TEXT: BATTLECORPS
  EN PASSANT
  by Phaedra M. Weldon
  
  BATTLECORPS
  En Passant • Page 2
  Robinson 
  Draconis March, Federated Suns 
  7 October 3065
  The click of Päl Wyndham-
  Sandoval’s polished boots 
  echoed off the corridor walls 
  leading from Duke Sandoval’s 
  library and study. The braid 
  from his top-knot swung 
  around to brush his cheek. He 
  moved it away with an impa-
  tient hand. The sword, which 
  went with his dress uniform, 
  bumped against his left thigh, 
  and with every determined 
  step he ground another piece 
  of his own frustrations be-
  neath a heel. Within an hour 
  of his arrival on Robinson the 
  world had turned one-hun-
  dred and eighty degrees.
  Servants stood aside in the wide hall to let him pass. He ac-
  knowledged them with barely a nod. Broad events preoccupied 
  his thoughts: James Sandoval no longer directed the course of the 
  family dynasty. Mai Fortuna no longer led the Robinson Rangers. 
  Tancred Sandoval now bore the ducal title, and he had shifted 
  Robinson’s support in the ongoing civil war away from Katrina 
  Steiner-Davion to her brother, Victor. 
  Päl’s life had been altered by events beyond his control. Just as 
  it had when Arthur Steiner-Davion was assassinated. Päl had been 
  in that stadium, listening to Arthur’s address, seated with other 
  cadets of the Battle Academy when explosions rocked the pro-
  ceedings. Events born of that calamity played out at an alarming 
  speed, enveloping him each time he caught his breath. Then-Duke 
  James Sandoval, blaming the attack on the Draconis Combine. 
  Tancred, choosing not to rejoin with the Rangers. Päl had been 
  tapped to take his place, promoted to Leftenant. The young scion, 
  feeling like a chess piece being shifted about a board. 
  
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  Returning to his family’s estates on Exeter, saying goodbye to 
  his wife and newborn son, and leaving to join the First Rangers for 
  their ill-fated assault on House Kurita.
  However, no matter the whys or the what-happeneds since his 
  last visit to Robinson; Päl was excited to see his parents. They 
  had been in the room earlier, when Tancred arrived to accept the 
  mantle of dynasty leadership, but not for the military planning 
  session that followed. Päl had so far managed only a handful of 
  words with them. 
  Turning a corner in the spacious Sandoval Castle, he found them 
  waiting just inside the foyer doors. His father, a roundish man of 
  medium height and receding hairline, had once served with the 
  Rangers. Päl had grown up on his father’s stories of ’Mech bat-
  tles, and considered it destiny that had stepped in to make of the 
  Baron’s son a MechWarrior and an officer. 
  The Baron Exeter took a few steps toward Päl, his expression 
  dark and his mouth  open to speak, but the Baroness stayed him 
  with a hand on his left arm and a calm smile to her son. 
  Baroness Margarette Wyndham-Sandoval was a proud woman, 
  rich in the heritage of the Sandoval family. Päl had always seen 
  his mother as one of the braces of the family, the one whom oth-
  ers looked to for guidance. As her son, he had always done as she 
  wished, and she had never guided him wrong. The Baroness was 
  a strong and silent partner beside his father, and he loved them 
  both. He only wished, at times, his mother’s stolid and stoic ap-
  pearance in court had not carried over into her duties as mother. 
  Päl pulled the dress-white gloves from his hands as his mother 
  directed them with a nod to the doors, and beyond to the wait-
  ing Avanti stretch hover sedan. He opened the car’s door for his 
  mother and gave her his hand as she gracefully stepped in. His 
  father gave him a tight smile, placed a hand on his son’s arm, then 
  bent down to enter as well. 
  After the doors were closed and the car was underway, the Baron 
  could contain his curiosity no longer. 
  “Well?” He raised a graying eyebrow at his son. 
  Päl shrugged. Tancred’s loyalties were no secret, although the 
  particulars discussed behind closed doors might be.  But Päl had 
  never kept information from his father. In only a few sentences, he 
  relayed the meeting’s proceedings—including Tancred’s plan to 
  ease relations with Theodore Kurita.
  
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  His words garnered exactly the reaction he’d expected from his 
  father. 
  “What?” the Baron’s voice boomed inside the sedan’s doors. “Is 
  the man mad? How can he give up those worlds to the Dragon? 
  This is outrageous.” He traded a glance with his wife, who nodded. 
  “Unacceptable!”
  Päl was no longer so certain. He turned his attention to the pass-
  ing scenery, considering. 
  It was early autumn on Robinson, and the display of browns, or-
  anges, yellows and reds reminded him of fall evenings at home, 
  spent with Khim. He missed her terribly after almost three years 
  apart, and felt guilty for abandoning his son at such an early age. 
  After the unit’s disastrous retreat from Ashio, Päl had remained on 
  Mallory’s World with the rest of the regiment. He’d sent word to 
  his mother, asking if he should request leave to return home until 
  the First received new orders. 
  His mother advised him to remain on Mallory’s World. She had 
  taken a lead in his son’s education, and Päl shouldn’t worry him-
  self with such details. According to the Baroness, Päl was where 
  he needed to be, in support of the Duke’s orders. And so he’d 
  remained with his regiment, wrote letters to his wife Khim every 
  day, and practiced with his knives.
  Until Mai tapped him to accompany her here to Robinson for a 
  meeting with the new Duke.
  He sighed as he finally looked back at his father. “That’s the way it 
  is, father. And truthfully, I see no flaw in what Tancred proposes.”
  The Baron’s eyes widened. “You support Tancred in this non-
  sense? Turning the loyalties of Robinson toward Victor.”
  “I support the decisions of my commander and Duke, sir, as any 
  good soldier would. You taught me that.” Päl clasped his hands in 
  his lap. The filtered sun glinted off the gold of his Battle Academy 
  ring. “Tancred feels our attentions are wasted attacking the 
  Combine.” He paused for a beat. “I agree.”
  “You can’t be serious…” the Baron began. “James would never 
  have allowed such a thing.”
  Päl kept silent. The young Wyndham-Sandoval knew not all de-
  cisions were the right decisions—and sometimes one had to make 
  a choice on his own. That much he’d learned during the battle 
  
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  on Ashio, when choices in battle saved or destroyed lives. Where 
  officers played their soldiers and their regiments like pieces on a 
  chess board. After the retreat, he had begun to see himself and his 
  fellow soldiers as the pawns—those pushed out in front—expend-
  able to protect those with the power.
  And there might come a time when Päl would need to make a 
  choice with his loyalties, but now wasn’t it.
  “Päl, answer me. Are you serious?”
  Päl leaned forward. “Yes. I am. Father, I’m a MechWarrior, and a 
  son of the Sandoval dynasty. I supported the former Duke in his 
  decisions, and I will support Tancred’s orders as well.” He wanted 
  to add how he knew that his cousin had warned Mai not to lead 
  the Rangers into Combine territory. Tancred’s reasons had been 
  sound, and proven right in the end. 
  “In support of Victor? Päl, have you not been paying attention? 
  He’s in league with the Draconis Combine. Everyone knows he’s 
  sleeping with a snake. How can you trust a man who’s in bed with 
  the enemy? How can Tancred know Kurita will accept concessions 
  and not wait until our forces are drawn elsewhere on foolish at-
  tacks against our own people then attack our worlds, murder our 
  children and rape our worlds for their own—”
  The Baroness calmly reached out and put a firm hand on her 
  husband’s knee. She gave no other sign, her gaze drawn out at the 
  passing scenery as the Avanti stretch-sedan began its crawl along 
  the drive to the Wyndham-Sandoval estates.
  The Baron became silent.
  Chill wind caressed the beaded sweat on Päl’s forehead as he 
  closed his eyes and opened wide his other senses. He smelled the 
  crisp decay of autumn leaves, heard the soft, whispering shuffle 
  as the wind tossed them about on the grounds of the gardens. He 
  cocked his head to his right shoulder, felt the bite of steel between 
  the index finger and thumb of both hands.
  With a spin he directed and controlled the blade from his right 
  hand to the top of the target, then followed the release of his 
  left blade to the bottom, forming in the air a double-strike he’d 
  perfected years ago. He saw in his mind’s eye where the blades 
  
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  would strike the target. That was the key—to know the direction 
  and visualize it.
  The spin completed, Päl came to land in a crouch, the thrown 
  blades now replaced by new ones pulled from hidden sheaths be-
  neath his clothing. The simultaneous thwack as the blades hit the 
  tree twenty meters away brought a smile to his face. The first of 
  the afternoon. 
  My son doesn’t know me.
  Again the realization yanked away his momentary glee and he 
  lowered his arms and straightened. He recalled the young boy’s 
  formal bow—his son’s dark, even gaze that measured and sized up 
  the room, analyzed things in an almost combative style. Much as 
  his mother did at times when she entered a room.
  I don’t know my son.
  “Päl?”
  The familiar voice of his wife brought his thoughts into a hap-
  pier place as he turned to see Khim and Chauncy approaching. 
  Khim held a large ceramic mug with the Wyndham-Sandoval crest 
  painted on the side. She was just as beautiful now as the day he’d 
  met her. Her dark, raven hair contrasted with his own blond tress-
  es now held back in a single ponytail at the base of his top-knot. 
  She was the night to his morning. She was his place to run to 
  when the world turned chaotic and cruel. 
  And he loved her unconditionally. 
  Chauncy’s stately form was the opposite of Khim’s. She was 
  a short elderly woman, rising to Päl’s shoulders, with wiry gray 
  hair and a cherub face. His former nanny and foster-mother had 
  lost weight since he’d seen her, and her skin, though usually pale, 
  seemed much more so in Robinson’s evening light. 
  He retrieved and resheathed his knives and stepped toward 
  them.
  Other than Khim, Chauncy had been the only member of the 
  house to greet him with a smile and a warm embrace. Just as she 
  did now. “What are you two doing out here?” he took the offered 
  mug from Khim and kissed her cheek. The cup warmed his fingers 
  as he inhaled the aroma of spiced wine. 
  
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  “Com’n to fetch you in to get ready. Guests are already arriving.” 
  Chauncy clasped her thick hands in front of her green skirts. 
  Päl had completely forgotten about his parent’s social event to 
  supposedly welcome their son home from the war. 
  He groaned. 
  “Forgot, didn’t you?” Khim’s voice wasn’t as light as it had been 
  earlier when he’d arrived home. They’d spent most of the first 
  hours of his homecoming in private, rediscovering each other 
  again.
  Päl nodded. “This party is little more than an excuse for my 
  mother and father to renew their presence within the family. It’s 
  all politics—in which I will never participate.” 
  Chauncy gave him a light laugh. “You’re a Sandoval, Päl. It will 
  pull you in anyway.”
  “Not if I stay with the Rangers,” he sipped the wine and felt its 
  warmth spread through his extremities. It was indeed becoming 
  colder in the advancing evening. “I’ve no time to worry about the 
  larger picture there.” He flashed back to the last battle on Ashio 
  and then quickly tucked it away. I can’t think of fallen friends now.
  “And why the long face?”
  He shrugged. 
  Chauncy put a hand on his shoulder. It felt warm and comforting. 
  There was so little contact outside of private rooms in this house, 
  or on his family’s estates on Exeter. 
  Päl handed the mug to Chauncy. He absently pulled his knives 
  from their sheaths and in unison began weaving their blades be-
  tween his fingers. He looked at his wife, whose own gaze was 
  locked on his hands and their movements. She looked extraordi-
  narily pale in the waning light and her eyes were wide holes filled 
  with shadows. 
  “Khim?”
  She looked up into his eyes. 
  It was the knives. Khim had always hated his knives. 
  “I’m going in, Päl,” she turned and then paused. “You need to get 
  changed.” 
  
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  He watched her walk away as he continued to move the blades 
  between his fingers.
  “She’s not much into your choice of weapon, is she?” Chauncy 
  shifted her position and set the mug on a nearby garden bench. 
  He shook his head. “No. And with our earlier discussion of our 
  son’s education…” He let the sentence trail off as he turned and 
  abruptly threw the knives into the dark. He spun, retrieved his 
  second set in a fluid movement born of practice and control, and 
  threw again.
  Chauncy followed him to the tree and stood beside him as he 
  judged their placement. 
  Four blades in a cross pattern. Shoulders, neck and lower 
  abdomen. He pulled them from the tree and resheathed them be-
  fore reaching deep into his trouser pocket to retrieve his Battle 
  Academy ring. 
  “You still have that thing?”
  Päl nodded. It had been a gift from his father. Päl’s abrupt pro-
  motion and draft into service had precluded his official graduation, 
  and so Marquin believed it was right he have one. “Yeah, but I 
  learned knives from Master DeGigli before I had the ring. I can’t 
  wear it and throw. Disrupts my aim.”
  He gestured for her to step toward the house and he followed. 
  “I’m sorry I’ve been away so long, Chauncy.”
  “If you’re thinking of me in that, and hurting my feelings—please 
  don’t. You’re my life’s work, child. And even if I didn’t give you 
  life’s first breath, I was there when you learned your greatest les-
  sons.” She gave him a sideways look. “But if you’re fretting about 
  your son, he’s a Wyndham-Sandoval, Päl. Keep that knowledge 
  close. He’s the Baroness’ pet project.” Chauncy pursed her lips. “I 
  think at times she sees him as her own.”
  Päl nodded as the two trudged up the hill and through the gar-
  dens to the estate. Another pawn for the board. And yet, as they 
  walked, Päl didn’t know where that thought had come from.
  
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  Khim’s ire eased as she helped him get dressed. Layering on 
  bit after bit of his dress uniform became almost a game between 
  them, and Päl believed they might not make it to the party. 
  Khim left first, answering a summons from the Baroness. Päl 
  finished the final touches and checked himself in the mirror. He 
  looked presentable enough, an officer of House Davion. 
  Päl moved to the bed where his knives and their sheaths lay. He 
  yearned to put them on, but did not want to anger Khim. If she 
  saw them or suspected he wore them at a social event, his nights 
  afterward could be…uncomfortable. 
  With a sigh, he wrapped them in their case of black velvet and 
  placed them within the drawer of his nightstand.
  The murmur of voices and laughter filtered up from the down-
  stairs to the family’s apartments. Päl left the suite and walked to 
  the stairs. 
  A movement to his right stopped him at the first step. A figure 
  in dark clothing stood near the door to his father’s private study. 
  The figure turned and froze when he saw Päl, then moved away 
  from him and down the opposing hall. Päl chased after the man. 
  He didn’t know if the dark-clad figure belonged in the estates or if 
  he was an intruder. 
  Although, guests usually didn’t run away. 
  He rounded the corner of his father’s study to face an empty cor-
  ridor. The intruder had vanished. 
  Päl concentrated on the hallway, and pushed aside the ambient 
  noise from the party below. He calmed his breathing and sought 
  out each nearby sound. 
  A door opened behind him. Päl dodged back behind the bend in 
  the hallway. He peered around the corner to see several courtly dig-
  nitaries, family and close friends, file into his father’s study.Curious, 
  the Baron’s son tiptoed back down the hall to the side door he’d dis-
  covered as a child. It was hidden deep within the ornate decoration 
  of the wall. He had found it once while following the Baroness about 
  the halls. His mother had used the small door several times—yet its 
  existence had never made him wonder why. 
  Until now. 
  Dust tickled his nose as he eased in, careful not to allow his 
  sword to clang against the floor or walls. Gray smudged his white 
  
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  dress-gloves and he brushed them on his pants. There was only 
  a bench and when he sat, the walls pressed in on his knees and 
  back. His dress sword made stealth difficult, but he managed to 
  sit and look out through the room’s peephole.
  The study was filled with more than ten stately dressed men. 
  Several women stood to the side, among them his mother the 
  Baroness. The Baron stood at his desk and raised a hand. Quiet 
  descended. 
  “I’m sure you’ve all heard of the new Duke’s plan to pull troops 
  from Combine space and move against Katrina in support of 
  Victor.”
  Some of those in the audience nodded, others looked about with 
  shocked faces. 
  The Baron nodded. “You that are gathered here are the few re-
  maining that still support Duke James Sandoval’s belief that the 
  Draconis Combine is the enemy, not our sovereign. Word was giv-
  en to me this morning by a reliable source that House Kurita will 
  move against the Federated Suns. They will not accept the new 
  Duke’s offer of an accord, but will be swift in their revenge of our 
  attacks on their worlds.”
  Päl frowned. What was his father talking about? That wasn’t 
  what was discussed in the meeting he’d attended that morning. 
  Tancred had seemed confident that Theodore Kurita would agree 
  to the terms set for a cease-fire. Päl had always believed the Duke’s 
  son a viable leader, not easily taken by rumor and innuendo. 
  Where had his father gleaned this information?
  “Marquin,” a man in a blue brocade coat raised his hand. “Are 
  you saying we’re all in danger?”
  “I’m saying that the new Duke is making us vulnerable by pulling 
  our troops away from the border.” He shook his head. “I stand 
  here before you to give warning. I myself fear for my family’s safe-
  ty. My own son participated in those attacks on House Kurita. My 
  own family is at risk.”
  “They wouldn’t dare!”
  Päl didn’t see who had spoken out. His own thoughts wrapped 
  around what his father said. This is ridiculous—there had been no 
  mention of any possible attacks of retribution. 
  
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  “I’m afraid they might, Peter,” the Baron put his hands on his 
  desk, palms down, and leaned toward his audience for emphasis. 
  “Tancred isn’t thinking—he’s too caught up in his friendship with 
  Victor to see the truth. The Combine cannot be trusted. It will take 
  a new assault on a Davion world by the Combine to prove we are 
  right. I pray it doesn’t come to that…” 
  The Baroness moved then, her eyes narrowed in his direction. 
  Had he made a noise?
  Once outside the hidden room, Päl straightened his uniform’s 
  vest and adjusted his sword as he turned back down the hall to-
  ward the grand staircase. 
  The Baroness Magarette Wyndham-Sandoval stood at the hall’s 
  end, her hands clasped together before her. Her face was com-
  posed and belied only a small amount of surprise. “Päl?”
  “Mother,” he increased his step, his heels clicking against the 
  tiled floor. 
  “What were you doing back there?”
  He furrowed his brow. “I thought I saw an intruder, earlier. I had 
  been on my way downstairs to join Khim when I saw him.” He 
  shrugged. “I’m afraid he got away.”
  “An intruder?” Her expression changed little, but he did see her 
  gaze flick downward, to his sword. 
  Päl glanced down at the dirt-smudged glove he rested on the 
  sword’s hilt. 
  He looked up at his mother. She gave him a smile that did not 
  touch her eyes. 
  A chill traveled down his spine.
  Päl and Khim stood in the dinner reception line for nearly half an 
  hour, greeting guest upon guest. Faces blurred with names and 
  Päl felt a dull pain creep along the base of his skull. The muscles 
  around his mouth ached and he worked his jaw back and forth as 
  he preceded his parents into the dining room.
  
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  Most of the conversation centered around the transfer of power 
  to Tancred Sandoval, who had declined tonight’s invitation, beg-
  ging pardon and needing to attend to his own family. 
  Several guests asked him on occasion to retell the battle of 
  Ashio—some wanting the bloody details of the Ranger’s retreat 
  while they ate. But the young MechWarrior wasn’t ready to re-
  count to strangers some of the more painful events of his life, and 
  bowed out with grace and politeness most becoming a Baron’s 
  son. 
  As the meal ended he excused himself, pleading a headache, 
  which was the truth. The Baron escorted Khim toward the veranda 
  where he and the Baroness had planned an extravaganza of fire-
  works.
  Päl went down into the kitchens in search of Chauncy. The house 
  Mistress claimed no knowledge of where his nanny had gone. 
  Remembering aspirin in the medicine cabinet of his and Khim’s 
  apartments, the Baron’s son took the steps two at time, pausing 
  only briefly at the top to cast a glance at the door of his father’s 
  study. 
  So much of what he’d heard earlier jumbled about in his head. 
  He suspected his father had lied to those family members—for he 
  doubted Tancred would have agreed to work with Theodore Kurita 
  if he suspected sabotage. And Päl believed the lie was meant to 
  turn their family’s support away from Victor. 
  Political intrigue and posturing was what had killed Arthur. Päl 
  wanted no part of it. In the field there was no place for such games, 
  but here within the walls of the Sandoval family, that was all that 
  seemed to exist. 
  Once inside his darkened bedroom, Päl pulled his sword from 
  its sheath and set it on his bed. With a sigh he tucked his gloves 
  into his belt and strode into the bathroom where he turned on a 
  single light. Ignoring his tired reflection in the mirror, he found the 
  aspirin and swallowed several without water. 
  An old familiar noise, one he’d not heard since childhood, came 
  from the bedroom. It was the sound of the old service door beside 
  his and Khim’s bed. As a small boy Päl had often hidden inside 
  that door, and sometimes traveled the tunnels behind it for adven-
  ture. But he’d sealed the door years ago.
  He looked from the bathroom to his bedroom. He saw nothing 
  at first and he feared the events of the day—especially spying the 
  
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  intruder earlier—had him jumping at shadows. But since caution 
  had often saved him in battle, he turned the bathroom’s light off to 
  shroud himself in darkness and then crouched behind the door’s 
  frame to peer out at the bedroom.
  Light from the hall gave subtle illumination to a movement in the 
  wall to the right of their bed. As he suspected, someone was open-
  ing the hidden door. From the secret entrance came a dark-clad 
  figure that crouched once it gained admittance. The door closed 
  with an audible click. 
  Päl couldn’t be sure if this was the intruder from before. He 
  couldn’t see the figure’s detail in the shadowy light. The figure 
  stood and pulled something from within the folds of his garment. 
  Light glinted off metal. Recognition gave him pause. He had  a 
  Nakjima pistol.
  An assassin.
  Päl’s sword lay on the bed, between himself and the intruder. His 
  knives lay nestled within the drawer of his nightstand. He had no 
  weapon readily available to him. 
  From the assassin’s movements he read that his presence was 
  still unknown. It was best to remain hidden, and to watch. The 
  dark-clad figure crept to the bedroom door. With his free hand on 
  the frame, he looked from the left to the right, as if checking for 
  someone. 
  Once he was gone, Päl ran to the bed, grabbed his sword. He then 
  pulled his knives from the drawer and tucked them, unsheathed, 
  into the belt of his dress uniform. He then moved to the door and 
  peered cautiously around. There was no sign of the assassin. 
  With the sword ready, Päl moved to the stairs and caught the 
  fleeting glimpse of dark robes at the foot of the stairs as the figure 
  turned to the right in the direction of the ballroom. 
  Once at the foot of the stairs, Päl told a guard of the intruder. 
  “Gather the others and find him.”
  The guard gave the Baron’s son a quick nod, then turned just as 
  Päl’s father and mother approached from the other direction. 
  “Päl, where have you—”
  He put up a hand to silence Marquin. “I believe an assassin has 
  entered the estate from the old door of my bedroom. I’ve alerted 
  the guards.”
  
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  “An assassin?” Marquin Wyndham-Sandoval’s usually ruddy ex-
  pression had gone quite pale. “In my home?”
   “Where is Khim? I need you to take her out of here but don’t 
  panic the guests. I’ll find him.” He turned to go.
  The Baroness pulled on Päl’s arm as her son turned away. “Päl—
  Khim went to look in on your son. She’s gone to the open nursery.” 
  The open nursery was on this floor—opposite the ballroom.
  My son. 
  Päl ran as fast as he could toward the nursery wing. His feet 
  pounded against the tiled floor as guests yelled after him, curious 
  as to his alarm. He hoped none would follow. When he entered, 
  the room was dark. Autumn moonlight filtered in through the 
  open windows, casting shadows over the bed and crib. Päl held 
  his sword ready. The light flashed off his blade as he crouched low 
  and looked into the bed where his son should be sleeping.
  It was empty.
  In the dark he heard the familiar sound of a weapon powering up. 
  He moved out of the way as a blast lit up the room, the weapon’s 
  energy discharge narrowly missing his head to splash off the far 
  wall. 
  The assassin stood just inside the door. He held Khim in his arms, 
  her windpipe cut off by his left hand. He held the pistol aimed at 
  her temple. 
  Päl’s heart froze. 
  “Drop your sword.” The assassin’s voice was deep, unassum-
  ing. The Baron’s son found no accent, no place to claim the man’s 
  heritage. “Drop it.”
  “Where is my son?” Päl dropped the sword to the ground with a 
  loud clanking. 
  “I don’t know where your son is—he’s not why I’m here.”
  “Then who is? My wife?”
  The man’s head moved back and forth slowly. Päl couldn’t make 
  out his features in the subdued light. The assassin turned the pis-
  tol on Päl and fired again. 
  A bright flash illuminated the room. Päl had anticipated such a 
  move, though, and lunged for the safety of a nearby toy-chest. But 
  
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  this time he hadn’t moved fast enough, and as he landed, he real-
  ized the intruder’s Nakjima had struck its target. His left shoulder 
  burned with fire as if someone was holding a hot branding iron to 
  his muscle and bone. He stifled a cry as he landed on the burned 
  flesh and was able to right himself into a crouch. 
  Khim called out to him, but her voice was abruptly silenced. The 
  assassin had closed his grip on her throat. 
  “Who sent you?” Päl reached down to his belt and pulled out a 
  set of knives. Their cold steel blades felt good in his hands. He 
  peered around the box. The assassin had pulled Khim back sev-
  eral meters, into the shadows. 
  The lack of light did nothing to sway Päl’s confidence, but the 
  injury to his arm did. The pain when he rotated it experimentally 
  was solid, and it would grow more intense until it was treated. He 
  felt the warm trickle of blood down his chest as he sized up the 
  distance and speed he would need.
  To compensate for his handicap, he needed an opportunity—a 
  second when the assassin wouldn’t be expecting an attack from 
  the dark.
  The assassin shifted.
   That was the opportunity Päl needed. 
  Too late he realized he still wore his Battle Academy ring. He 
  aimed, allowing his knowledge of position and skill to determine 
  the best placement of his weapons. He might have made better 
  aim if only his left shoulder hadn’t protested with sharp fire, or 
  his ring had not caught the knife’s edge. 
  But fate was on his side and the right knife found purchase in the 
  assassin’s weapon hand, the blade piercing the palm. The assas-
  sin yelled and dropped the weapon. 
  His second knife shot wide to Päl’s right, and embedded itself 
  in his wife’s side beneath her breast. Blood streamed down her 
  milk-white dress. 
   “No!” Päl dove forward to catch his falling wife as the intruder 
  released her and fell back into the corner’s shadow. She clung to 
  him, her eyes wide. 
  He lowered her to the floor as he  realized the assassin moved 
  toward the door.
  
  BATTLECORPS
  En Passant • Page 16
  Vengeance drove him as he pulled the second set of knives from 
  his belt. He narrowed his eyes as he studied the shadows, turned a 
  practiced ear to the sounds of footsteps and gauged their distance. 
  Päl pulled his ring from his finger and set it on the floor with swift 
  ease. The assassin stumbled near the nursery’s entrance and Päl 
  let fly his weapons, shutting out the fire that burned into his shoul-
  der with the movement.
  A cry of pain answered the Baron’s son as he struck his target. 
  The man collapsed in an untidy pile.
  Khim was hurt badly, bleeding to death. He had to take care of 
  his wife, but there were things that Päl had to know. Duty pulled 
  him in two directions, and he was too-recently a soldier. With a 
  glance at Khim, he moved across the floor to the felled enemy. 
  The assassin lay on his side and Päl pulled him onto his back. Both 
  knives had found a home in the man’s neck, one to either side. 
  Blood fountained over Päl’s hands as he grabbed the man’s collar 
  and pulled him close. 
  “Who sent you?”
  The assassin shook his head.
  He pulled the attacker closer. The coppery smell of blood was 
  everywhere. No time! Päl had to attack quickly and with ruthless 
  strength. How his mother would handle it.
  “I will know your name.  Give over your employer, or I will see 
  your family held accountable for your treachery this night.”  
  The man shuddered in Päl’s hands and he feared the assassin 
  would expire before speaking. When the attacker opened his 
  mouth, blood pooled over the sides as he whispered in a gurgled 
  voice, “The Baroness Wyndham-Sandoval.”
  Pälreleased the man, and the assassin’s head slapped against 
  the floor. He was dead, his last breath uttering the one name Päl 
  had never thought to hear. He stood on shaky legs and moved 
  away as if afraid the man’s body would ignite in flame. He stared 
  at the dead man, his mind a jangle of unfocused thoughts.
  He lied...it had to be a lie. 
  Chauncy came to the door at that moment, her arms filled with 
  stacked blankets. She yelled out and dropped the blankets when 
  she saw Päl standing over the dark-clad corpse. Her gaze traveled 
  back to her charge and her hands flew to her mouth as she went to 
  him, staring at his bloodied uniform. “Päl, you’re...”
  
  BATTLECORPS
  En Passant • Page 17
  He put up a hand. “I’m fine.” Though the pain from the assassin’s 
  weapon was now a debilitating vice around his shoulder. He turned 
  and moved toward his wife, so still on the floor. He knelt beside her 
  as Chauncy joined them, the house-mistress’ hands gentle as she 
  touched Khim’s neck to find a pulse. 
  “She’s alive,” Chauncy said, then looked into the gaze of her 
  grown charge. “What happened?”
  “He came in through our rooms—the old door,” Päl reached up 
  and rubbed at his temple, unaware of the blood he smeared across 
  his brow. “Mother said Khim had come here to check on our son.”
  The house-mistress’ eyes narrowed in a confused expression. 
  “Päl, your mother had me bring him into my apartments before the 
  party started. Away from the noise….” 
  His gaze fixed on Chauncy’s wizened face. Päl swallowed back the 
  nausea that threatened to overwhelm him, though he was uncertain 
  at that moment if it were a reaction to his injury, or the realization 
  his mother had just attempted to have him assassinated.
  “Päl?”
  He blinked at the pommel of the knife protruding from his wife’s 
  chest. He knew better than to remove it. It would only hasten her 
  bleeding. He saw the glint of his ring beside her and with a burst 
  of anger he grabbed it and tossed it across the room. He hissed at 
  the pain in his shoulder that threatened to pitch him into uncon-
  sciousness. He bent and kissed his wife tenderly on her cold cheek, 
  then stood on uncertain legs. “Watch her, Chauncy. I’ll send for a 
  doctor.” 
  Päl knelt beside the assassin and retrieved the Nakjima, then 
  moved slowly out of the nursery toward the elevated voices be-
  low.
  Guests had spilled out of the ballroom and were now creating a 
  ring of enclosure about the Baron. Many had been muttering and 
  whispering among themselves. As news spread, the crowd grew 
  louder.
  “It was as the Baron warned, the Dragon has come.”
  “The snakes have tried to kill the Baron’s son!”
  Someone else was more certain. “Dead. He must be dead!”
  Päl stood in the shadows beneath the stairs, away from the 
  
  BATTLECORPS
  En Passant • Page 18
  guests. His shoulder burned and again he felt himself grow light-
  headed. He watched with distant fascination as the panic spread. 
  Simple words, spoken with just the proper emotion—and all of 
  them would turn on Tancred. Realization of what his true standing 
  was within the family did not come as a surprise, but more as a 
  sad revelation. I am a pawn. Nothing more. Nothing less.
  Carrying the Nakjima, Päl Wyndham-Sandoval stepped forward. 
  Sharp intakes of breath greeted him as the crowd parted to allow 
  him through. Many, seeing his bloodied uniform, gasped aloud. 
  His father leaped forward, braced him with a hand on either 
  shoulder, and then grabbed the weapon from his son. 
  “Nakjima.” He nearly spat out the name. “Combine manufacture.”
  Neither Baron or Baroness appeared overly worried about Päl’s 
  condition. But then his father was lost to his hatred for House 
  Kurita. His mother, though, was calm. Far too calm. He found her 
  eyes, and just below the surface of her calm, proud mask, he saw 
  the truth of what the assassin said. 
  She wanted the family’s loyalties turned, as did his father. As did 
  most of those here in this room. But she had been the one willing 
  to sacrifice her only son to achieve it. And why not? She had a new 
  son to raise. 
  The truth was there and then gone in an instant. As Margarette 
  Wyndham-Sandoval stepped from behind her guests, a grand 
  show of concern washed over her face toward her son. “Päl, was 
  it the Dracs?”
  He matched her gaze with his own and said simply, and quietly. 
  “No.” He turned to the nearest guard. “Please, could you summon 
  a doctor? My wife….”
  But the Baroness wasn’t going to be ignored. She moved even 
  closer to Päl, the flash of her eyes toward the crowd of guests 
  making it obvious to her son that she knew she was on stage. It 
  was time to call the play together. “But  it has to be.” Her eyes nar-
  rowed. “How do you know it is not?”
  Päl kept his voice even, though the fatigue he heard in his words 
  was genuine. The pain in his shoulder was like a smoldering fire, 
  constant and fierce. The loss of blood was making it difficult to 
  stand. The guard hurried off to summon help for Khim, so Päl al-
  lowed himself a moment. “Because he told me,” he said.
  
  BATTLECORPS
  En Passant • Page 19
  “He told you?” The Baron stepped forward. “Tell us, Päl. I de-
  mand to know!” A murmur of assent swept the assembled nobles. 
  When the baron looked to his wife for support in his demand, how-
  ever, he found only stony silence. Frowning, glancing between his 
  wife and son, the Baron fell back on the will of the crowd. “Who 
  did this?” he asked. 
  A hush settled as all eyes turned to Päl. His own vision wavered, 
  though nothing could erase the still image of his mother, standing 
  close enough for assumed concern, yet far enough away should 
  her son betray her to the assembly. He blinked several times, will-
  ing himself to stay conscious. Focused. 
  He narrowed his eyes at her. Their very way of life depended on 
  his answer, and he knew the use of ruthlessness at that moment. 
  Understood it, for like his mother who had wagered the life of her 
  son on the turn of history, Päl too had put the assassin’s family on 
  the table to force the confession that now would change his life 
  forever. 
  He swallowed, blinking with sluggish control as the world 
  seemed to spin slower around him, and looked to his father, who 
  stood within the nexus of this moment.
  Päl saw the board clearly now—saw the position of the pieces. 
  The game had just started. The Baroness held the kingdom in 
  white—but it was Päl who now controlled the black. He saw the 
  carefully placed moves that might have sent him and Khim to their 
  deaths. 
  Two moves of a pawn across the board.
  In truth, he knew she hadn’t expected him to live. 
  But there was a little known move in chess called the en passant, 
  where the first move of a pawn with two squares can be met and 
  defeated by one move of the enemy’s opposing pawn.
  “Päl! Who has done this?”
  With a sigh, the Baron’s son moved his gaze from his father’s 
  red, flushed face, to rest it calmly upon the serene visage of his 
  mother’s composure.
  “Katherine Steiner-Davion.”
  
SOURCE: textdata/thevault/BattleTech [multi]/EXTRA/Novels/Battlecorps Novels/En Passant - Phaedra M. Weldon.pdf