankle and reached down for her left, not wanting to hurt her any more than he had to. Clinging to the column he used his leverage to gently swing her body down, sending it slowly tumbling towards the deck. She would hit just inside the circle and then bounce out where the warriors of the Trinary could stop her flight.

Her body drifted toward the deck, as beautiful and hopeless as a falling leaf.

Richard drew a deep breath. His little gesture of mercy had cost him nothing. Corinne’s defeat was certain now, the likelihood of victory governed by an equation that balanced mass and velocity, energy and momentum.

Richard pushed off and sent his own body tumbling slowly towards the deck.

Below him, Corinne had rolled over, so that her body faced the deck. Her left arm was flung out at her side, her right pointed straight down at the deck. The right arm hit first, bending cruelly as it took her body’s momentum.

She gasped and her eyes shot open.

Then her body hit.

For the smallest fraction of a second she was rising again, disoriented by pain and teetering on the knife-edge of defeat.

Somehow, somehow, her right arm snaked out and found a cleat. She cried out when the damaged limb took the load of her moving body.

But somehow she held on.

Suddenly, Corinne was down on the deck, face-down, clinging to the cleat.

And Richard hung vulnerable in mid-air.

He shook his head. She was hurt, badly hurt, probably too badly to continue. One ankle was broken and her right arm had to be at least sprained. And she only had seconds to save herself. In moments he would be down on the deck and he would force her out of the ring. Nothing had changed.

Corinne suddenly turned her head, looking up at him with those blue eyes.

Then she wrenched her body around with that hurt arm, agony twisting her pretty features into something hard and ugly.

Getting into position.

Richard swallowed.

She managed to work her way into a weird kind of half-crouch, holding on to the cleat with both hands, her left leg braced against the deck, her right leg tucked up beneath her body, like she was some kind of giant flamingo, protecting that busted ankle.

She was savagely injured, there was no way she could beat him in a fight.

But Richard could see that fighting not what she had planned.

She coiled her body, readying herself.

And then she leaped.

She came at him straight and true, like a missile locked on and running straight to target. She hit him just below the ribs, her skull punching into his sternum, transferring most of her momentum to him with that one blow. They both tumbled sideways.

But Richard passed outside the circle a heartbeat before she did.