“An ebo is a burden placed upon you by an Orisha Loa,” he reminded her sternly. “Are you certain this is not a burden your own pride places across your shoulders? Do not sin through arrogance.”
Her gown rustled and pulled as she drew herself to her full height.
“The demon woman’s guards will be ready for you this time,” Father Pauli said before she could speak. “They lack sight but they are not fools. Do not leave your path on a mission of petty vengeance destined to fail.”
“This ebo is laid upon me by Ayza: Oggzb has quickened me,” she said, knowing the truth shone from her eyes. “It is a burden I delight in, a task for which I thirst.”
Father Pauli regarded her for a long moment, the eyes of his spirit searching her soul for any flaw. At last he sighed and extended his hands, presenting her with her blessed blade.
“Fast,” he said.
Prepared to accept his benediction, she paused, startled by the unexpected instruction.
“Fast, as I will,” Father Pauli said. “If this calling is truly an ebo and not some geas laid upon you through sorcery or some trick of your own heart, we will know it together.
“And together we will know how to proceed.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it again. She was certain. But if Father Pauli was not, did that not indicate she could be mistaken? Or perhaps the true purpose of the fasting was in his last sentence. Know how to proceed. She had her purpose, of that she was sure, but she had only the vaguest notion of how to fulfill that purpose.
Bowing her acceptance of his instruction, she turned her back on the priest and retraced her steps to the temple path.
Behind her Father Pauli watched her retreating figure until she was out of sight.
Then he returned to the altar of Oshzn, where his candle still burned before her threefold image. Bowing his respect to the goddess of sensuality, money and influence, he reached behind the finely crafted triptych and turned off the recorder.
9
Atlanta, Savannah
Former Prefecture VII
21 October 3137
Governor Linette Ferguson of Bordon toyed idly with her gold-plated stylus as she watched Mr. Green watching the presentation on economic diversity. The stylus had come with the gold-plated noteputer case her former staff at the Ministry of Infrastructure had given her as a going-away present when she’d accepted her appointment to Bordon.
Governorship of a planet—even a planet with fewer inhabitants than many Terran cities she could name—was a very big deal in those days. For a history student from the rural backwaters of Tall Trees with an interest in social service, it was far above what she’d imagined would be the apex of her career in service to The Republic.
Who knew a decade later The Republic would be gone?
At the head of the table Bertrand Petersen of the Covenant Worlds made a joke Linette didn’t catch. At least she hoped the general chuckles were in response to a deliberate attempt at humor. Glancing at the wall screen behind the speaker, she saw another graphic from the report that had been forwarded to her office the week before. If Petersen was adding anything new to the information, she’d catch it in the transcript.
Being essentially a prospectus presentation to people who understood business, Petersen’s presentation had a lot more substance than a political or diplomatic speech, but it was still deadly dull. At least for those who had taken the time to read the material in advance. She saw a couple of investors nodding and taking notes as though all of this was new to them.
She caught Petersen trying not to look like he was looking to Green for a cue and resumed her study of the nondescript man seated near the door. Nothing about him indicated he was anything other than a minor aide, which meant he must be someone worth watching. Not that he actually did anything except sit.
Linette was still planetary governor, still had her gold-plated stylus and noteputer case, but she was no longer a Republic appointee. The people of Bordon had elected her to the position after The Republic pulled back; not because of her charisma or political skills, but because she had never had any agenda beyond getting Bordon back on its feet.
Compared to the devastation suffered by worlds like Galatea or Shiloh, Bordon suffered very little from the Jihad. Its few industrial centers had been bombed almost as an afterthought and it boasted no military assets other than the planetary militia. The planet’s real problems had started with Devlin Stone’s plan to form a unified Republic through redistributing displaced populations. A significant percentage of Bordon’s citizens were first-generation residents relocated from highly industrialized planets in Prefecture II. Former Prefecture II.
In theory, the integration made sense. Linette had pored over the documentation for weeks in preparation for assuming office. In the abstract, Bordon’s repopulation fit the adding-strength-to-strength model for forward pushing a world’s economy. She had naïvely expected to be overseeing a steady upward industrial and economic climb.
The reality on Bordon had not matched the model. The newcomers, steeped in Draconis culture and trained in the use of advanced technology, had little to offer agrarian Bordon beyond the population numbers they represented, and Bordon had little they needed beyond air, food, water and enough gravity to hold them in their beds. The cultural and religious differences alone had been a Gordian knot.
But Linette had persevered, building bridges and getting people to actually talk to each other. Finding common ground was apparently her gift: to her, it seemed the obvious thing to do; to everyone else, it was amazing. I suppose if I had to work at it, it wouldn’t be a gift.
The graphic behind Petersen changed to one she hadn’t seen before. Linette focused on the economist’s words as he ventured into new territory.
The Covenant Worlds wanted Savannah to join them—which made sense given their high level of technology. With Savannah came Remulac, breadbasket of its notoriously undernourished neighbor.
Same with Irian. Why are high-tech worlds the least hospitable? You’d think working to overcome an environment would take too much time for a tech base to develop.
What the people shaping the Covenant Worlds’ political strategy didn’t realize was that Bordon—with its surplus of technologically savvy citizens—was also wooing Savannah. More as a market than an ally, but there was no reason that couldn’t work too. To be part of a larger nation—as an equal member, not as a vassal—would not only give Bordon a wide-open employment market; it would create a way for the world to import the manufacturing technology it needed for economic stability.
Someone on the Covenant Worlds’ team had to be apprised of just how valuable an asset alliance with Bordon could be. And from what Linette could see of the power flow within the delegation, that someone was Mr. Green.
Amur, Oriente
Oriente Protectorate
So this is Thaddeus Marik.
Jessica tried to remember him from Victor Steiner-Davion’s funeral on Terra, but couldn’t. Of course she had seen him; she’d seen all of the paladins, but nothing about him had struck a chord.
Of course, she had not seen him as she was seeing him now, as an envoy of state approaching her throne. His dress uniform, which she’d at first taken for white, was a rich cream, almost a butter yellow, with a Marik-purple cape flowing from his broad shoulders.
And broad was an adjective that suited Thaddeus Marik. Though more weathered, more etched by care, he was clearly Frederick’s brother—the same nose, perhaps a millimeter too wide to be handsome, between hazel eyes hard as polished agates. His mouth, his jawline, his hair—once started she couldn’t stop herself from continuing the inventory—even his ears reminded her of Frederick. But of a Frederick who had somehow been stretched sideways. For on Thaddeus’ face the remarkably similar features were spread farther apart.
For a silly second Jessica considered ordering Frederick to stand beside his older brother. Their heights, as nearly as she could judge, were identical. But Thaddeus’ shoulders were w
ider and his body—clearly well muscled beneath the formal uniform—massed nearly half again as much as his brother’s.
The five members of his entourage, each dressed in similar cream uniforms but with half capes of different colors hanging to midback, stopped at the end of the aisle proper. Thaddeus strode the final steps to the focal point in front of her throne alone, and dropped his chin to his chest without breaking eye contact. A military bow.
And those uniforms behind you aren’t an honor guard, they’re representatives. Your little nation has five member worlds. Jessica resisted the urge to look toward the empty space where Philip had so often sat beside her to receive delegations. Diplomatic envoys in uniform. Do the Covenant Worlds have their own Chamber of Paladins?
Ignoring the potentially bad omen, she returned Thaddeus’ nod with a smaller one of her own.
“Welcome, Thaddeus Marik. We have heard much about the Covenant Worlds and are interested to learn what brings you to us.”
“To pay our respects, Your Grace, and, we hope, to forge bonds of mutual interest. Trade, such as we share with Irian”—Well, of course he knew from whom she’d learned of the Covenant Worlds—“but there are many areas in which we may discover we share common ground.”
“There may, perhaps, be areas to explore.” Jessica allowed for further discussion without commitment. “I confess I am intrigued by the title with which you signed your communiqué. Warden?”
“The title is an homage to the history of the Free Worlds League.” Thaddeus smiled, as though at a fond memory. “As warden I am appointed to command our nation’s military, oversee our constabulary and—in this singular case—to represent our interests abroad.”
Placing civilian law enforcement under military control is never wise. And to assume diplomatic duties as well? You may call yourself warden to honor the Free Worlds League, but there is far too much of Devlin Stone’s Republic in your role, Paladin.
Jessica nodded, accepting the explanation. She followed through the rest of the introductions and assurances of future discussions during the delegation’s visit on conditioned reflex, her mind focused on the implications and potentials of small nation states arising in the vacuum left by the collapsed Republic.
Midthought, she let her eyes rest on Frederick Marik, positioned as he now was among her counselors. He was watching his brother’s overture with a total lack of attitude that itself spoke volumes. Here was a younger brother, she realized, who had—according to Torrian Dolcat’s exhaustive research—lived his life among the halls of power in Geneve and achieved nothing of note beyond a reputation for being a behind-the-scenes deal broker.
When The Republic had begun to collapse, Frederick had run to Oriente. Another court, new halls of power, where—despite revealing himself to personally be something of a boor—he was once again establishing himself as a politically astute adviser.
Thaddeus, faced with that same collapsing Republic, had forged a new nation out of unaligned worlds, establishing his own halls of power ruled by a parliament that was under the impression it had appointed him to their leadership.
Looking from the younger Marik brother to the older, Jessica began to reassess her options.
10
Regulus City
Chebbin, Regulus
Regulan Fiefs
22 October 3137
Lester Cameron-Jones noted the slight stiffening of Gustav Salazar’s spine as he caught sight of Emlia sitting comfortably on the settee angled toward the fireplace. The intelligence director did not believe politics or security was a proper arena for the captain-general’s wife. He reported to her and consulted with her in Lester’s absence, of course—Lester gave him no choice—but when the captain-general was in residence, Salazar believed Emlia should be safely cloistered far from the concerns of state.
To find her ensconced in the formal sitting area of Lester’s office during his report to the captain-general offended his sense of propriety.
Emlia, fully aware of Salazar’s opinions, smiled sweetly as she acknowledged his stiffly minimal bow.
“Anson’s response?” Lester asked without preamble.
“Paring away the obscenities,” Salazar said, raising his eyebrows to telegraph the fact he had just made what he considered a witticism, “Captain-General Anson Marik suggests you wait until his corpse is cold before you start trying to plunder his worlds.”
“Plunder his worlds?” Lester echoed, his voice rising. “Does the arrogant imbecile have no understanding at all?”
He shooed away Emlia’s caution about his anger with a wave of his hand before she uttered a word.
Shoving his chair back from the desk, he rose to pace before the picture windows. His office, quite deliberately, faced away from the river and the sweeping view of the city. This side of the ducal residence was hedged close by a security wall and a narrow path down which a guard passed every twenty minutes. The noonday sun, reflecting off the yellow stone of the wall and the dense greenery that grew along its base, filled the room with a golden glow. The effect was beautiful—and did nothing to lighten Lester’s mood.
“It’s not about worlds, it’s about the Free Worlds League,” he said, not caring that he was lecturing two people who understood the political situation as well as he did. “If there is not a seamless transition of authority, the Marik-StewartCommonwealth will dissolve into chaos. The Lyrans will snap up each orphaned system at their leisure.”
“It is possible his eventual failure is not as self-evident to Anson as it is to us,” Emlia suggested.
Lester flashed her a quick grin.
“Even if he does not ultimately fall, he’s bound to lose control over some of the Commonweath,” he said. “If he would just provide us with authority protocols, at least put the mechanism in place for us to step in as the centralized command if he should be cut off…”
“The Lyran thrust continues to cut along the coreward third of the Marik-StewartCommonwealth,” Salazar responded heavily. “It is likely they intend to annex that portion of the Commonwealth.
“However, Marik itself has fallen to Clan forces—”
“Clan?” Lester stopped in his tracks. “The Jade Falcons? Or that Wolf faction that’s so cozy with the archon?”
Salazar blinked.
“One would be a new and independent adversary,” Emlia explained. “The other would be an arm of a Lyran pincer attack.”
“I understood, milady,” Salazar answered with another minimalist bow before addressing her husband. “Neither. Marik was seized by Clan Spirit Cat supported by Clan Sea Fox.”
“I didn’t know the Clans worked together like that.”
“I often suspect that most of what we think we know of the Clans is disinformation, my dear,” Lester said. “No doubt they’re quite straightforward and businesslike when not posing for the Inner Sphere’s media.”
“Indeed,” Salazar agreed. “Perhaps more significant is the fact that the Oriente Protectorate has occupied Oceana and Angel II.”
“Have they, now?” Lester clasped his hands behind his back and resumed pacing, eyes on the pattern of the hand-woven carpet. “So the witch has graduated from taking Republic worlds Anson annexed to seizing worlds within his sovereign borders.”
“It would appear Oriente military operations were coordinated with those of Clans Spirit Cat and Sea Fox,” Salazar said in his unchanging tone.
Lester paused again in his pacing, looking to Salazar for confirmation.
“That witch will lie down with any partner who shows the least chance of getting her what she wants,” he said.
“Lester!”
Lester grinned at his beautiful wife’s expression of alarm, but he neither apologized nor retracted his words.
“The Halas woman claims to hold all the Free Worlds League dear to her heart, yet spits on all the League stands for at every opportunity,” he said. “Treason comes as easily to her hand as terrorism when it comes to feeding her avaricious hunger for power
.”
He slammed his fist against the frame of the tall windows, using the energy to turn him back for his next circuit of pacing.
Clipperton.
Not a day went by that he didn’t think of that harmless world—a world without strategic or tactical value that might justify even legitimate military action. Yet it was on Clipperton that the Halas witch had ordered ten thousand innocent people killed. A bomb, planted by a cell of suicide agents who had gone to great pains to impersonate Word of Blake terrorists, had brought a ski lodge and half a mountain down on an unsuspecting resort town. In the blink of an eye, ten thousand six hundred and forty-two blameless men, women and children had been snuffed out of existence—all for the sole purpose of distracting him when Anson Marik and the Marik-StewartCommonwealth needed him most.
Now Anson was fighting for his life and refused to reach out to Lester as an ally. Instead he issued orders as though the Regulan Fiefs were his to command. And when Lester tried to establish commonsense safeguards, reasonable precautions in the face of Anson’s failing military efforts, he accused him—accused Lester Cameron-Jones—of trying to steal away his worlds.
What little trust there was between us perished when I allowed that witch to manipulate me, Lester acknowledged, not for the first time. But any man would have done the same. And what’s past is damn well past. We need to work together if we are going to survive the future.
Only Anson wasn’t going to survive. The man’s arrogance led him to smugly mistake clever ploys for strategic planning. A lack of planning that—as opportunity after lost opportunity slipped away—would leave him with no options.
Now, as the Lyran juggernaut ground down the Marik-StewartCommonwealth, Lester realized he was the last man who could stand against the monster of Oriente and the havoc she would wreak across the Free Worlds League. Perhaps the only man who fully realized how terrible the woman really was.
And now his only ally against her was going into the dark night without passing his authority and resources on to Lester.
To Ride the Chimera Page 5
