TEXT: BattleCorps
  FALL FROM GRACE
  Chris Hartford
  Part Five
  
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  ~12~
  “There are ‘games of state’, then there are Games of State …”
  —Private Journal
  Marik Apartments 
  Court of the Star League, Terra 
  Terran Hegemony 
  19 September 2602
  “Your friend is playing games.” Brion Marik peered at his daugh-
  ter over the rim of his half-moon spectacles. He held the loose 
  sheaf of papers he had had been studying when Rhean entered 
  his office. “The boy thinks its time to flex his muscles.” His voice 
  was dismissive.
  Rhean held out her hand for the documents and scanned them 
  quickly. “‘Inappropriate financial manipulations’? What the hell is 
  Zane on about?” A frown creased her forehead and she dropped 
  the documents onto the table. “We’re not meddling in the Suns.” 
  She regarded her father closely. “Are we?”
  “No, we’re not. Not now, at least.” His voice was guarded.
  “So we did. When?”
  “Before you were born. Not for years.” Rhean was thirty-four 
  now.
  “Yet it’s enough for the Davions to still be upset about? We’re not 
  talking a bit of insider trading and a few quick Eagles, are we?”
  Brion leaned back in his high-backed leather chair, steepling his 
  fingers in front of his mouth. He blew his fingers, which Rhean saw 
  were ink-stained from the old-style fountain pen he favored for 
  notes. A personal touch, he’d told her years ago. “No, we’re not.”
  “Dad, I’m going to find out anyway. I may not be an economist, 
  but I do appreciate a diplomatic crisis in the making. If the Davions 
  
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  are protesting to us now, you can be sure they’ll bring it up in the 
  Council session.”
  Brion sighed. “It began when I was young, probably only a few 
  years old, after the Davions, Rostovs, and Varnays had their little 
  civil war. Your great-great-grandfather Albert wanted to persuade 
  the Davions to join with his and Ian Cameron’s scheme for a united 
  humanity, but Alexander was having none of it.” He sipped his wa-
  ter. “The Davion economy was in tatters, so it was a small matter 
  for League companies to get involved in the investment and re-
  building process—much like in Canopus more recently—and from 
  there it was a small step to leveraging the FedSuns economy.”
  “You mean get a stranglehold on it.”
  “Yes and no. League companies never had a deadly grip on the 
  Suns’ economic infrastructure, but we—and by ‘we’ I mean Free 
  Worlds companies, not the government, who were strictly hands 
  off—could push things in the direction we wanted to go. Boom 
  and bust. The game was played for a number of years, and finally 
  Alexander realized that if he was to get a solid grip on fiscal mat-
  ters he’d need to handicap the Free Worlds or gain protections for 
  native companies.”
  “Enter the Star League.”
  “Precisely. The Federated Suns has stabilized in the last quar-
  ter-century, but it seems someone over there feels its time for 
  payback.”
  “You think Zane is behind it?”
  “Do you? I have my doubts. It was decades before he was born 
  and he has no emotional investment in revenge. Quite the op-
  posite, in fact. No, I think some of Alex’s old cronies are seeing 
  how far they can push the boy. The dukes of Robinson and New 
  Syrtis, probably. They’re like the Allisons and Selajs back home; 
  always wanting a large slice of the pie, particularly after Alexander 
  unseated the Varnays and Rostovs and limited their successors’ 
  powers. Unlike his great-grandfather and his father, Zane doesn’t 
  have the political clout or determination to stop them yet.”
  “I’ve seen the briefings on Robinson. But if this all stems from an 
  effort to push the Suns into the Star League, Ian Cameron won’t 
  side with them, surely.”
  “Possibly not, but there’ll be a political storm nonetheless. Ian 
  Cameron’s no spring chicken either. Nicholas will succeed him 
  
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  sooner rather than later, and he’s not got the same friendliness to 
  the Free Worlds.”
  “So, what do we do next?”
  “We do nothing. You, on the other hand, will have a chat with 
  your friend and dissuade him from going public.”
  “You want me to exploit my friendship with Zane?” Rhean’s eyes 
  narrowed and her voice turned cold. Brion met her gaze unflinch-
  ingly. “You want me to get him to back off?”
  “I want—” The Captain-General leant forward again and put his 
  hands flat on the desk. “—you to deal with the matter. How, I leave 
  to you. Consider it a test of your statesmanship.”
  * * *
  “It’s a diplomatic negotiation.”
  “Oh, so that’s what it’s called. I’ll have to remember that one for 
  the future.” Rinalla lounged on a couch, a glass of white wine in 
  her hand, seemingly half-asleep in the bright late-afternoon sun 
  streaming in through the patio windows. “Do you have more 
  ice?”
  Rhean glanced over her shoulder and nodded toward the kitchen. 
  “You know what fridges are, don’t you?” She returned her atten-
  tion to the mirror and adjusted her hairband.
  “I have servants for that kind of thing.” Rin sulked for a moment, 
  then levered herself up, heading to the wood-paneled kitchen, 
  stepping over Athena who snored softly in the sun, all four legs in 
  the air. “I’ve never seen the appeal of menial work, personally.”
  “Cooking can be therapeutic.”
  “I have other ways of…relaxing. And you’re avoiding the sub-
  ject.”
  “It’s a working lunch between friends.”
  “Oh, that explains why you’re not wearing that horrible uniform 
  any more.”
  “I’m on governmental business, not that of the military now. The 
  heir’s duties and all that.”
  
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  Rinalla tilted her head to one side and looked at Rhean closely. 
  “So, where exactly do short skirts come into ‘a working lunch be-
  tween friends’? The bow is a nice touch.”
  Rhean blushed furiously and retreated behind the sofa. She had 
  to stop herself reaching round to the sash-belt at her waist, form-
  ing a bow in the small of her back, its tails falling to mid-thigh like 
  the hem of her fitted skirt. 
  “Oh, don’t worry about that. The other girls are jealous of your 
  legs, and the boys, well…” She let it hang.” The Magestrix-elect 
  arched her right eyebrow as a smile tugged at the corner of her 
  mouth. “Others have done less for their nations. Even my mother 
  isn’t above a little…diplomatic negotiation from time to time.”
  “Rin! Do not go there.” She waved a finger sternly at her friend. 
  Rhean didn’t need reminding that her grandfather had been one 
  of the ‘negotiators’.
  “What?” The smaller women’s eyes were wide in mock inno-
  cence. 
  “I’m not going to throw myself at him to score diplomatic 
  points.”
  “No matter how much you like him?”
  Rhean moved to protest, then clamped her jaw shut. She felt a 
  flush spread across her face.
  “My god, you do.” There was a touch of incredulity in the other 
  woman’s voice, then a giggle worked up her throat, threatening to 
  become a laughing fit. She set her wine glass down, allowing the 
  laughter to overwhelm her.
  “It’s not funny, Rin.”
  The Canopian pulled herself together and regarded Rhean, eyes 
  brimming with tears. She took a deep breath…then burst out 
  laughing again. After a moment, she managed to compose her-
  self someone. “Oh yes it is, dear. Extremely. Prissy miss ice veins 
  has finally fallen off of her pedestal, head over heels with our 27th 
  century Casanova. It’s priceless.” She took a deep breath. “Look, 
  enjoy yourself—you’re both adults—but be careful. He has his own 
  agenda.”
  “It’s a diplomatic negotiation.” Rhean’s teeth were gritted.
  “Of course it is…”
  
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  * * *
  “More coffee?” Zane brandished the pot.
  Rhean waved him away, placing an exquisitely manicured hand 
  over her half-full cup on the narrow glass-topped table. “I’m 
  good, thanks.” It wasn’t that it was bad coffee, but adding more 
  caffeine to her butterfly-infested stomach would be a recipe for 
  disaster. 
  Zane set the pot back down and leaned back in his chair, regard-
  ing his guest levelly. For a moment his eyes met hers, then they 
  flicked down, taking in the neck of her camisole where her sun-
  glasses nestled between her breasts, then down to her delicately 
  crossed legs. It was only an instant and Zane seemed to recover, 
  but inwardly Rhean winced. I’m bait, nothing more.
  “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? Something agree-
  able, I hope.” His eyes sparkled and he smiled, but there was a 
  slight edge to his voice.
  “We don’t usually get to talk without others present.” She smiled 
  coyly and reached down for her cup. Her eyes remained locked on 
  Zane’s, looking back up at him through her eyelashes. She sipped 
  the bitter brew. “Can’t friends just chat?”
  “You’ve never seemed fond of ‘just chatting’ before?” His eyes 
  narrowed a little. “In fact I’d go so far as to say you’ve avoided it. 
  You make sure there’s always someone present, be it Magestrix 
  Centrella, your little friend Madeline, or one of those oh-so-protec-
  tive security girls.” Not stupid this boy, no.
  “What can I say. I’m shy.”
  Zane guffawed at that, eying her legs again. “Very shy,” he dead-
  panned. “So, again, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
  Rhean took a deep breath. “You’ve directed your judicial corps 
  to begin proceedings against the Free Worlds.”
  “Have I?” Zane’s mock innocence caused a smile to tug at the 
  edge of Rhean’s lips. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
  “Probably the papers delivered by the Department of the Attorney 
  General.”
  “That is a give away, isn’t it? Trust Star League civil servants to 
  be efficient.” He leaned back in his chair. “For once,” he added 
  
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  under his breath.
  “You’re accusing the Free Worlds of subverting the Suns’ econ-
  omy.”
  “Yes.”
  “Allegations dating to our great-grandfathers’ times.”
  “Indeed.”
  “An old tale to be dragging up.”
  “Not a tale. And sometimes old wounds are the ones that hurt 
  most.”
  Rhean frowned and set the coffee cup down. “Enough pain that 
  your father and great-grandfather let it lie.”
  Zane drew in a deep breath and sighed. “Sometimes it requires 
  distance from the events to best judge what needs to be done.”
  “And a push in the right direction. From Robinson, perhaps.” The 
  narrowing of Zane’s eyes and the momentary absence of the smile 
  from his lips told Rhean her aim was true.
  The Davion prince waved his hand dismissively. “That’s not im-
  portant. Your father must be worried though.”
  “Is he?” She lowered her chin and turned slightly away from her 
  host, regarding him from the corner of her eyes.
  “You’re here.”
  “That is a give away, isn’t it?” A lopsided grin crept onto her 
  face.
  “Touché.”
  “And so you’re going for straight for the nuclear option. For the 
  courts rather than negotiating.” She turned back to him, her expres-
  sion intent and her coquettish glances momentarily forgotten.
  “Aren’t we negotiating?” Zane cupped his chin with his right hand 
  and scratched the back of his head with his left.
  “We’re friends having a cup of coffee.” Rhean smiled sweetly.
  Zane reciprocated. “I thought as much. So…what do you pro-
  pose?”
  
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  “The Captain-General was talking about a new development 
  fund. Investment has done wonders in Canopus and could apply 
  equally well in the Inner Sphere. He wants to carry out a pilot first 
  though. Perhaps you could suggest somewhere.”
  “Robinson is feeling a little…neglected at present.”
  “Excellent idea.” Her voice was calm and businesslike but her 
  eyes sparkled. “I’ll suggest it to dad.”
  “Please do. I’m concerned as to how such a move will play out in 
  some parts of the Suns, however.”
  Rhean’s eyebrows rose slightly. He wants more? “So?”
  “A gesture of good faith.” He met her gaze.
  “Such as?”
  “The League’s support in tomorrow’s vote.”
  She smiled wryly. “So that’s what this is about.” Zane didn’t 
  react, but continued to eye her like a wolf sizing up its next meal. 
  “You know it makes no economic sense.”
  Zane tapped the arm of his chair with his fingertips. “There are 
  times for economics and times for politics. Do you want the Free 
  Worlds embroiled in a long, legal wrangle?”
  Rhean pursed her lips. “I’ll pass on your suggestion. And in 
  exchange?” She adjusted the position of her legs slightly and 
  watched Zane’s attention waver. “I presume it’s too late to stop 
  the legal juggernaut.”
  Zane leant forward, hands on his knees. “It’s in the Star League’s 
  hands now.”
  “Then forget about it. Let it linger and be dragged down by bu-
  reaucratic inertia. The League isn’t that efficient.“
  “Interesting. I can’t be accused of pulling it, but you’re largely 
  free of it.”
  “Though it’s only a temporary solution.”
  “And what do you suggest as a more permanent resolution?”
  Rhean leaned forward over her knees until her chest almost 
  touched the hands still folded in her lap. The sunglasses dragged 
  at the neck of her top. “We talk.” She pursed her lips slightly.
  
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  He leant further forward, mirroring her posture. Only the small 
  coffee table separated them. “Talking is good.” His roguish grin 
  was back.
  Rhean moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “All com-
  municating is good.” She tilted her head slightly.
  Zane leant in further, intent. Twenty centimeters separated them. 
  Ten.
  “But not today, I’m afraid.” She leaned back, simultaneously 
  shifting her hands to the chair arms and uncrossing her legs. She 
  stood in a fluid motion and turned to the door. “Thank you for the 
  coffee, Prince Davion. I look forward to our future diplomatic ne-
  gotiations.”
  Zane looked astonished, his mouth hanging half open, but 
  though Rhean could feel his eyes on her back as she strode to the 
  door, he didn’t say a word.
  
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  ~13~
  “The murder of Tanya Kerensky by Leonard Kurita sent shock-
  waves through the Star League, but it was the less obvious ripples 
  radiating out from the event and it’s aftermath that would reshape 
  my life. Fate, it seems, doesn’t like being ignored and will give a 
  hard shove when you try to divert it.”
  —Private Journal
  Star Chamber, 
  Court of the Star League, Terra 
  Terran Hegemony 
  1 September 2604
  “Where the hell are the medics?” Rhean screamed. Blood flecks 
  dotted her dress blouse and it was almost impossible to tell her 
  dress jacket had been white; Nicolas was holding it tightly against 
  Tanya’s abdomen, attempting to stop the blood gushing from her 
  chest as the Marik woman and Zane Davion took turns adminis-
  tering CPR. It was a losing battle; the First Lord’s bodyguard had 
  taken on a pale, clammy pallor and her eyes were glassy. “Why 
  are they taking so long?”
  Rhean glanced up at the clock, which showed 11:16 a.m., the sec-
  ond hand just sweeping past the quarter-minute. It had been ninety 
  seconds since Leonard Kurita had attacked Nicholas Cameron and 
  his bodyguard had intervened. It felt like an hour.
  * * *
  The Coordinator of the Draconis Combine had never been stable, 
  celebrating his ascension to the throne in 2591 with a two-month 
  planet-hopping spree of excess and hedonism. Three years ago, a 
  year after Nicholas’ father had confronted the Coordinator over his 
  military provocations, Leonard had decided to go hunting for the 
  children he’d likely sired in his “campaign of 2591.” Six days after 
  
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  Ian’s death in 2602 the Coordinator, who deigned not to attend the 
  funeral of the first First Lord, sent troops to Asta, a world jointly 
  administered by the Terran Hegemony and the Draconis Combine, 
  believing Ian Cameron had hidden some of Leonard’s bastards 
  there as part of a scheme to usurp the Combine’s leadership. The 
  SLDF countered the move, but weren’t quick enough to prevent 
  the DCMS troops kidnapping fourteen children, all of whom DNA 
  testing demonstrated to be unrelated to the Kurita line. This disap-
  pointment only made Leonard even more convinced that the other 
  nations of the Star League were conspiring against him.
  Two years of tense standoff had ensued, with Kurita being 
  represented in Star League councils more often than not by the 
  Combine’s ambassador to the hegemony or the venerable—and 
  considerably more effective—Siriwan McAllister-Kurita. It was 
  something of a surprise, therefore, when Leonard announced his 
  intention to attend the Fall 2604 session of the council, though no 
  surprise when he failed to appear on time and the session began 
  without him.
  “You’re a bunch of upstart children,” he’d announced on finally 
  staggering into the Star Chamber blind drunk and still clutching a 
  bottle of whisky. “A bunch of treacherous, disrespectful bastards.” 
  He slurred. “And you,” he waved at the First Lord with his bottle, 
  “Are the king bastard.”
  Leonard had staggered toward Nicolas, security ever-watch-
  ful, and spat in his face. The security personnel took a half-step 
  forward, but were waved back by Cameron, who calmly pulled a 
  handkerchief from his trousers with his good hand and wiped his 
  face.
  “What is the meaning of this, Leonard?” the First Lord had de-
  manded.
  “You know quite well!” Leonard had screamed. “Everybody 
  thinks you’re so honorable and great! Look at me! I am Nicholas 
  Cameron! My daddy built the Star League! I am chivalry incar-
  nate! Everybody loves me!” He jabbed a finger at the First Lord. 
  “Whereas in truth, you are the most phony and deceitful baka yaro 
  of the entire Inner Sphere!”
  “For years you’ve been sending your lackeys on all worlds to 
  find my lost sons and daughters, only to kidnap them! Don’t you 
  dare to deny it—I know what aims you’re trying to pursue with 
  your deceitful plans, alright! Your father already planned the to-
  tal annihilation of the Draconis Combine. Only he failed! Too bad! 
  
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  Daddy died before seeing the loathed coordinator fawning at his 
  feet. But his heritage lives on! More diabolic and deceitful than 
  daddy would have ever been capable of, you are trying to finally 
  bring to an end what he begun. But you won’t succeed!” Kurita 
  wobbled visibly. “Don’t you think I didn’t notice how your father 
  placed DCMS troops in the Reunification Wars in such a way that 
  they had to feel the attack’s full force? Don’t you think I don’t know 
  how first your father and now you don’t miss a single opportunity 
  to gut the Combine?!”
  Nicholas held out a soothing hand. “Leonard, let’s sit down and 
  discuss this issue calmly. Obviously, there have been misunder-
  standings between my father and you...”
  “I WILL DO NO SUCH THING!”
  The whisky bottle the Coordinator had been drinking from 
  flew from his hand, clearly aimed for the First Lord. Alcohol and 
  agitation meant Leonard’s aim was off, however, triggering the 
  catastrophe that unfolded.
  As the coordinator threw his impromptu missile at the First 
  Lord, Cameron’s bodyguard stepped forward to protect her prin-
  cipal, her usually ceremonial weapon leveled at the assailant. The 
  weight of the bottle struck her right arm with considerable force, 
  jerking her hand back.
  The weapon fired, a beam of coherent light searing a path 
  across the chamber. Fortunately for the Kurita lord, the impact 
  had thrown her aim off and the shot only singed the hip of his 
  robe. Leonard Kurita didn’t see himself as fortunate; He leapt 
  forward and appeared to punch the young woman in the stom-
  ach, screaming as he did. A look of shock crossed her face. Then 
  the gathered lords and their aides saw the blade the Coordinator 
  had pulled from his robes. He stabbed again. “Bitch!” he hissed. 
  Kerensky stood there for a moment, resolute in her determina-
  tion to guard her lord. Five seconds after Kurita’s assault, then 
  ten. She appeared to cough and blood appeared on Tanya’s lips 
  as her legs buckled.
  There was an explosion of movement as chairs were pushed 
  back around the room, but Leonard didn’t seem to notice. A strong 
  hand caught his arm as it pulled back for a third blow. Yatomo. 
  The Coordinator looked like he might attack his own aide, then 
  seemed to come to his senses and notice the movement around 
  the room. 
  
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  “You can shove this baka Star League and your kuso planet, First 
  Lord.” Leonard snarled as he hurried to the door. “Though I’m 
  tempted to bring it under Combine protection.” He hesitated at 
  the portal momentarily. “In a real nation, a bikko like you would 
  never rule. Would know when to let his betters take over and re-
  move himself from the picture.”
  He turned on his heels, storming from the chamber with the 
  bloody knife still clutched in his fist. Yatomo, his eyes scanning 
  the gathering, remained at the door, guarding Kurita’s retreat.
  Pandemonium erupted.
  Zane, seated to Nicholas’ left, was the first to reach the First Lord 
  and his fallen guard. The First Lord’s body had obscured Rhean’s 
  view of the confrontation with the Coordinator but she’d seen 
  Tanya step forward. She hoped against hope that the body armor 
  SLDF troopers routinely wore had protected the young woman 
  from the worst of the blow. A quick glance into Zane’s eyes dashed 
  those hopes as he and Kevin sought to save the woman.
  “She’s got no pulse!” Zane called as he waved her over, knowing 
  she had first-hand experience of battlefield medicine. This was 
  peaceful Terra, not war-torn Canopus, and it was painfully obvi-
  ous that that Kerensky had not worn the form-fitting under-armor; 
  blood soaked the lower half of her jacket and was beginning to 
  pool underneath her body.
  Military training came to the fore. Take command. Get things 
  done. Zane and Nicolas were looking to staunch the bloodflow, 
  the First Lord trying desperately despite his single hand. Rhean 
  motioned Nicholas back a moment, then lifted the now-crimson 
  shirt, ripping it in two. Two puncture wounds marked the wom-
  an’s torso, one two centimeters to the left of her belly button, the 
  other about eight centimeters above it at the base of her sternum. 
  Blood welled from both wounds, but it surged from the upper one. 
  Nicolas tried to wad cloth from Kevin’s jacket against the torn flesh, 
  Norman Aris helping him. Rinalla tore up her skirt for more mate-
  rial, but it wasn’t enough. Rhean nodded toward her dress jacket, 
  slung over the back of her chair at the start of the meeting. Kevin 
  followed her gaze and nodded.
  Hell, Rhean thought. They needed to keep blood circulating and 
  maintaining brain function, but CPR would increase the blood flow. 
  There was little choice. She balled her fists and pushed on the 
  fallen woman’s chest. Zane pinched Tanya’s nose and breathed 
  for her.
  
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  “Where the hell are the medics?”
  * * *
  Rhean’s nerves were on an adrenalin-enhanced knife-edge. She 
  wanted to pace but forced herself to stay standing, her left shoul-
  der resting on the doorframe of the Star Chamber. Her mind was 
  equally twitchy. What would be the upshot of this?
  Leonard’s attack on the First Lord and Tanya Kerensky were 
  shocking, and on one level her mind was processing the legal 
  implications of that. Would the Combine claim diplomatic immu-
  nity for the Coordinator? Was he still in the city or had he already 
  fled off-world? Why hadn’t someone shot the bastard there and 
  then?
  Another part of her mind dismissed Kurita’s physical attacks as a 
  secondary issue. The Coordinator had, to all intents, threatened to 
  invade the Hegemony and occupy Terra. Was he really that insane? 
  Probably. The DCMS couldn’t hope to prevail against the massed 
  might of the Star League and the other houses, but a war between 
  the member states so soon after Reunification War would have 
  disastrous consequences.
  She glanced back down at the bloodstained marble floor, now 
  secured with crime-scene tape and guarded by a squad of SLDF 
  troopers. Bandages and medical gear lay strewn across the floor 
  from the efforts to save Tanya Kerensky, including Rhean’s own 
  discarded jacket. It would all be photographed and presented as 
  evidence when the murder inquiry began. If the murder inquiry be-
  gan, she corrected herself, though she recognized the vain hope. 
  The medics had said there was no hope, but they’d still rushed her 
  to Mount Grace Hospital. Rhean had enough medical knowledge 
  to know that the Lords’ attempts to keep the SLDF sergeant alive 
  hadn’t been enough. Tanya’s heart had stopped as a result of the 
  blood loss, and despite valiant efforts at CPR, Rhean expected the 
  news to be bad.
  Almost on cue, footsteps echoed behind her and Rhean turned 
  to face Nicholas Cameron, flanked now by two marines in bat-
  tle-dress. He was ashen faced, the scar across his forehead even 
  more pronounced than usual. He looked at her mournfully and 
  shook his head. He’d already announced his decision to address 
  the nation.
  
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  She took a deep breath. “My condolences, First Lord. If there’s 
  anything the Free Worlds can do, just ask. I’m sure my father won’t 
  mind me saying that.”
  A faint smile tugged at his lips. “He already offered as much and 
  said he’d trust your judgment on military matters.” Dad the effi-
  cient economist, knowing precisely when to delegate.
  “I’ll have our state department provide a dossier on Combine as-
  sets within the Free Worlds, should push come to shove.” 
  Nicholas nodded. “All in good time, Rhean, all in good time. I need 
  to do something infinitely more difficult than deciding whether to 
  go to war with the Combine or not, or addressing the media.”
  She looked at him quizzically.
  “I must speak to Tanya’s husband and son.”
  * * *
  How long she’d sat in the quadrangle, Rhean was never able to 
  work out. She recalled leaving the Star Chamber and the First Lord, 
  Evie a ghost-like presence behind her. She’d thought about return-
  ing to her apartments, but was too on-edge and wanted to walk. 
  She’d wandered the labyrinthine corridors of the administrative 
  complex, eventually emerging into the early afternoon sunshine 
  in the enclosed garden. It was deserted, the building having been 
  cleared of non-essential personnel after Leonard’s flight. She sat 
  on a bench and watched the water cascade down the fountain, 
  allowing the steady, silvery stream and tinkling sound to lull her 
  into dreamlike state. Her mind wandered and the noise of the 
  fountain became the sound of children playing. Then a child play-
  ing. A three-year-old Russian boy who would grow up without his 
  mother.
  The tears, when they came, were unstoppable. She screamed 
  in frustration, her hands balled into fists as sobs wracked her 
  body. Life was so bloody unfair. An insane, vindictive bastard like 
  Leonard Kurita gets to live while Tanya Kerensky, a woman only 
  doing her job, dies. How many more would Leonard take down 
  with him?
  Rhean felt rather than saw someone sit down next to her and then 
  arms wrapped around her and pulled her close. A hand stroked 
  her hair and she nestled her face against the person’s shoulder. 
  
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  After what might have been a minute, but may have been an hour, 
  her sobbing subsided but she didn’t immediately push away. She 
  allowed her head to rest on the shoulder for a few more moments, 
  then turned her head to look up into her benefactor’s face.
  Zane’s face bore the marks of the morning’s horror. His eyes 
  were tight and worry lines creased his brow but he graced her 
  with a faint smile. “Thank you,” she whispered.
  “Don’t do that, Ree. I haven’t said how you look yet.”
  “Dreadful, I know.”
  “Possibly, but you could add vulnerable. Human.”
  “Vulnerable, eh?”
  “You’re in my arms, aren’t you?”
  She snorted and pushed herself upright, her hands forming a 
  barrier between them. “Cocky bastard.” There was no malice in 
  her voice though, and the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of 
  her mouth put the lie to her words.
  He raised an eyebrow at her, then reached up with his right hand 
  to brush her hair back from her face. He tucked the bang back be-
  hind her ear, then allowed his fingers to carry on down her neck 
  and then along her jaw. His thumb caressed her cheek. Rhean’s 
  eyes tracked the movement, but she didn’t pull away. Only when 
  Zane’s fingers began to trace the corners of her lips did she gently 
  reach up and pull his hand away.
  Then she leaned forward and kissed him, passionately and with-
  out a care for who might be watching.
  Zane seemed taken aback at first, but only for an instant. His 
  arms encircled her and pulled her close, returning her passion. His 
  hands caressed her back. A part of her mind said no, but her voice 
  didn’t comply. Only when his hands drifted lower did she push 
  him away. No, her brain said again. “Not here,” said her treacher-
  ous vocal cords.
  He stood, drawing her up with him. His right hand encircled her 
  left. “I know somewhere,” he whispered as he led her from the 
  garden. 
  
  BattleCorps
  Fall From Grace • Page 1
  ~14~
  “Sometimes the course of history hinges on a single day – or 
  night. This was one such moment, though I didn’t appreciate that 
  at the time.”
  —Private Journal
  Thonon-les-Bains 
  France, Terra 
  Terran Hegemony 
  2 September 2604
  Awareness and memory returned slowly, washing over Rhean 
  like the cool breeze from the window. Something was odd, but it 
  took her several moments to register what was out of place and fit 
  all the pieces together.
  Bright sunlight poured in through large, open patio doors, whereas her 
  apartment had small, weather-sealed windows except for the lounge. 
  Fine sheets—silk, she thought—whereas she always had a duvet. An 
  ornate, mahogany sideboard where hers was simple and oak. An unlit 
  mirror on the vanity, whereas light strips surrounded hers. The absence 
  of a telecom, where hers was always in easy reach. There was some 
  form of disc on the wall too, but she couldn’t quite make it out.
  She lifted herself up on her elbows and turned her head ninety 
  degrees, blinking sleep from her eyes. The “disc” metamorphosed 
  into a sunburst and sword. Memory flooded back.
  A surreptitious exit from the Court of the Star League; a covert 
  shuttle flight; champagne on the shore of the lake; passionate 
  kisses; moments of ecstasy.
  “Shit.” It was a whisper, but the explosive epithet seemed deaf-
  ening in the quiet, sunlit room.
  She sat upright, allowing the sheets to fall away, and scanned 
  the room for her clothes. Her boots lay in the corner of the room 
  
  BattleCorps
  Fall From Grace • Page 1
  together with her underwear but her trousers and blouse were 
  missing. “Swine.” She snarled to herself as she swung her legs 
  round and stood, then padded over to the discarded clothes, 
  swearing as she went.
  Though life in the academy and in the field with the military had 
  stripped away any self-consciousness she might have had about 
  her body, there was a particular vulnerability to being in a strange 
  house dressed only in bra and briefs. She pulled open a ward-
  robe and rifled through the contents, extracting a large plain shirt. 
  Loosening the topmost gleaming jet button, she pulled the ivory 
  shirt over her head and turned to quickly examine the result in 
  the mirror. It was a little tight round the chest and rather too short 
  for her liking, Zane being somewhat diminutive by comparison, 
  though thin and wiry in his own way—the story of my bloody life, 
  she thought—but there wasn’t much choice until she found her 
  own clothes.
  She glanced at the bedroom door, then at the open patio doors, 
  opting for the latter. She pushed through the fine, billowing drapes 
  and stepped onto a bright, sunlit terrace. A tree-line boulevard 
  disappeared off into the distance, cutting through ornate gardens. 
  Beyond them lay the glistening waters of the lake, dotted with the 
  white sails of pleasure craft. 
  “Morning, gorgeous,” came a faintly accented voice from her 
  right. Zane was sitting at a black metal table. Steam wafted from 
  a small cup of coffee while an array of meats, cheeses, preserves 
  and fruit dotted the table. Zane had a fork of scrambled eggs in 
  one hand and a data slate in the other. She ignored his greeting.
  “I appear to have mislaid my clothes. And my security.”
  “Housekeeping have the former though Miss Sukhanov, the latter 
  and who is presently asleep downstairs, told them to simply vacu-
  seal seal them for now in case the SL spooks want to go nosing 
  around after yesterday’s unpleasantness.”
  “Evie’s sleeping?”
  “She was up most of the night and although it’s early afternoon 
  local time,” he gestured at the bright sky, “It’s 4 a.m. back on 
  Puget Sound. The joys of time zones.” He put down the slate and 
  stood. He was dressed in loose fitting shorts and a white t-shirt. 
  He walked over to her, then stretched up to kiss her. “And I always 
  though it was all heels and posture. Just how tall are you?” 
  
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  Fall From Grace • Page 1
  “One-eighty-seven.”
  “That’s...sorry, I need to turn that into real heights. Just shy of 
  six-foot two, yes? I’m only five-ten myself,” He made a play of 
  standing on tip-toes for a moment. “But I make up for it in other 
  ways.”
  Rhean rolled her eyes. “Always over exaggerating…and any-
  way, I thought that archaic system had been abandoned centuries 
  ago.”
  “Oh it was. Officially. Its somehow stuck around though, so we’re 
  a poly-measurement culture: Miles, kilometers, meters, feet, inch-
  es and centimeters. Not to mention weights and drink measures. 
  A pint of beer sounds much better than a half-liter.” Rhean held up 
  a hand to cut him off before he carried on. 
  In response, he guided her to a chair, gently pushing her into it. 
  Self consciously she tugged at the hem of the shirt that rode up as 
  she settled into it. Zane grinned wolfishly, admiring the view. She 
  blushed and draped a napkin over her lap.
  Returning to his seat, the Davion lord lifted a coffee pot and 
  poured her a cup, followed by a glass of water from a gleaming 
  decanter. “It’s freshly ground, and the water is local, a little bot-
  tling plant the family have owned for years.”
  “I’ve seen the logo,” she said dryly, taking a sip and glancing 
  round to look at the not-so-distant mountains. “‘A taste of Old 
  Earth’ was the advertising tag line in the Free Worlds, I think.”
  “And in the Commonwealth and the Suns.” He smiled. “The plant 
  is about eight kilomters that way.” He gestured east along the lake-
  shore. “We can go see it if you like.”
  Rhean pursed her lips and gestured at her attire with both hands, 
  turning them thumbs out about six centimeters from her body and 
  running both down to her waist. “Ahem.”
  “Between the staff and the local boutique, I think we can sort 
  something out. This is France after all, home of haute couture.”
  “I’ll pass on the sightseeing, I think. After all, it’s not like it’s far 
  from home.” It was Zane’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “I have a 
  house about two mountains that way. In the Val d’Illiez.” She ges-
  tured southeast. “It overlooks the Rhone Valley and the Dents du 
  Midi. Very good for skiing.” She carved a slice of cheese off and 
  popped it in her mouth, then reached for a slice of toast. “Dad 
  
  BattleCorps
  Fall From Grace • Page 0
  bought it just before the treaty was signed, but pretty much never 
  uses it now.”
  “One of several on Terra, if I recall correctly. London, Paris, Prague, 
  and so on.”
  Rhean set down the toast she was buttering and regarded Zane 
  levelly. “So you really did a workup on the Marik family assets.”
  “Oui, but it’s gone no further. As we agreed.”
  “So I saw. And the case is in limbo.”
  “Where it’ll remain, again, as we agreed. If you want it buried 
  permanently, we’ll have to discuss matters further.”
  Rhean’s eyes narrows. “This isn’t a pay-off for you withdrawing 
  the case, you know. My reputation as an impartial negotiator is 
  somewhat in tatters right now.”
  “I never thought it was part of the deal. It’s a pretty woman stay-
  ing the night, a couple of consenting adults enjoying each others 
  company. No strings attached whatsoever. You should know I 
  don’t mix business with pleasure.” He sipped his coffee. “Not of-
  ten, anyway.”
  “So I could hop a shuttle back to Geneva or the Court and we 
  could forget it ever happened?”
  “I doubt I could forget, but if you want to walk away you’re free 
  to do so.”
  “When I have some clothes.”
  “When you have some clothes.” He smiled. “Do you want to do 
  that? To walk away?”
  “At this moment, I really don’t know. It’s a scary situation. 
  Complicated.”
  “It always is.”
  “Yeah, but this isn’t just an office fling. Sex between people like 
  us isn’t just sex. It’s politics.”
  “And here I thought I was consoling you in a moment of grief.”
  “Exploiter.” There was no anger in her voice and the smile on her 
  face erased any doubts Zane might have had. “Corruptor!”
  
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  Fall From Grace • Page 1
  A faux-innocent expression crossed Zane’s face, his eyes wide.
  “You look like Rinalla.”
  He snorted. “Damned with faint praise, though—unlike some 
  people—she knows when to let her hair down.”
  Rhean frowned and took a sip of water. “Work hard, play harder is 
  her motto, though it’s hard to tell which she’s doing at any moment in 
  time. And I resent the implication that I don’t know how to have fun.”
  “You are usually a little…stand-offish.”
  “It’s professional reserve. Remaining objective. Not letting per-
  sonal desires get in the way.”
  Zane ignored her protests. “And yet you’re quite happy to play 
  the coquette when it’s to your advantage.” He regarded her intent-
  ly. “Not that you were very reserved or stand-offish last night…” 
  He reached across the table.
  Cheeks flaring, Rhean looked down at where he’d placed a hand 
  over hers and was running a thumb gently between her thumb 
  and forefinger. She slid her hand free. ”I really should find some 
  clothes.” She lifted the napkin from her lap, placing it carefully on 
  the table then stood.
  Zane rose too, taking a step toward her. Rhean backed away. 
  “Perhaps I will have to press the suit. ‘Reclaiming Davion property 
  illegally seized by the Mariks.’” The wolfish grin appeared on his 
  face again. “Starting with that shirt.”
  Rhean took another step backward, then a third. Her shoulders 
  touched the wall and she pressed her palms against the smooth 
  stone. Shifting her weight onto her right foot, she lifted her left 
  and placed the sole against the wall too, turning her knee into a 
  barrier to his advance. Zane ignored the obstacle and leaned in, 
  his bare legs brushing against hers, placing his hands either side 
  of her shoulders. She twisted her face away from his attempt to 
  kiss her, but the faint curl at the edge of her mouth egged him on. 
  She twisted to avoid another attempt then tried to duck out of the 
  cage of his arms. 
  An arm caught her round the waist and pulled her close. She 
  felt his breath on her neck, then a soft kiss just below her ear. His 
  free hand reached round and caressed her face. The hand moved 
  down and deftly undid the top button of the shirt. Then he kissed 
  her again and the hand undid another button. 
  
  BattleCorps
  Fall From Grace • Page 
  “You can always say stop.”
  She didn’t.
  
SOURCE: textdata/thevault/BattleTech [multi]/EXTRA/Novels/Battlecorps Novels/Fall From Grace Pt 05 - Chris Hartford.pdf