To Ride the Chimera

by Kevin Killiany

  “I’m listening.”

  “How would you characterize our relationship with the Regulan Fiefs with the Steiner threat out of the picture?” Michael asked.

  “We’re plebian riffraff who threw Humphreys and company out in a fit of madness and can only hope to survive through dumb luck until some other noble family takes us under their wing.”

  Michael laughed.

  “Socially unacceptable and politically astute as always, Force Commander,” he said. “What if I told you there was evidence house Cameron-Jones may be thinking they’re just the right noble family to adopt us?”

  Alethea pursed her lips, squinting into some space beyond Michael’s left shoulder.

  “They’ve got us on ships,” she said. “But we have double their BattleMechs and we’re a hell of a lot better at what we do.

  “I’d call it a long and bloody fight.”

  Michael held up his hands.

  “I didn’t make myself clear,” he said. “No military action is in the offing. The Fiefs are seeking to isolate us politically and economically. They are enthusiastically wooing many of our major trading partners, including Westover, with a mix of economic incentives, offers of military aid and disinformation about our intentions.”

  It took three heartbeats for the light to dawn.

  Alethea spat a word Michael imagined was a curse in her native Hindi. “This is a forgery!”

  “Every word of it penned by propaganda experts on Regulus,” Michael confirmed. “And it took you in completely.”

  Alethea riffled the pages.

  “I’d swear this was a verigraph on our stationery,” she said. “They even spelled my name right.”

  “Not quite our stationery,” Michael corrected. “But close enough to fool anyone not part of our own security team.”

  “Who else?”

  “We suspect every world in the Commonality–Fiefs gap has received a custom-tailored version of this report,” Michael said. “Though only Rzishchev and Lengkong have admitted they have copies.”

  “And we only know about this because Westover came forward?” Alethea asked, still examining the physical report.

  “No, we learned about it because Niops VII told us about it.” Michael pulled a second report from his folio.

  “Niops?”

  “Believe me, the reasoning in the strategic analysis section of their annexation proposal makes perfect sense.” The prime minister shook his head in admiration. “But the basic integrity of the Niopians is completely beyond old Lester’s comprehension. I’m sure it never occurred to him that they would simply bring the report to us and ask if it was authentic.”

  “So…” Alethea let the word stretch out. “How did we learn about Westover?”

  “Alerted that these reports existed, one of our trade attachés on Westover…“ Michael hesitated. “Negotiated her way to a copy.”

  “Ah.” Alethea’s tone made it clear she understood the verb.

  Michael focused on sorting papers on his desk, keeping his head down in a show of looking for something. Despite its weathering, his complexion had always revealed the least embarrassment.

  “Is there a mission for my people in this?”

  “Actually, yes.” Michael hoped he didn’t overplay the “finding” of the file he’d been looking for. “I want you to take the Guard on a military goodwill tour to Westover.”

  “A show of military force to counter rumors we plan on using military force?” Chowla didn’t try to hide her incredulity. “That’s a bit beyond counterintuitive, isn’t it, sir?”

  “Yes, it is,” Michael agreed.

  It took Chowla a moment to realize he expected her to figure it out. She resumed squinting at whatever she saw over his left shoulder.

  Michael resisted the urge to turn and look.

  “If they think they’re going to be invaded by us, they’ll try to beef up their defenses,” she said at last. “Probably mercenaries, and with the Steiner threat driving up prices, they won’t be able to afford the best.

  “We go in, all spit-and-polish, to show them what a real military looks like, lay out the four reports side by side, explain they’re looking the wrong way for danger and offer a nice mutual defense treaty, maybe a lucrative trade package to boot.”

  “Excellent reasoning, Force Commander,” Michael confirmed. “Westover is probably the lynchpin of the Regulan plan. Once you’ve brought them on board, it should be a simple matter to convince others to enter into similar treaties.

  “Lester Cameron-Jones may well have inadvertently given us the tools we need to form that coalition of yours.”

  “The Chowla Coalition,” Alethea said. “I like the sound of that.”

  Despite himself, Michael laughed.

  26

  Zenith Jump Point

  Oriente

  22 January 3138

  Nikol was through the DropShip’s air lock and into the JumpShip’s companionway before the all-clear sounded. Cold seemed to radiate from the docking collars, which only moments before had been open to space. The icy air stabbed the back of her throat and she felt her skin break out in goose bumps beneath her zero-g duty uniform.

  Some of the startled crew bowed their heads in hasty acknowledgment while others, intent on their jobs, didn’t notice royalty had passed within an arm’s reach.

  She noticed at least two men miss her completely as they focused on the MechWarrior in her wake. Maria Velasquez was no taller than most ten-year-olds, but proportioned like an exotic dancer. Even in duty fatigues, with her dense black hair gathered in a schoolmarm’s bun, the captain attracted male attention of the most direct sort.

  Nikol had noted that Velasquez did nothing to either encourage or capitalize on this attention. Based on her own observations, she agreed with the evaluations of previous commanders that there was no question of the woman’s integrity.

  Only her shadow sense told her Captain Velasquez was keeping silent pace as Nikol launched herself from handhold to handhold along the corridor. The diminutive Martigues native was evidently as at home in zero gravity as she was in the cockpit of her BattleMech.

  And given her record, that’s saying something.

  Of course Ivan Casson was already waiting for them in the wardroom assigned to the Eagle’s Talons for officers’ briefings. His normally close-cropped hair was longer than usual, Nikol noticed. The fuzzy blond halo gave him an unaccustomed air of innocence.

  Nikol brought her focus back to the task at hand.

  “This is Captain Maria Velasquez,” she introduced without preamble the dark-haired woman climbing through the hatch. “Captain, this is Force Commander Ivan Casson.”

  “Maria?” Casson’s startled tone matched Nikol’s surprise at the familiar greeting. “Good to see you again.”

  “You too, Cass. Sir,” Velasquez corrected herself with a glance at Nikol.

  “Captain Velasquez and I attended Princefield together,” Casson explained.

  Nikol wasn’t sure if the atmosphere in the cabin actually picked up an electric charge, but from the two officers’ body language she was certain Casson and Velasquez had been more than simply fellow cadets.

  “Then I’m glad you already know how to work together,” she said aloud, hoping after the fact that her phrasing hadn’t come across as a double entendre. “Because we’re attaching her ’Mech company to your command.”

  “Exce—” Casson broke off midword. “My command, milady? You command the Eagle’s Talons.”

  “Not anymore, Force Commander.” Nikol shook her head. “The personal battalion of the captain-general is now your full responsibility.”

  “Yes, milady.” Casson sounded doubtful. “May I ask why?”

  “Why you’re in command? Because you’re the best. Why I’m leaving? I’ve been made a diplomat. My last official military act will be taking the Pontiac and your light infantry assets with me on my return trip to Oriente.

  “I’ll be jumping out-system for my fir
st perilous round of cocktail parties and smoke-filled rooms before your first mission.”

  “Yes, milady.” Casson made the acknowledgment a question.

  “We’re giving you an old-school hit-and-run raid, Force Commander,” Nikol said. On cue, Velasquez unslung the orders tube from her shoulder and handed it to Casson. “A full battalion of BattleMechs, heavy guns and battlesuit infantry. Go in fast, hit hard, flatten the objective and get out before a counteroffensive can be mounted.”

  Casson nodded, weighing the neoleather tube in his hands as she spoke.

  “What’s the target?” he asked.

  “A covert Andurien BattleMech assembly plant right at our doorstep,” Nikol answered, enjoying the startled look in Casson’s eye. “On a world called Kwamashu.”

  27

  DropShip Baldwin

  Kwamashu System

  6 February 3138

  “Watch yourself out there, half-pint,” a voice called from behind.

  Casson stopped in the crowded corridor and turned, waiting for Maria Velasquez to catch up.

  “No worries,” he said when she was close. “I’m not the biggest target out there.”

  The diminutive MechWarrior tilted her head to look up at him. “You telling me size doesn’t matter?”

  Casson grinned at the joke they’d shared since their academy days as the two fell in step. On straitlaced Oriente, such double entendres had been daring for the pair of young cadets. Their relationship at the academy had never gotten beyond suggestive banter. (If only I’d known what to try, Casson thought, not for the first time. God, I was young.) In the years since, when their paths crossed there just hadn’t been the time or the opportunity to explore options not taken.

  He glanced down at her as they walked shoulder to shoulder. Or more accurately, her shoulder to his elbow. At one hundred fifty centimeters, Maria barely met the physical requirements for piloting a BattleMech.

  Her black hair was braided tight to her skull: the neurohelmet contacts, invisible when her thick mane was worn loose, had been freshly shaved. The little squares of olive skin glistened with contact oil.

  “That stuff really doesn’t make a difference, you know.”

  “And shaving hasn’t been necessary for a century.” She supplied the second half of his usual observation. “But—”

  “Even a psychological edge is an edge,” Casson chorused with her.

  It was a little surprising to Casson that this was the first time they would be going into battle together. It was even more surprising, given their relative performances at the academy, that they were going in with him commanding her.

  “What’s your take on the tac sit?” he asked, following up on that thought.

  “You nailed it in one.” The two paused by the entrance to the bay where his Sun Cobra was berthed with the rest of Command Lance. “If I had a doubt, I would have said so.”

  “Of course that’s understood,” he said with mock gravity. “But it’s always good to have your assessment, Captain.”

  “You medium and light ’Mechs end run through the town.” Maria matched his tone. “You should have no trouble outflanking the local garrison while we big boys handle the Duchy regulars.”

  Casson shook his head, matching her grin.

  Those who didn’t know Maria assumed she piloted a Jupiter to compensate for her tiny stature. The truth was she piloted the hundred-ton ’Mech because it was the only machine tough enough to keep up with her on the battlefield.

  Something like a tide passed through Casson. He felt his weight change slightly as the DropShip’s crew made some minute adjustment in its breaking thrust.

  “Planetfall in one hour,” he said. “Get to your ’Mech, Maria.”

  “Good hunting, Cass,” she answered before hurrying to her own ’Mech’s bay.

  Amur, Oriente

  Oriente Protectorate

  She watched Mr. Carmichael make a show of reading her ´sumé. A foolish ploy. If he had not been familiar with its contents, she would never have reached this point in the interview process.

  The office was designed to intimidate: a wall of books opposite the door implied the wealth to collect such antiques, while the view of Amur’s ducal complex indicated proximity to the halls of power. The furnishings, while classically spare, were of real wood and leather and the art on the walls had been painted by human hands.

  Carmichael was as calculated as his office. His black hair, as thickly wiry as her own in its natural state, was trimmed to a uniform centimeter. His hands were immaculately manicured, each adorned with one piece of tastefully expensive gold, and his business suit was of the finest cut and fabric.

  The one flaw in his appearance, as far as she was concerned, was the color of his contact lenses. Though she could acknowledge that the green was aesthetically pleasing, it wasn’t natural. Why one of the higher race would wear contacts to mimic a feature of a lesser was beyond her.

  Perhaps he regarded his body as nothing more than a space he occupied. Like his office, a canvas to be decorated and accessorized as he saw fit. Such a separation from self, from who he was, was saddening. But not surprising.

  She had scanned a shelf of books as she’d entered the tastefully opulent office; a flickering glance as she’d surveyed the room in obvious, but not overstated, appreciation. Adjacent titles were unrelated, the bindings having been grouped for greatest visual impact with no thought to the content of the volumes. The wall of books was a library of appearance, not utility. No doubt the interior decorator had purchased them by the linear meter.

  The room, the clothes, the contacts—Carmichael was a man wedded to the superficial, who judged the world around him by appearances. How very sad. And very useful.

  Her own appearance was artfully managed to conform to expectations. The natural extensions woven into her hair were pulled back into a conservative bun. Her business suit, much less expensive than Mr. Carmichael’s, was impeccably tailored and her glasses had just enough style to imply personality without conflicting with her air of competent conformity.

  Her only flaw—and she was sure Mr. Carmichael would regard it as such—was her decision not to hide her vitiligo. There was no cure for the disorder that robbed the skin of pigment, but there were dozens of cosmetic cover-ups. To not use them implied both honesty and nonconformity.

  In her case, the condition was most apparent in an irregular-shaped swath of pink, pale to the point of whiteness against the chocolate brown of her flesh, that stretched from her right temple to the corner of her mouth. A thumb-sized spot of similar color appeared below her left ear, just above the hinge of her jaw, and again above her left eyebrow. A narrow swath of straw-blond hair rising from the nape of her neck to join the bun and a trace of pink above her high collar testified to the spread of the condition.

  The pink-white patches of vitiligo were appliqués of thin plastic. Porous enough to sweat through and flexible enough to conform to facial expressions, they were visually indistinguishable from her flesh. A person of sensitive touch tracing his finger lightly across her face would feel the border between the plastic and her skin—but she had no intention of letting anyone get that close.

  Carmichael looked up from his pretense of reviewing her ´sumé. She saw his artificially green eyes flicker across her vitiligo before meeting her own. An interesting change from men glancing first at her chest. She found his distraction amusing.

  But beyond distracting, the irregular patches of vitiligo performed the same function as camouflage. The contrasting colors broke up the outlines of her features, confusing both the human eye and face-recognition security systems. Taken in combination with her straight and longer hair, the discoloration made it unlikely anyone who had met her during her previous stay on Oriente would recognize her now.

  “Your references are of course excellent,” Carmichael was saying. “The Dalton Investment Group could not say enough good things about your financial acumen. I don’t mind adding that your tradin
g portfolio is one of the most impressive I’ve seen.”

  “You’re too kind, Mr. Carmichael,” she said, smiling a polite disagreement that stopped well short of a simper. She had no idea how Father Pauli had produced those sterling records for a young woman who had never lived. “I’ve made several missteps over the years. I still find the Tobler incident particularly galling.”

  “As do we all, Ms. Aborisha,” Carmichael agreed. “But in every trading environment there is the possibility of fraud. You can hardly be expected to have recognized criminal intent.”

  “Ayza, please,” she said. “And the evidence they were ghosting their assets was there from the beginning.”

  “But the evidence was only apparent in retrospect, Ayza.” Carmichael gave what he thought was her first name an odd lilt—a tell proving he was not an Oriente native. “And your other missteps, as you characterize them, are in every case a situation wherein unpredictable fate confounded well-researched analysis.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She accepted the compliment. To protest praise too vigorously could be as annoying as preening.

  From that point the interview wound through its predictable course without incident. He asked for her insights on specific corporations to test her market knowledge and posed hypothetical questions to gauge her trading savvy, mixing in a few well-disguised ethical problems along the way. Well coached and skilled in interrogation, she navigated her way through the potential minefield, gaining a new respect for Carmichael’s interviewing skills in the process.

  In the end, of course, there was no doubt. Two hours after ushering her into her chair, Mr. Carmichael rose and extended his hand across the desk.

  “I think you will do very well here, Ayza,” he said, smiling his first real smile of the afternoon. “Welcome to Sir Frederick Marik’s household.”

  Breezewood, Kwamashu

  Duchy of Andurien

  The Firestarter was candy.

  Its armor no match for the massed fire of the Jupiter’s autocannon, the Ducky BattleMech seemed to crumple under the onslaught of depleted uranium rounds tearing into it at multiple-Mach velocity. Maria’s thermal screen flared as the ’Mech’s plasma bottles failed. The machine stumbled forward, but it was more pilot reflex than attack. The area—and the infantry—surrounding the Firestarter disappeared in raging flames.