“When does this go public?” she asked aloud.
“In about a week.” Torrian retrieved the data crystal from the reader and carefully sealed it in its case. “That timetable will give local nobility time to attend without giving any potential opposition time to organize.”
“I would think anyone opposed would take to the streets the moment they heard.”
“I was speaking of political opposition, Your Grace.”
“Of course.”
“Public opinion is always mercurial. We have several interventions in place should Lady Elis’ announcement prove not to be enough in and of itself.”
Jessica nodded, accepting her security chief’s assessment. Perversely, she found herself wishing Philip was seated next to her.
Perhaps have him give me away at the ceremony. That would be a scene for the evening news. She smiled at the image of disconcerted wedding guests trying to cope gracefully. But the chair beside her was empty and there was no one to share the moment. This is not going to be as easy as I’d thought it would be.
Stretching forward, she picked up the porcelain cup of herbal tea. She’d been right; it was cold.
49
Zanzibar, Tamarind
Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey
14 October 3138
“Damn!”
“Roland,” Fontaine said wearily. “You really must develop some alternative response to unexpected news.”
“Sorry, Your Grace,” Roland said, holding up the verigraph he had been reading. “But under the circumstances…”
“Simpson Desert?”
“No, Your Grace.”
The Lyrans had been more deeply entrenched on Simpson Desert than on Tamarind, obviously expecting Fontaine to take the stepping-stone world before attempting to liberate his capital. After two months of conflict, the world was still in conflict, but it was basic strategic arithmetic that if the Lyrans won Simpson Desert their next step would be an assault on Tamarind.
Without further explanation, Roland rose from his workstation and carried the verigraph to Fontaine’s broad wooden desk.
Fontaine took the document, trying to glean some clue to its content from Roland’s expression before reading it. Giving up on divination, he angled the page to catch the light from his study window.
He felt the blood rush from his face at the second line. “Damn.”
“Indeed.”
Young Christopher—not looking so young since his fall at Padaron—turned from his study of the garden. The gesture required he move his whole body, for his neck and right arm were encased in rigid casts, the later braced so it extended out from his shoulder.
Fontaine had seen the battle ROMs—both Christopher’s and his lancemates’—and had listened to expert testimony to the effect that the last corkscrew flight of his broken BattleMech represented some of the finest piloting anyone had ever seen. None of that had curbed his anger at Christopher for taking such a risk. Or with himself for letting the lad talk him into giving him the opportunity.
The only good that had come of the event, as far as he could see, was a new sobriety in Christopher’s attitude; perhaps even some evidence of the early onset of wisdom.
“What is it?” Christopher asked.
Fontaine raised the verigraph in his hand, then stopped midgesture.
The lad had been by his side for nearly a year. Stuck with him through the loss of Tamarind and been part of retaking it. A small and foolish part, perhaps, but the boy had endeared himself to the people of Tamarind-Abbey at every turn. None doubted his basic decency or his commitment to the Free Worlds League.
Andyet…
No matter how much Fontaine had come to regard Christopher as a son, there was no forgetting whose child he was; who had raised him. Jessica Halas-Hughes Marik had her hand in every aspect of the boy’s life. He was not just her flesh and blood; he was her creature, shaped by her will to carry out her plans.
Eleven months ago, in a room not far from this one, Christopher had refused to reveal those plans. Standing—rightly—on his honor and his duty to the Oriente Protectorate.
But there was another possibility, one Fontaine had not considered at the time. Perhaps the boy had refused to talk because he knew his mother’s plans—and knew those plans would turn Fontaine’s stomach.
Letting the boy read the verigraph himself would give him time to school his features, to formulate his response. And leave Fontaine forever wondering. The way to find the truth was to look him straight in the eye and hit him with it cold.
“Your mother is marrying Thaddeus Marik.”
“Thaddeus—”
Christopher’s mouth opened, then closed convulsively.
Fontaine felt the muscles of his back and shoulders relax as he saw the lad’s complete surprise writ large across his features.
“Um.” Christopher frowned, then seemed to gather himself. “Is my father all right?”
Fontaine blinked. He hadn’t even considered that aspect.
“Yes,” Roland answered. “Toward the end of the document it says he has relocated to the Rim Commonality with your sister Elis. Both he and she give their blessing to this union.”
“I see.”
“Sit down before you fall, boy,” Fontaine snapped. “Roland, get him some water. Or do you want something stronger?”
“No,” Christopher said, lowering himself to the window seat. “No, sir, I’m fine. I’ll want to get a message to my father.”
“Of course, of course.” Fontaine glared at the verigraph in his hand. “This is my damn fault. I told her what she needed to do to unify the Free Worlds League—to get my support—and she did it. The woman is playing this game at a level the rest of us can only imagine.”
Regulus City
Chebbin, Regulus
Regulan Fiefs
“I take back everything I have ever said in defense of Jessica Halas.”
Lester didn’t respond, lost in the sight of Emlia as he’d never seen her. Her chin was up, her eyes so wide their irises were ringed in white and her nostrils were flaring. She looked like nothing so much as an enraged charger; a valiant mare ready to rend enemies beneath her hooves. He’d seen her angry before, seen her outraged, seen her indignant. This was…different.
Frightening in a strangely attractive way.
“She has allied herself with the Clans,” he said. “Turned on her own people, invaded Andurien, killed thousands of innocents in her thirst for power and this—marrying Thaddeus Marik—is what fills you with rage?”
“Thaddeus Marik?”
“Mind you, he’s a Marik, with all the unstable delusions of grandeur that implies,” Lester said. “But as far as Mariks go, he’s one of their better efforts. Morals of a snake, of course. He started out as Republican scum but he can’t help where he was born. And unlike his late and unlamented cousin Anson, he’s earned all those medals pinned to his chest. She could have done a lot worse.”
“No.” Emlia’s voice was edged with finality. “She could not have done worse.”
“Given her choices—”
“Lester, sometimes you are an ass.”
He froze, his shoulders lifted midshrug, and stared blankly at his wife.
“Her husband, Lester.” Emlia bore down on the words. “She set aside her husband. She defiled her family. She ended her marriage!”
Emlia stopped herself. Fists clenched at her sides, chest heaving, she glared at Lester with a rage that bordered on madness.
“She ended her marriage,” she repeated in a calm tone that did not match her eyes. “Traded her husband for the Free Worlds League.
“Jessica Halas is beyond redemption.”
50
Speranza Nova DropPort
Speranza Nova, New Hope
Protectorate Coalition
30 October 3138
Lieutenant Zeke Carleston thought about getting out of the Ibex. After a moment his legs agreed with him and swung left.
The medi
cs had told him—everyone had told him—that the hesitation between order to move and move wasn’t noticeable. Or barely noticeable. He’d timed it himself, recording himself on a borrowed holocorder. One-half to two seconds and everything in between. That was the delay. With no rhyme or pattern to when it was what.
Getting over the doorsill was a bit of a trick, but he’d had months of practice and there was no visible hitch in his boots’ arc from the floorboards to the running board. Holding the door frame with both hands, he levered himself upright and eased one foot from the running board to the extra bar step that had been welded beneath it.
That had pissed him off the first time he’d seen it. The hand controls for the Ibex—those made sense, if only from a safety standpoint. He could accept those were necessary even if he didn’t like them. But the baby step? It singled him out; it announced to the world that the driver of this Ibex needed extra help just to do his duty. He’d stormed over to the motor pool—in the methodical, thoughtful way his fried brain required—just in time to see the last set of step rails being welded on the final Ibex. Every damn vehicle in the compound had baby steps. He’d wanted to cry.
Turning on his heel—fast for once—he’d stormed away before anyone caught him at it.
Zeke could see the VIP he was supposed to pick up sauntering in his direction from the service tunnel leading up from beneath the civilian cargo-hauler that had brought her to New Hope. At least he assumed it was her. At one hundred and fifty meters he couldn’t make out the identifiers he’d been given: female, red hair, green eyes.
His Ibex was sixth in a line of vehicles standing by at the requisite distance from the pad to carry any passengers or any off-duty ship’s crew into the city, and a lot of the taxis were recycled military, so his didn’t stand out. The first clue to tell his pickup which was her ride was Zeke standing by the left front fender of the Ibex. Like the taxis, a lot of the drivers were recycled militia from a half dozen worlds, or militia dependents. Mismatched military surplus was pretty much standard dress among them, and standing by the taxi was standard driver behavior. But his was the only khaki sporting service ribbons he’d earned: and Marik-StewartCommonwealth ribbons pinned to a duty kit with no rank insignia was the confirmation his passenger would be looking for.
Speaking sternly to his legs, Zeke moved deliberately to the front fender, passenger side, of the high-wheeled Ibex to wait for his ride to spot him.
His Ocelot had done this to him. Or he’d done it to himself trying to keep his light BattleMech on its feet while taking fire from two Lyran heavies. The last barrage of lasers before the autocannon toppled him had fried the control interface. Fighting for balance with the safety lockouts gone had created a feedback loop in his neurohelmet. His legs were fine—or had been once the bones had set—but his brain always had to take an extra second to figure out how to route commands past the burned-out patch in his motor-control center.
Extra half second to two seconds. Not much, but enough to ensure he’d never pilot a BattleMech again. Nothing the medicos could do about that.
Or about the ghost pains. There was nothing wrong with his body; his injuries had all healed beautifully, but every now and then the pain receptors in his brain fired. No reason, no trigger anyone could find. Just sudden shooting pains tracing nerve paths through his body. He had a prescription for heavy-duty pain meds for when it got bad, but the drunken lack of control they induced scared him worse than the pains. He’d taken two in the three months he’d been out of the hospital.
Before Helm he’d commanded BattleMechs, what amounted to two-thirds of a company in the deliberately skewed command structure of the Silver Hawk Irregulars. Now he commanded the new recruits, overseeing the DIs who did the real work of molding them into soldiers and making sure the neophyte Irregulars had a thorough understanding of the Silver Hawks’ unconventional battlefield tactics.
Or running errands for Colonel Cameron-Witherspoon. The CO liked having him around for some reason. Called him a talisman once, which made no sense. He figured he was a screwup who hadn’t been put out to pasture because they couldn’t spare any MechWarriors to wipe the new kids’ noses.
His passenger made her way down the line of taxis, smiling noncommittally at each driver and glancing at their chests for service ribbons. Someone behind her called out about taking first in line and not being so damned choosy, but she ignored the voice.
Red hair, though he would have said more strawberry blond, check; and she was a bit younger than he’d expected. Her green eyes swept blankly across his, then dropped to his chest.
She came to attention so fast Zeke thought he heard her spine pop. Fingertips to brow, hand straight as a blade, she snapped and held a formal salute.
Which was stupid, Zeke thought, since she was in mufti. And as he understood it, supposedly under cover. But there was no denying the green eyes shaded by her hand glowed with genuine respect.
With an effort he hoped didn’t show, Zeke snapped his heels together and came to full attention, returning the salute.
“I appreciate it, sister,” he said, dropping his arm. “But we’re both ex-military these days. And MSC ribbons don’t mean much now that the Commonwealth is gone.”
“A lot of good people died fighting to save Helm,” she answered, not matching his familiar tone. “And the Order of the Saber is the Order of the Saber no matter where it was issued.”
“They were handing ’em out like party favors in the last days.”
“I very much doubt that.” She ran her eye over his Ibex, not smiling as she spent an extra second on the canvas cargo pack that concealed the twin man-pack gauss rifles on their swivel mount. “You keep a clean machine. Would you give me a lift into the city?”
“Ten eagles,” Zeke quoted the standard rate. “And no war stories.”
She handed over the fare and Zeke held the rear passenger door open for her, trying not to envy the easy grace with which she swung into the vehicle.
As he made his way around the front of the Ibex, the driver of the taxi ahead of him blocked his way.
“There are rules, bud. Courtesies. First hack in line gets the fare.”
Zeke looked up at the bigger man. He looked in shape, but with a weightlifter’s build, not a fighter’s. Six months ago, before Helm, Zeke could have taken him down, though he’d probably have taken some damage in the process. Now…
“The fare chose me,” he said.
“Because you put on a show.” The driver waved an upturned palm toward the line of cars and trucks ahead of Zeke’s. “You should have directed her to the first taxi. We start competing, we get a price war and everybody loses. You just screw up the system playing dress-up like that. What if we all started buying medals to pull the riders?”
The big man met Zeke’s eyes and stopped moving midgesture.
“Oh. Damn. Sorry. That was out of line.” Shuffling his feet, the driver looked at the ground, then down the line of trucks and cars, then back at Zeke. “Look, we’ve all gone through stuff, and we’re all going through stuff. Some worse than others. But we gotta stick together. Next time, wave the fare to the first hack in line, okay? Give us all a fair shake.”
“Next time,” Zeke promised.
The big man sketched a wave that was almost a salute and headed back to his battered van. There was a small crowd of civilians wandering out from the DropShip. Zeke wondered how many of them were support troops for his passenger.
“You’re pretty high profile for a guy from an outfit that doesn’t exist,” his ride said as he punched the diesel to life. “No effort to hide the extra armor?”
“Half the working stiffs in the Protectorate Coalition refugeed out of some defeat,” Zeke answered. “Military surplus is the norm on most planets.”
He didn’t add that he never wore his service ribbons unless given a direct order.
“Protectorate Coalition,” his passenger said. “Doesn’t have quite the same ring as Silver Hawks Coalition, does
it?”
Zeke spared her a glance in the rearview. Jade green eyes met his with nothing but curiosity. Good poker face. His ribbons must have really shocked her to break that façade.
“This isn’t the Silver Hawks Coalition anymore, ma’am,” he said, eyes on the road. “The Hawks got divided up between the Lyrans and the Milton Combine and whatever the hell it is the knights and paladins of the ex-damn-Republic are doing on Callison and Marcus. The Protectorate Coalition is the closest thing to a Silver Hawks state that’s left.”
“And that’s good enough for you?”
Zeke spun the wheel, the surefooted Ibex turning like it was on rails, and headed up a gravel road that wound into the hills above the main route into the city.
“Is it sergeant, then?” his passenger asked when it became clear he wasn’t going to answer her last question.
“Lieutenant.”
“Ah. You carry yourself like a top kick.”
“Thanks.”
She chuckled, the sound more genuine than her give-nothing-away eyes.
“So, how fare the Silver Hawk Irregulars on New Hope?”
“I wouldn’t know, ma’am.”
“Fair enough.”
His passenger sounded like he’d given the right answer. Which was a little reassuring considering the fact that they both knew he was driving her toward the headquarters of an outfit he’d just denied knowing anything about.
“Do you have a name, Lieutenant?”
Zeke toyed with asserting he didn’t know for a moment, then answered.
“Ezekiel Carleston,” he said. “Generally just Zeke.”
“Good enough, Zeke. You can call me Nikol.”
“Like hell, ma’am.”
“Excuse me?”
“I know brass when I smell it, ma’am.”
“Guilty as charged,” she admitted. “I was brass up until about nine months ago. I was discharged.”
“Discharged from where?”
She hesitated. He caught it in the rearview mirror, the flicker of her eyes as she tried to decide what to answer. And he caught the moment she decided to tell him the truth.
To Ride the Chimera Page 27
