You said be politic, Mother, but this is a military engagement.
Clenching her jaw, Nikol took a step toward the voice.
“You can call me anything you damn well want as long as we are both fighting for the Free Worlds League,” she snapped. “But if you want to waste time on titles, you can call me the minister-general, because right now my job is getting to as many League worlds as I can and doing everything I can to make sure they stay League worlds.”
Nikol glared around the circle, trying to pierce the shadows above the gun barrels, to find the eyes of the men and women holding the weapons. Not a muzzle moved.
“Now, you can send me on my way or you can do the Lyrans a favor and shoot me—or make them truly happy and turn me over to them,” she said, turning her attention back to the voice. “Or you can accept the fact that any attack on any Free Worlds League planet is an attack on every member of the Free Worlds League, and take support when it’s offered.
“Your choice.”
The silence around her stretched.
33
Cendar Estate
Zletovo, Lesnovo
Rim Commonality
3 April 3138
Elderly. Elis watched as Michael Cendar received a verbal report from a force commander with oddly colored hair at the edge of the veranda. Why did I ever consider him elderly? Have I aged so much in two years?
Sipping her iced herbal tea, she admitted to herself it was possible. The politics of Oriente tended to accelerate the aging process.
More likely it was a maturing of her perceptions. She had learned from her mother how to observe political adversaries and allies; to weigh their potential threat or utility to the gram. From that perspective, Michael Cendar had been breathtakingly beautiful. But as the young woman Elis looking at the man Michael, she had mistaken the weight of responsibility for the burden of age.
Now, lounging in what Michael called an Adirondack chair—a far more rustic bit of furniture than anything found at cousin Gen’s estate—enjoying a purposeless conversation as a long summer Sunday afternoon wound toward evening, she was discovering her future husband was much more vital and entertaining than the prime minister she remembered.
He’s of an age with Thaddeus, she thought generously. And a good bit less stuffy. Practically an untamed spirit by Rim Commonality standards.
Elis intended to do a bit to alter the standards of Rim Commonality society herself. In her role as the daughter of a distant duchess visiting a cousin twenty-one months ago, her refusal to wear corsets and insisting on only half the standard volume of fabric had been a quirk that amused social columnists. Now she was the fiancée of the prime minister, and her uncompromising stand on fashion was being viewed with alarm by the bulk of Commonality society.
If you find what I do to your couture disturbing, Elis thought toward the matrons of distant Zletovo, wait until you see what I do to your government.
“Good news, I see,” she said as Michael returned. “Always something to be hoped for when mysterious soldiers appear.”
“Forgive me.” Michael’s smile disappeared. “I am so used to keeping my duties separate from…”
His voice trailed off.
From the women you bring to your private retreat, Elis finished mentally. Fortunately for both of us, a successful marriage of state does not require virginity.
“Prime minister is not a hereditary title,” Michael said. “A vote of no-confidence could be called at any time, and I could go back to being merely Lord Cendar.”
“With your approval rating perpetually mired somewhere north of eighty percent through twenty years in office, that could happen at any moment,” Elis agreed solemnly.
Michael laughed, a remarkably easy sound.
“What I meant was, administration of the Rim Commonality has always been something apart from the family life of the prime minister,” he said. “We are about to usher in a new era in Commonality politics.”
Elis nodded. The captain-generalcy of the Free Worlds League had once been an elected office, open to anyone. How many generations—and how many missteps—before it had become a Marik monopoly? People believed in blood, trusted heritage. The time was not too distant when only Cendars—or Marik-Cendars—could hold the highest office in the Rim Commonality.
As the first Lady Marik-Cendar, Elis would have no official standing in the government. At first. But that would change, and her husband-to-be was committed to being a part of bringing about that change. After twenty-some years of sole responsibility, he was looking forward to sharing the burden.
“So who was that messenger?” she asked aloud. “And what was her good news?”
“Force Commander Chowla of the First Rim Commonality Guard—”
“She must be over one hundred.”
“Granddaughter of that Force Commander Chowla.” Michael overrode her interjection. “And the good news she delivered is that she has arrived about a day ahead of Duke Wesley of Westover and his diplomatic party.”
“Ah.”
Michael was very proud of the new alliance he and the duke would be thumbprinting into law at the end of the week. One of Lester’s schemes gone one hundred and eighty degrees wrong, it was the first in what Michael was sure would be a series of interlocking treaties with unaligned worlds beyond their borders. Treaties that would secure the Rim Commonality against anything the Regulan Fiefs—or the Duchy of Andurien or the Marian Hegemony—could muster.
“Next time—”
“I will present her to you,” Michael agreed. “And you will receive all diplomatic reports firsthand, at my side.”
Elis nodded complacently, sipping her tea.
Corsets are only the beginning.
34
Zenith Jump Point
Miaplacidus System
Covenant Worlds
22 April 3138
“Are these figures accurate?”
“To the last decimal.” Ignoring the fact that their relative up-down orientations were sixty degrees askew, Green met Thaddeus’ gaze levelly. “The entire roster of assets available to form the Covenant Worlds First Expeditionary Force.”
Thaddeus glanced left and slightly up. Colonel Timur of the Covenant Worlds Militia confirmed the assessment with a nod that set him bobbing at the end of his tether.
“It’s almost an embarrassment of riches.” Thaddeus thumbed through the screens again.
“The influx of Bordon’s skilled labor gave Connaught greater flexibility in allocating support personnel, allowing them to safely deploy twenty percent more aerospace fighters than anticipated.”
Thaddeus half listened to his lieutenants’ reports as he reread the data.
Heavy on conventional forces. Savannah responded with only technical support and components, but Marian Arms either had a lot more ordnance in mothballs than anyone suspected or has outstripped expectations on rebuilding. He shook his head. Disinformation is the stock-in-trade of the post-Jihad, even among our own member worlds.
“Though not willing to cede command of planetary aerospace assets to other worlds,” Timur was saying, “Connaught acknowledges their single Miraborg is overloaded and has accepted reallocation of several lances to Nathan and Alphard DropShips.”
Still differentiating between planetary militias and the Covenant Worlds as a whole. Inconvenient, but true to their Free Worlds League heritage.
“The Protectorate Coalition contingent,” Thaddeus said aloud. “These numbers exceed projections by almost sixty percent.”
“Yes, sir,” Green acknowledged. “I’ll be reassessing our intelligence resources on Kalidasa.”
“Normally I’d agree with you. But while I’m leading the Expeditionary Force against Andurien, you are going to be my eyes and ears on Oriente.”
“Understood.”
Tapping a few keys, Thaddeus tied the noteputer into the wardroom’s projector. The data he’d been squinting at now occupied a three-square-meter screen against the far bulk
head. He spent a few minutes adjusting the information into an organizational chart. He was aware that he was micromanaging, taking on tasks that rightly belonged to Timur’s staff. Had probably already been executed in much greater detail by Timur’s staff, in fact. But he needed to manipulate the facts directly to set the variables in his own mind.
As he shifted and regrouped numbers, he was aware the digits represented thousands of men and women floating weightless, even as he did, within a hundred-kilometer radius of his position. Part of his mind wondered if they felt his machinations, like ghostly threads binding, then loosening as he tapped the keypad.
“The new assets are a bit lopsided, and as Connaught’s aerospace illustrates, not all are willing to be fully integrated.” Thaddeus frowned as he thought aloud. “Structuring this force is going to be as political as it is strategic. Without more ’Mechs, we’ll need to find a way to leave behind some of these conventional forces and support personnel without hurting anyone’s feelings.”
“Perhaps they could be loaned to the Oriente military for the duration?” Green suggested. “That would not only help cement relations, it would form a physical connection between the militaries—a potential building block for future alliance.”
“Support units tend to be subsumed,” Thaddeus explained. “If we try to integrate them into Oriente’s military, they’ll be absorbed—disappear with no gain to the Covenant Worlds.”
For another half minute he adjusted the organizational chart in silence, adding and subtracting connections, rearranging groupings. At last he felt he had a firm enough grasp of the situation to plan.
“Colonel Timur,” he said, shutting down the screen. “I want a working organization plan in place by Monday. Is three days enough?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ll not have the luxury of shakedown exercises before we engage the Anduriens, so keep units that share some history together as much as possible,” Thaddeus advised, aware his words were redundant for his commander. “Once the structure is right on-screen, it will take, what, a week to get the units reorganized and distributed among the DropShips?”
“If that, sir.”
Thaddeus considered a moment. Had he forgotten anything? Aware of two sets of eyes on him, he nodded once, decisively. “The Covenant Worlds Expeditionary Force will jump out-system on May second.”
35
Dormuth, Marik
Oriente Protectorate
26 April 3138
Dayton Withers refrained from adjusting his collar as he watched the ovKhan of the Sea Foxes and the Star colonel of the Spirit Cats read the analyses he’d prepared. Actually, only the ovKhan was reading the noteputer screen, evidently absorbing every detail; the Spirit Cat had tabbed through a few pages, then set the machine on the table.
It was a perfectly ordinary round table, cheap wood meant to be covered with a tablecloth. Something out of a midpriced restaurant, Dayton guessed. Meant to seat either six or eight depending on how formal the arrangement was. What made the table unusual—besides his sharing it with two Clan warlords—was the BattleMech-sized chandelier directly overhead and the magnificent ballroom stretching away in all directions.
Dayton was never comfortable negotiating with Clanners. It wasn’t just their touchy egos, though those were legendary; it was the fact that their cultural assumptions proceeded from a fundamentally different worldview. Honor, for example, meant something akin to appearing above reproach while doing everything necessary to win, because only those who won were able to pass on their genetic material.
Pass on their genetic material. Not having kids—families—that was the core of the difference.
But prickly egos and the brittle definition of honor meant he’d had to word the captain-general’s proposal carefully. Her bald statement of what she wanted the Clans to do for Oriente had lacked her usual subtlety.
Read like a direct order, in fact.
“Thank you, Penelope.”
Dayton followed the sound to discover a giantess had emerged from the row of columns to his left. It took him a moment to realize he was looking over the head of the speaker. Between him and the elemental, a woman was propelling her wheelchair forward with rhythmic thrusts.
Captain-General Jessica’s daughter, Dayton realized. The lady Julietta.
Evidently satisfied her charge had been delivered safely, the giant woman turned without comment and disappeared into the shadows.
“Please do not get up,” Julietta said as Dayton gathered himself.
“Milady,” he acknowledged, turning his near-rising into a seated bow from the waist as she wheeled the last few meters to the table.
The Spirit Cat leader looked toward Lady Julietta, and Dayton thought he smiled. At least the corners of his mouth twitched and his eyes seemed to lighten. The Sea Fox ovKhan did not raise his scarred head.
Dayton noted Lady Julietta’s face was flushed with exertion, but not alarmingly so.
“It is good to see you well, milady.”
“Thank you, Sir Dayton. Pardon my lateness, but when nerves are healing they sometimes need to rest. The motor nerves to my legs do not seem to be in the mood to work this morning.”
“I can only imagine how frustrating that must be.” Dayton did not mention that he could easily imagine how terrifying it must be to fear every setback might be permanent.
“Thank you, Sir Dayton.”
Lady Julietta’s genuinely appreciative tone made him wonder if she’d read his thoughts as well. Or perhaps living among the laconic Clanners these weeks left her starved for common courtesies.
“Fourteen pages to explain a proposition that required two sentences,” the Sea Fox ovKhan announced.
“Only fourteen?” Julietta asked before Dayton could frame his apology. “Then Sir Dayton has already made an effort on your behalf. Though he’d never admit it in our presence, it is a credo that diplomats are paid by the word.”
The ovKhan’s grin was distorted by scar tissue, but genuine. Dayton could not remember ever seeing a Clanner smile with anything but malice.
“That would explain many spheroid contracts.”
“What are the two sentences?” the Spirit Cat leader asked.
“Oriente would like us to garrison Abadan and Avellaneda, two worlds they’ve carved from the corpse of The Republic, while they send their troops to fight Andurien.”
“They are ceding worlds they cannot hold?”
“You did not wait for the second sentence,” the Sea Fox pointed out. “Following their victory over Andurien, Oriente will reinstate their garrisons and express their gratitude to us in any form we desire up to a mutually agreeable value.”
“Mercenaries.” The Spirit Cat spat the word.
“Essentially.”
“Not quite,” Julietta put in before Dayton could speak. “Oriente is the Oriente Protectorate—a form of governance in which a stronger world protects others. True, they control the protected world’s dealings with other planets, but the world itself is autonomous. Marik is part of the Protectorate, though Oriente does not presume to interfere with Sea Fox trading practices. All spheroid powers in this region know that if they attack Marik, they will have to deal with Oriente.”
“We do not need their help.”
“No. But the fact that you have it without asking means other nations give careful thought to how they approach you,” Julietta countered. “By asking us to assume a part of their role as protector, Oriente could be acknowledging a rise in Marik’s international stature.”
Could be, but isn’t, Dayton thought. Then: “Us”?
He looked sharply at Lady Julietta, but her eyes were focused on the Spirit Cat leader and unreadable.
At least to him. The Clanner clearly saw something, for he nodded slowly, visibly considering Lady Julietta’s words.
“This world is our haven, whether Oriente presumes to take any credit for that or not,” the Spirit Cat said. “To extend the security we enjoy to protect other wo
rlds can only be honorable.”
Dayton kept his sigh of relief from escaping.
Definitely her mother’s daughter. As smooth a save as I’ve ever seen.
The only false note in Dayton’s mind was Lady Julietta’s smile when he nodded his thanks to her. A small thing, really, considering the coup she had just pulled off for Oriente, but one he would always remember.
Lady Julietta looked very much like a cat that had swallowed a canary.
36
Starlord-class JumpShip Soledad
Zenith Jump Point, Savannah System
Former Prefecture VII
3 May 3138
“Sir!” The sharp syllable cut through the darkness of Captain Morristein’s cabin.
A moment later someone on the bridge remembered emergency protocols and overrode his environmental controls, flooding his sleeping chamber with light.
By then Morristein had recognized the voice of his gamma-shift watch officer, now distorted by alarm.
“Go, Vincent,” he said, slipping the tethers on his sleep net. Anything worth waking him up for was something he was going to have to make the bridge to handle.
“Unidentified jump signatures!” his third officer all but shouted.
“Multiple?”
“Yes, sir,” Vincent confirmed. “Tally two—now three—Merchant-class JumpShips total. Close formation.”
The disruption wave of three K-F jumps in close proximity…
“Are we clear?” he demanded, then cursed himself for a fool. The fact that he was alive to ask the question meant the Soledad was outside the primary event radius.
“Affirmative.” Vincent’s voice was calmer with each answer. Passing on the responsibility had a way of steadying the nerves. “Range thirty-seven thousand kilometers.”
“Transponders?” Morristein asked, pulling on his soft neoleather duty boots. Their high-traction soles gave him an extra set of grippers for maneuvering in zero-g.
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