“That’s a prepared speech,” Philip said without accusation. “Clearly meant for press conferences and sound bites.”
“Which has no bearing on the truth it contains.”
“But it does not contain the full truth.” Philip leaned forward. His expression was still deferential, one eyebrow lifted and one corner of his mouth curved upward in a half smile. Thaddeus believed it was not in the man’s nature to be confrontational. But that did not mean he wasn’t dangerous.
“My advice to my wife that we deal honestly with you was predicated on the assumption that you would deal honestly with us.”
“I have dealt honestly and I will continue to do so.” Thaddeus kept his tone light. “But I will not violate my obligation to the people who’ve placed their trust in me simply to satisfy your curiosity.”
“Then let me set your mind at ease, Warden.” Jessica spoke for the first time since filling Thaddeus’ teacup. “It is my husband’s theory, and one I now share, that you and we have a common goal.”
Thaddeus thought he kept his expression blank, but Lady Jessica evidently saw something in his face she liked. Or at least something that made her smile.
“I have been playing politics for decades,” she said. “Out here, where there are no rules. Seeing patterns—and recognizing the forces that shape those patterns—is a survival skill.
“There’s a pattern to events around you, Warden. A pattern that implies you are the force shaping them.”
Having no idea on what observations Lady Jessica was basing her assumptions, Thaddeus remained silent. Denying the wrong thing could give her information she did not have. At the same time, the fact that he did not have a ready reply made it clear he was involved in something he was not sharing. Perhaps even that was more information than she’d had.
Realizing he was about to second-guess himself into paralysis, Thaddeus smiled.
“That is flattering,” he said. “But it implies I have far more resources and greater abilities than I do.”
“If I had to guess—and it appears I must”—Philip’s eyes were on his, watching closely for his reaction—“I’d say you had intended to adopt Augustine and its traditional allies as your base and extend your control coreward, probably as far as Rochelle.”
“Indeed?” Thaddeus was pleased by the bland interest in his tone.
“Using the Covenant Worlds as a template, one can see your hand in the formation of the Protectorate Coalition,” Jessica said, looking blandly at him as he turned to her. “Patterns, Warden. Riktofven and Ptolemeny tore the heart out of your new nation with their ill-conceived Alliance, but you’ve persevered.”
Almost exactly fifty percent correct, Thaddeus thought toward his hosts as he sipped his cooling tea. Does that reflect limits to your ability to gather information close to the Capellan sphere, or limits to your skill at discerning patterns?
Aloud he said: “That the Covenant Worlds are seeking economic and defensive treaties with the Protectorate Coalition is included in our proposal to the Oriente Protectorate. There are ties, but one should not build too much on so slim a foundation.”
“I will not fence with you, Warden.” Jessica’s tone gained an edge. “It is my intention to reunite the Free Worlds League. This is no secret.”
Thaddeus nodded. One thing the leaders of the three most powerful nations in the region shared was the dream of a unified Free Worlds League. Their differences sprang from mutually exclusive convictions about who should rule.
“Mine is the greater claim to the captain-generalcy,” Jessica said, echoing his thoughts. “My father fought to save the Free Worlds League when Thomas Marik abandoned it to pursue his own ambitions.”
Interesting that you feel comfortable saying that to a Marik. Is that the honesty you mentioned or arrogance?
“Many independent worlds support reunification of the League under my leadership.” Jessica’s eyes held his levelly. “As do the Rim Commonality and the Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey.”
Thaddeus blinked. This was revelation—and frank discussion—beyond what he’d expected from an informal tea. Philip had not been fishing; he’d been preparing ground.
“However, much of this pledged support is conditional,” Jessica was saying. “For all my family’s moral claim to the throne, there is a physical requirement we do not possess. One that is meaningless in the context of right or ability to rule, but that weighs heavily on the hearts of many loyal to the Free Worlds League.”
She paused, evidently inviting comment.
“You’re not a real Marik.” Thaddeus stated the obvious.
Jessica did not blink at the adjective.
“To sit on what is, in the minds of most, the throne of House Marik, I must have a blood connection to the Marik family,” she said.
The spurious image of a massive transfusion flashed through Thaddeus’ mind, but he squelched it before it reached his face. Lady Jessica was obviously talking marriage. But just as obviously, she was not envisioning the Free Worlds League unifying under her children or her grandchildren. She meant to hold the throne herself. Impossible, given the conditions stipulated.
Unless…
“I see you’ve grasped it,” Philip said.
Thaddeus looked at the man, not sure he grasped anything at all.
“For forty years I’ve been my wife’s constant companion, always by her side,” Philip said. “But in recent months I’ve been avoiding her, keeping my distance in public—or not being with her at all. It is generally known that I am going through a period of depression. Soon it will be rumored that I am no longer mentally stable.”
Thaddeus had heard of these changes in Philip’s behavior, and now faced the man’s inability to address the publicly accepted cause of the transformation.
Philip extended his hand toward Jessica and she took it. Thaddeus found himself looking at the clasped hands as they rested comfortably on the ancient wood of the table.
“Sometime in the next few months I will disappear altogether,” Philip said, drawing Thaddeus’ eyes back to his own. “Soon after that it will be announced that I have left Jessica, divorced her.”
Thaddeus nodded at the vision of a future completely at odds with the tableau before him. Politics, and the requirements of power, often demanded a separate form of reality. He deliberately did not consider what must be coming next, but Philip did not allow him the luxury of denial.
“Thaddeus Marik,” he said, his formal tone pulling Thaddeus upright in his chair, “will you marry my wife?”
21
Tamarind Planetary Defense Command
Zanzibar, TamarindD
uchy of Tamarind-Abbey
6 December 3137
Duke Fontaine Marik looked over the edge of the noteputer his director of SAFE had handed him. Christopher Hughes was bent over a situation table, conferring with Force Commander Tobit about some aspect of Zanzibar’s defense.
“Would have expected him to be a MechWarrior,” he said. “Riding high in a BattleMaster or something equally destructive laying waste to the enemy right and left.”
“A BattleMech is far too removed from the action for him,” Roland answered. “Insulated by armor, isolated. He was in his element on the Haverson Flats, going after Lyran BattleMechs in a Savannah Master.”
“Any information on how he managed to insinuate himself into our attack on the Steiner beachhead?”
“Evidently his patented charming smile,” Roland answered with a half smile of his own. “No bribes, threats or demands. He presented himself, along with a verigraphed copy of his diploma from Princefield, and said he wanted to help.”
Fontaine nodded. The field reports and battle ROMs had documented young Christopher leading a six-tank “heavy” platoon of high-speed Savannah Masters in a daring diversionary attack, pulling Lyran BattleMechs away from the precious Pegasus tanks leading the defensive thrust.
More illuminating than the charge had been his response to the carpet of artiller
y the Lyrans had thrown down to stop them. The three Savannah Masters that had not followed his exit strategy were destroyed while the two that had stayed on him escaped unharmed.
Fontaine had made certain the whelp did not have another chance to get himself killed on the front lines. Letting her only surviving son commit suicide was not likely to endear him to Lady Jessica—and from the way the Lyran invasion was unfolding, Tamarind-Abbey was going to need the goodwill of every potential ally.
Surprisingly, the lad had proven to be a shrewd strategist. Rather than being underfoot, young Hughes had made himself a valued asset to Fontaine’s senior staff. Or perhaps not so surprisingly—the first time we met, he claimed all his apparent derring-do was successfully applied risk analysis.
Pulling his eyes away from Christopher, Fontaine studied the figures on the noteputer screen. He didn’t need to page down to Roland’s projections to know what they’d say.
“How long?” he asked.
“More than a week, less than two,” Roland answered. “The First Regulars took heavy losses at the ZanzibeRiver and they’ve filled the gaps with provisionals. They’re doing well with harrying and hit-and-run, but they won’t stand to another full-on assault.”
Fontaine frowned into the middle distance, considering.
“Caches are established?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Empty the Oriente Mule, but don’t route anything to the secured caches,” the duke said. “Build new ones if you’d like. Then shift the DropShip to Dalad.”
He looked directly at Roland, making sure he had the taller man’s full attention.
“We’re not depending on getting that second week,” he said. “As of this moment, Plan Ark is in effect.”
22
Amur, Oriente
Oriente Protectorate
7 December 3137
“Port?”
Thaddeus hesitated.
“Never acquired the taste,” he admitted.
“So many of our tastes are forced on us by circumstances,” Philip agreed. “I don’t remember being given a choice about whether I wanted port and a cigar after dinner. It was the tradition in my family. My first indication my parents felt I’d come of age was my mother clipping one of her after-dinner cigars for me.”
“The cheroot was Senator Hughes’ trademark,” Thaddeus said.
“No, that was my uncle Alexander’s trademark,” Philip corrected with a chuckle. “Justine adopted it in high school when she discovered it drove her mother to distraction.”
Thaddeus smiled slightly at the mental image of the formidable Senator Hughes as a rebellious adolescent.
“There’s a brandy, if you’d prefer.” Philip broke into his thoughts.
“Please.”
“One of the best things about this particular distillation,” Philip said, pouring generous amounts of amber fluid into a pair of snifters, “is that no one has ever heard of it. I can still pick up a case for what the concierge pays per bottle for that Loeches Reserve he pulls out for state dinners.”
Thaddeus rolled a judicious sip of the liquid onto his tongue and was rewarded with an inhalation of fire that seemed to sweep up through his sinuses to illuminate his brain.
“Excellent,” he said.
His host proffered the bottle for his examination.
“The Fuentes Distillery is known primarily for mass-producing wine by the hundred-liter keg for restaurants of average ratings,” Philip said. “You’d be surprised at the number of supposed connoisseurs who would rather die than be seen drinking one of their vintages.”
“I doubt that I would.” Thaddeus was careful not to give his words too much weight. “I know how well the wrong label can affect one’s fortunes.”
“Point taken.” Philip chuckled, pausing to appreciate a sip of his own. “Never tasted a drop or they would know better.”
“More for the rest of us.”
Philip chuckled again. Then sobered.
“Elis will be taking a case of this with my personal compliments to Michael Cendar in the morning.” As part of his growing “estrangement” from Jessica, Philip would not be present when she—and the world’s media—saw their daughter off on her journey to her new home in the Rim Commonality. “Hopefully he’s sufficiently distant to not be offended by the label and appreciate the contents.”
Setting his snifter on the sideboard, he shifted one of two wingback chairs facing the empty fireplace until it was directed toward the French doors opening onto the balcony. He indicated a couch already positioned to appreciate the view before reclaiming his drink and making himself comfortable.
Thaddeus took the far end of the couch, angled to face both his host and the window.
“Saw your grandmother once,” Philip said conversationally. “Not to speak to. She was sweeping down the hall, en route to demanding some concession from my father. A woman of great presence.”
“My mother did not inherit her dynamism,” Thaddeus surprised himself by answering. “But she had that sense of presence in spades. No one ever doubted she owned the ground she stood on.”
“Agatha Hampton-Marik was a voice of justice in the Senate,” Philip agreed. “Always a friend of Irian.”
Thaddeus trusted his voice with a simple “Yes.”
“Riktofven isn’t a patch on her,” Philip rolled on, watching the sun dip toward the horizon. “Greedy bastard with delusions of Machiavelli.”
Thaddeus said nothing.
Philip looked at him inquiringly, then seemed to come to a realization. Setting the half-empty snifter on the small table beside his chair, he laid his hands together in his lap.
“Do you really think that was some ham-handed ploy to gain your trust?” he asked. “Recite some praise for your mother and criticize the cretin appointed to replace her in order to establish we’re both of one accord? You forget my homeworld is—was—part of The Republic too. My cousin served in the Senate with both representatives of Augustine. I know whereof I speak.
“Riktofven is a manipulative opportunist.” He dismissed the leader of the Senatorial Alliance with a backhanded wave. “On the other hand, your mother’s integrity was such a fundamental given in Republic politics that mentioning it in the course of a political discussion was the conversational equivalent of breathing.”
He settled back in his chair and picked up his drink. “Her loss was tragic.”
Thaddeus weighed the words.
“Thank you, sir,” he said at last.
Philip dismissed the need for apology with another wave of his hand.
The sun seemed to expand as it touched the tree-lined ridge that framed Amur, stretching to more than three times its diameter as though pouring itself along the horizon. Thaddeus had seen the effect on a dozen worlds, knew it was a simple function of optics, but still found the spectacle fascinating.
“Jessica will no doubt have you investigated six ways from zero,” Philip said conversationally. “I’m sure Torrian Dolcat—that’s her SAFE director, the swarthy fellow with the good manicure. I’m sure Dolcat will provide her with a thick dossier on your story.”
“No doubt,” Thaddeus agreed.
He would certainly do no less in her position. In fact, though more operative than analyst, Green had gone a long way toward providing him with full records on everyone of consequence in the Marik court in Amur.
“However, I’ll never see that file,” Philip said. “I deliberately keep out of the mechanics of running Oriente. So if I want to know something about you, I’ll have to ask.”
Thaddeus swirled the brandy in his snifter and decided it was very likely Philip was speaking the truth.
“Ask,” he invited. “I’ll answer what I can.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” Philip said. “Qualifier and all.”
Thaddeus lifted his glass, acknowledging his commitment.
“Your mother was one of the great champions of The Republic.” Philip sipped his brandy. “You were one of its pal
adins.”
He paused, but Thaddeus remained silent.
“How is it, now that this Fortress is up, that you are on the outside with us?”
This was a question for which Thaddeus was well prepared, one that had come up often and would come up again. His career as a paladin was the greatest stumbling block to his credibility in the Free Worlds League. But this time his prepackaged answer seemed inadequate. The man sitting comfortably in the chair by the empty fireplace deserved honesty. A freshly examined truth, not the polished version he presented to the world.
“The Republic—the ideal of The Republic—was my heart,” he said at last. “Just as it was my mother’s and my father’s. Grandma Alys didn’t choose The Republic over the Free Worlds League lightly. Stone’s dream presented the best hope for mankind’s survival.”
He curbed the urge to toss off the remains of his brandy in a single gulp. He sipped slowly, appreciating Philip’s patience in letting him gather his thoughts.
“What my grandmother never realized—what I believe my parents never discovered—was that while the ideal was noble, the reality was rotten at the core.”
Thaddeus paused, but his host did not comment.
“The realization didn’t come on me suddenly,” he said finally. “It took the better part of a decade, beginning with my election to the Chamber of Paladins. But once the truth was evident, I couldn’t ignore it.
“I know I gained the reputation for being the coldest of the paladins, upholding the strictest letter of the law and no more or less. What people did not realize was that the letter of the law was the only pure thing left. Ezekiel Crow is vilified on Terra for betraying The Republic. But the Republic…”
He trailed off.
A shift of weight, a creak of leather chair. Thaddeus could sense the older man considering whether to speak, then choosing to remain silent. He wondered briefly if there were recording devices in the sitting room. Probably, he decided. And just as probably Philip Hughes had nothing to do with them.
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