To Ride the Chimera

by Kevin Killiany

  “I am a Marik. And Mariks live for the Free Worlds League,” he said, looking out the open windows. The lengthening shadows were painting the garden in shades of purple and blue and gray. “For two generations my family turned its back on the League because they were deceived into thinking they served a greater good.

  “But there is no greater good.

  “I am a Marik,” he repeated. “And it falls to me to take what was done wrong and make it right.”

  Philip stirred in his chair, pulling Thaddeus’ gaze from the window. The older man had raised his glass. It took Thaddeus a moment to realize his host was toasting him, his eyes fierce.

  Thaddeus lifted his own glass, returning the salute.

  The two men sat in companionable silence and watched the sun disappear.

  23

  Dalad Regional DropPort, Tamarind

  Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey

  12 December 3137

  Young Hughes had aged in the last week.

  From the raised supervisor’s platform overlooking the warehouse, Fontaine watched Christopher work his way through the staging area, double-checking manifests, questioning a worker, reading labels—there was little left of the reckless youth who’d first begged an audience a year and a half ago. He saw Christopher’s now-habitual frown, and the hard edges of his cheekbones and jaw.

  Losing a war does tend to burn away baby fat, doesn’t it, boy?

  Christopher was brought up short by the sight of the Tamarind throne bolted to a pallet.

  Fontaine handed the noteputer he’d been reading to the purser and turned away from the warehouse. The one luxury offered the warehouse manager was a window with a panoramic view of the mountains rimming the north edge of the desert. Though they were now simply looming shapes, dusty purple gray against the indigo sky in the dawn light, their permanence was a welcome counterpoint to the upheaval all around them.

  Fontaine positioned himself at the right edge of the window and waited.

  Soon enough booted feet bounded up the metal steps with energy the old duke only vaguely remembered. He smiled slightly at the boy’s murmured apology to someone in passing.

  Courtesy is too often a lost art among our breed.

  “See that star?” he asked before the boy could speak. “Low, just above the ridge there?”

  Christopher moved to stand by his shoulder and look through the window at the same shallow angle. “Yes, sire.”

  “That’s not a star,” the duke said. “It’s a hulk, the empty remains of an orbital factory in geosynchronous orbit. It’s always there. Do you know what it’s in geosynchronous orbit above?”

  Christopher was silent for a heartbeat, either searching his own memory or waiting for the duke to answer his own question.

  “No, sire,” he said when he realized a response was required.

  “The Mal Kham Wastes.” Fontaine did not take his eyes off the light low against the horizon. “Sixty years ago Mal Kham was a city and the empty hulk above it a shipyard.”

  “Technicron Naval Engineering,” Christopher said, enlightened. “The Impavido WarShip project.”

  “The Word of Blake regarded the shipyards as too valuable to leave behind,” Fontaine said. “One more example of how little they understood what really matters.”

  “Sire?”

  “A radically new WarShip was developed here. You’d think that would be something people remembered, wouldn’t you?” Fontaine asked. “But a few decades later and no one remembers.

  “Do you know why?”

  “Actual construction was—” Christopher stopped himself midanswer. “No, sire.”

  “A factory, any infrastructure, is only a tool, a thing,” the duke explained. “The heart of Tamarind is not in our ability to assemble widgets, no matter how complex and expensive those widgets might be.

  “What makes Tamarind Tamarind is our art.”

  He could feel Christopher shift beside him, knew the boy was looking over the ordered chaos of odd-shaped crates filling the staging area with new eyes.

  “You’re taking the art,” he said at last.

  Fontaine turned to face the boy for the first time.

  “By preserving the art, we preserve the heart of Tamarind,” he said. “Those who fight on, the resistance, will resist because they know their heart—the culture that makes us who we are and binds us all together—is safe.”

  Stepping away from the boy, he looked out over the warehouse. The second wave of trucks was pulling away from the loading dock, carrying their precious cargoes out to the waiting Mule. The process would have been quicker at the main DropPort of Zanzibar; but escape from Zanzibar was no longer certain.

  “So no, we are not taking guns and supplies,” he said. “And we wouldn’t even if the resistance didn’t need them more. We are taking the heart of the people.”

  Christopher came to stand next to him. “And taking it with us carries a promise.” The passion underlying the lad’s words startled Fontaine into looking at him. “It tells the people we’re going to bring it back.”

  See? said Karli’s quiet voice in his ear.

  Fontaine no longer looked to where his beloved wife had sat as she kept him company. He knew she was always with him, and that was enough.

  Our boy is growing up, he agreed.

  Then he blinked as he realized what he’d said.

  24

  Amur, Oriente

  Oriente Protectorate

  7 January 3138

  Jessica could not get used to Torrian Dolcat appearing in the family council room. He belonged in his secure chamber, hidden in the walls and immune from detection. He belonged in shadow. Not standing in the watery sunlight spilling through the high windows that stretched along the southern wall. Though he had done so only twice before, it seemed as though he was becoming too much of a fixture.

  We may need to get him his own chair at the table.

  The humor of the thought evaporated as she remembered there already were vacant chairs at the table. That the assassin had penetrated their defenses….

  “What?” she demanded, her voice sharp with grief and anger at the man who had failed her.

  The director of SAFE stopped abruptly at her tone, perhaps three paces sooner than he’d intended.

  “Your Grace,” Torrian said, including Philip in his bow. Then, with a bow only a few degrees shallower: “Lady Nikol.”

  Jessica read his body language clearly, as she was meant to; she was certain the man gave nothing away he did not want broadcast. He thought whatever he was about to tell her should be private. But if he wanted privacy so much he should have stayed in his hole.

  “Speak plainly, Mr. Dolcat,” she instructed.

  “Your Grace,” Torrian acknowledged, then paused as he seemed to consider his words.

  Not good news, then.

  “We have reports from agents that the Duchy of Andurien is refurbishing a BattleMech assembly plant,” he said. “The intended purpose seems to be the assembly and rapid deployment of BattleMechs along our border.”

  Jessica felt Philip shift slightly and was aware of Nikol gaping at the edge of her vision.

  “That makes no sense.” Nikol spoke before Jessica had formulated a reply. “Shouldn’t the assembly plant be protected far from the border and only the finished BattleMechs brought up?”

  Torrian glanced to Jessica for permission before answering.

  “They are refurbishing an existing plant, and as such have no control over where it is located,” he said. “In addition, it is much easier to transport components without detection than it is to move BattleMechs. An assembly plant near the point of deployment makes good tactical sense.”

  “But makes it vulnerable to counterattack,” Nikol countered.

  “If they complete a few production runs before we discover their location, they’ll have all the BattleMechs they need to defend the plant while supplying front-line forces,” Torrian said. “We’ve only just discovered an ongoing p
rocess. If they imported components before they began bringing the plant online—a distinct possibility—it’s quite conceivable they have enough raw materials to survive any embargo we throw up now.”

  “How could we miss such a massive transfer of BattleMech components?” Jessica asked, making the effort to keep any condemnation out of her voice. Torrian was too valuable to alienate with misplaced censure.

  “The world is a known dumping ground for industrial wastes,” Torrian answered. “We tracked the number of ships grounding as a measure of economic and industrial factors, but we did not pay particular attention to what they carried.”

  “Trojan garbage scows,” Nikol said.

  “Yes, milady.”

  Torrian’s formal tone told Jessica she’d been right not to point out his failure to detect the covert operation. The man was in no danger of forgiving himself for the oversight.

  The important thing is he discovered the plan before Andurien struck.

  “How near possible deployment points is this assembly plant?” Nikol’s question cut across her thoughts.

  “One jump from a half dozen of our worlds,” Torrian answered.

  Jessica watched her daughter calculate. Before Nikol spoke she knew she’d grasped the wrong end of the situation, distracted by the obvious and the tactical.

  “I can have the Eagle’s Talons ready and mobilized in three weeks,” she said. “The only question is, do we want the world and the plant captured or do we just want the plant destroyed?”

  “Destroyed,” Jessica answered promptly. “Despite this provocation, we have neither the time nor the resources for a protracted campaign against Andurien. No doubt a factor in their decision to attack now. Once their ability to cause immediate mischief is neutralized, we need to focus on the situation in Tamarind-Abbey and the Marik-StewartCommonwealth.

  “In fact, your attention should not waver from the Lyran front, dear.” Jessica laid a hand flat against the polished surface of the table, not quite touching her daughter’s forearm. “Andurien is a distraction best left to your lieutenants.”

  “Mother?”

  “In fact, I think it may be time to sever your direct involvement in the campaigns of the Eagle’s Talons.” Jessica watched Nikol’s eyes, judging her reaction. “Casson is more than capable of full command. You need to broaden your focus.”

  Nikol’s eyes clouded for a moment. She loved military command. Jessica could only imagine she found the clear-cut choices and objectives of the battlefield to be a welcome change from the shifting ambiguity of political intrigues.

  But the time has come to put away childish things, dear. You need to step up to the greater responsibility, the burden Oriente and the League requires of us.

  “Casson is an excellent commander,” Nikol finally replied. “What specifically do you have in mind for me, Mother?”

  “The liberation units,” Jessica said, keeping her pleased surprise at Nikol’s quick adjustment from her voice. “The initial wave of supplies is going well, but a more personal touch is needed.”

  “Christopher…”

  “Is, as far as we can tell, doing an excellent job supporting Duke Fontaine and the people of Tamarind-Abbey,” Jessica agreed. “I was thinking of the worlds of the Commonwealth. The war is not going well for Anson, particularly with Lester’s decision to not support him militarily.”

  She saw Nikol almost point out that Jessica had chosen to not support Anson militarily, then think better of it. You’re learning.

  “A member of the ruling house personally accompanying relief efforts would go a long way toward encouraging the resistance fighters.”

  “Not to mention binding them to Oriente,” Nikol added.

  “No reason not to mention it,” Jessica said. “The war is not likely to go well for Anson. We need to have an alternative in place should he fall.”

  “Then why not go yourself?”

  “Generations of propaganda aimed at discrediting me,” Jessica said. “A virulent campaign that reached fever pitch under Anson’s leadership. It can be overcome with truth—eventually. In the short run, my appearance in the midst of the Lyran invasion would carry far too much negative baggage. In some cases, it may work actively against us. You, on the other hand…”

  “Have been relatively untouched by the propaganda machine aimed at you,” Nikol finished. “And am known as a military leader, not a political manipulator.”

  “Just so.”

  “Well.” Nikol sighed. “Let’s just hope they don’t see through my disguise.”

  25

  Ministerial Residence

  Zletovo, Lesnovo

  Rim Commonality

  19 January 3138

  Prime Minister Michael Cendar tried not to stare at the force commander’s hair as she read the report he’d handed to her.

  Alethea Chowla was commander of the Defenders, the elite rapid-strike battalion of the Rim Commonality’s armed forces. She was an impressive woman of one hundred and eighty centimeters, massing some seventy well-proportioned kilos and looked every inch the professional soldier.

  From her eyes down.

  What disconcerted people—what caused those who did not know her to question Chowla’s abilities, and possibly even her intelligence—was her hair. Her scalp was covered by six centimeters of starched crew cut dyed an improbable shade of terra-cotta. Her eyebrows shared the color. The artist in Michael appreciated how the color, which could easily have clashed with her cinnamon complexion, complemented her skin tone perfectly.

  The French doors lining the northern wall of his private study were wide open, much to the consternation of his ever-vigilant security staff, and the pungent scents of a dozen flowers vied for his attention. Pulling his eyes away from his most trusted military adviser’s scalp—something he had grown resigned to doing over the years—Michael looked out over his garden. Row upon artfully nonlinear row of nodding blossoms led the eye to the small fountain, then on to a small but impressive bronze sculpture. He was very pleased with that acquisition. One of Marridee De-Juc’s few works wholesome enough to be displayed at the ministerial residence, it was part of his personal collection.

  Alethea’s snort of derision brought his mind back to the issue at hand.

  “Force Commander?” he inquired mildly.

  “I hate headaches,” Alethea answered, the sharp accent of her native Campoleone edging her words. “And this is a migraine.”

  Michael smiled slightly at her tone. The force commander’s infamous informality was a refreshing counterpoint to the poised gentility of his ministers. It harkened back to her mercenary roots.

  Roots that, in the form of her grandparents’ command, had held firm to the Commonality’s soil when the maelstrom of the Jihad swept more prestigious units—

  Michael reined in his mental metaphor before it got too far out of hand.

  “We need Westover,” he said aloud. “Their ability to produce aerospace fighters, not to mention reliable weapons systems, makes them invaluable.”

  “They’ve been invaluable trading partners,” Alethea said. “Why all of a sudden do we need them as a member world?”

  “You’ve read the analysis.”

  “Which was clearly written by people who see acquiring a world that’s not so keen on being acquired as a simple matter of telling them we own them,” Alethea answered. She smiled suddenly, robbing her words of insolence. “What I do not see is why you, sir, who does understand what annexing a world by force means, are considering this.”

  Michael nodded. It was a fair question.

  That she could ask such a question said much about how far the Rim Commonality had come in two short generations. From a feudal state in which planetary nobles concerned only for their own need for power had issued orders, to a constitutional commonwealth in which even the head of state was expected to give an account of himself. Sometimes the magnitude of their progress fairly took his breath away.

  And now, through the most an
cient practice of the nobility, you seek to bind yourself and your nation to a new Free Worlds League through marriage. He shook his head, not caring that Alethea would think he was responding to her question. I’m binding myself alone to Elis Marik. That our respective nations follow is simply a fact of our reality, not the driving force. Then, incapable of deceiving himself: not the primary driving force.

  “There are two factors,” he said, answering the force commander’s question after what he hoped appeared to be no more than a thoughtful pause. “First and foremost, we do not know how much of the Free Worlds League the Steiners intend to grab. A world with functional aerospace manufacturing capability may be a prize they’re willing to reach for.”

  “And a world that’s part of a sizable nation-state is a much less tempting target than a world alone.” Alethea lifted the report in her hand slightly, indicating where she’d heard that argument. “By the same token, a coalition of worlds—unaligned, Regulan and Rim—forming a united front would not only save Westover, but stop the Lyrans dead in their tracks.”

  “The problem with such a coalition is that it’s impossible,” Michael said. “There are too many factions at work that want control of Westover.”

  “Including us,” Alethea replied. “Tematagi already gives us the corner on BattleMech production west of the Pecos. Adding an aerospace monopoly is just good business sense.”

  Michael did not let himself be distracted by speculation on what the Pecos was; the force commander’s meaning was clear from context.

  “That sort of greed-driven military adventurism is not part of who we are,” he said.

  “Who we are, are the folks who kicked out the Humphreys clan and the rest when they tried to consolidate us,” Alethea agreed. “Which is why I’m not understanding this.”

  “The second factor, the one not spelled out in the report,” Michael said. “And part of why the coalition you suggest won’t work.”