A pothole rocked the Ibex hard left and jerked his eyes back to the road.
“The Eagle’s Talons,” she said behind him. “Oriente Protectorate.”
Zeke didn’t bother with the curse.
Jade green eyes. Red-blond hair. Oriente Protectorate. MechWarrior. Miss “you-can-call-me-Nikol” was goddamn Lady Nikol Halas-Hughes Marik.
“Never heard of ’em,” he said.
Amur, Oriente
Oriente Protectorate
The wedding itself was an anticlimax.
Jessica adjusted her gown slightly, hoping the motion wasn’t noticed. The dress and cape were heavier after six hours, more restricting than they had seemed during the fittings. Of course, anything would have felt oppressive after the state ceremony and endless reception. The gown was tailored to appear both airy and regal, and whenever she caught a glimpse of her reflection, Jessica had to admit the designers had succeeded brilliantly. Not white, of course—with five children one did not pretend to be a virgin when entering a second marriage—the layers of fabric were a pearlescent off-white, the highlights of which subtly captured and blended the traditional colors of Houses Marik and Halas.
That last was important. While she declared herself Marik, Jessica never denied her Halas blood. Though she had to admit that honoring her father and his role in trying to hold the Free Worlds together in the face of the Master’s treachery had often been a difficult tightrope. The greatest Marik in recent decades had not been a Marik at all. And the worst villain in the history of the Free Worlds League—of the Inner Sphere—had.
To revere the Marik name, the Marik ideal—to aspire to Marik greatness when the current generation of Mariks were so unfit to rule, so ignorant of what it meant to be Marik—
Jessica brought herself up short. She knew her features were too well schooled to have allowed her inner turmoil to show. By the same token, there would be a tell, a sharpness of tone, an abruptness of gesture, that would be seen and remembered. She wanted nothing to spoil the perfection of this day.
Besides, she thought, glancing to her new husband, there are a few Mariks left worthy of the name.
Even Frederick, once he was no longer a potential spouse, had proven himself to be an asset. More a politician, more a mover and shaker than a leader, the younger brother had made himself an invaluable asset in managing the private sector so vital to Oriente’s economy.
Jessica nodded and smiled at the marquis Danbury of Nova Roma as the elder statesman raised his glass in her direction. His approval of the union had never been in doubt. The opportunist supported her merest whim in the hope of currying favored status.
His support, and the support of dozens of world leaders the Protectorate over, did not diminish the fact that Jessica had expected drama of some sort, if only in the popular press. The public relations manipulators had been—what was that odd verb they used? spinning—spinning for weeks. Preparing the public first for the announcement of the wedding and then for the ceremony itself a barely decent month later.
Despite all the artful preparation, all the groundwork and carefully positioned endorsements and inducements, they—Jessica—had braced for a public outcry. Her dear Philip was still beloved by the people. Even his abandonment of her was seen as the natural response of a gentle man who had been crushed to the point of breaking. He was not a Marik; it was acceptable for him to be broken by tragedy—just as it was inevitable that she would persevere. For her to so quickly replace him with another should have generated more…something.
* * *
“You seem to be a popular choice, Thaddeus,” Tiago Paragon chuckled, a rumble from deep in his chest.
Thaddeus looked up at the governor of Miaplacidus, now president of the Parliament, de facto ruler of the Covenant Worlds.
“I had not realized popularity was a factor.”
“You lie well, Thaddeus, but you and I both know the popular will of the people is essential to Duchess Jessica’s plans.”
Thaddeus considered continuing to play innocent, but realized there was little to gain. Paragon was not his friend, precisely, but the giant was closer to being one than any other political ally.
“I had some concern that this alliance would not sit well with the Covenant Worlds,” he admitted. “But it’s not the sort of thing about which one can consult.”
“Indeed.” Again the deep rumble of humor. “Though I would have liked the opportunity to ask her if her intentions toward our warden were honorable.”
Thaddeus smiled at the image.
“I have been on-planet less than a week and have been called on by every mover and shaker in the Oriente Protectorate.” Paragon traded his empty champagne flute for a full one from a passing tray. “Your nuptial vows have elevated the Covenant Worlds through several strata of political power.”
“You will not be surprised to know that was something I considered.”
“Any chance you could make that a law?” Paragon asked. “That the captain-general of the Free Worlds League must always wed the warden of the Covenant Worlds?”
Thaddeus felt his face freeze for half a heartbeat.
“There is no captain-general—at least not of a unified Free Worlds League.”
“There will be, Thaddeus.” Paragon leaned closer, his eyes laser bright despite the show he was making of tossing off flutes of champagne. “And you had the good sense to marry her.”
Thaddeus glanced toward where Jessica was holding court with several nobles, some of whom he recognized. Evidently feeling his gaze, she turned her head to look directly at him. Seeing all was well, and who was with him, she smiled and Thaddeus felt himself smiling back.
“That’s what I mean,” Paragon said as Jessica turned back to her own conversation.
“What?”
“You two actually like each other.” Paragon gestured with his empty glass. “This isn’t just politics.”
It occurred to Thaddeus that he had not seen Paragon actually drink the champagne. He glanced suspiciously at the topiary at the governor’s elbow.
“And that—the genuine respect, if not friendship—isn’t something that has passed unnoticed. I told you, politicos have come a-courting. You can tell a lot about the political waters by how the wooers woo.”
“Indeed?”
“Indeed.”
“And?”
“And what? I told you. You’re a popular choice. Nobody believes this is any sort of romance, but no one doubts you are allies—not just political powers formalizing an alliance. That makes a big difference.”
“The duchess’ people spent a lot of Eagles and effort on making sure the people realized this is a genuine romance,” Thaddeus pointed out.
“Well, I can’t answer for people, I’ve been speaking to politicians,” Paragon answered. “But I think that if you took the public’s pulse you’d find pretty much the same thing. Some buy the romance, I’m sure, but most see two friends uniting in the face of loss and hardship. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if her media wonks weren’t spending more time and money on that than the fairy-tale romance angle.”
“You could be right.”
“The big problem, of course, isn’t the Protectorate. She—you both—control most media and influence those you don’t. The Protectorate loves you.” Paragon gestured again, evidently indicating the wide world beyond the reception hall. “Your greatest challenge is going to be when you take this show on the road. Ex-paladin of the ex-Republic, commander in chief of an eight-world—soon to be twelve-world—nation. You lead a combined force in a war that knocks Andurien and Humphreys back into Canopus, then marry the most powerful duchess in the Free Worlds League, a woman nearly two decades your senior. Trying to sell you, the two of you, as the guiding light of a new free Free Worlds League is going to be an uphill battle. Without your media staff spinning the news feeds, you’re going to look like an opportunist. One who doesn’t mind using ’Mechs to get what he wants.
“No, my friend. The ma
rriage was the easy part.”
51
Mount Huffnung, New Hope
Protectorate Coalition
31 October 3138
Zeke escorted Nikol into the Silver Hawks headquarters, staying just ahead of her with his oddly deliberate gait. Her military training and sense of courtesy combined to make her want to match his stride, but there was a hitch to his rhythm that kept them constantly out of step.
Around them the upper mountain air was crisp, but not cold. It was summer and even at this altitude the night air did not reach the freezing temperatures Nikol associated with mountain retreats. The Silver Hawks’ main base appeared to be an abandoned ski resort—at least, she doubted the Alpine cottage in which she’d spent the night was authentic.
Why she had been required to spend the night before meeting the commander of the Silver Hawk Irregulars had not been explained. From what she knew of the outfit, it had not been a ploy to put her in her place by forcing her to cool her heels unnecessarily. More likely than not the colonel had been somewhere else—a somewhere else Zeke would no doubt die before divulging.
The anteroom to the command center was the lobby of what had clearly been an inn in happier days. Wood beams angling up into a steeply vaulted ceiling, a fireplace too large to be practical and a noncom standing behind a chest-high counter. Nikol deduced that the double doors toward which Zeke was leading her opened into what had once been the dining room.
Colonel Cameron-Witherspoon didn’t look like what Nikol had expected. He looked younger—rawer. More a front-line skirmisher than the thoughtful strategist she always pictured when she thought colonel.
Of course, according to her intel he’d been a force commander when Anson ordered him to get the Silver Hawks Irregulars off Stewart. She didn’t know who had dubbed him colonel; he may have just taken the rank on himself to save arguing with planetary militia brass. That thought appealed to her.
“Good of you to see me, Colonel.” In mufti, she didn’t salute. Should have remembered that at the DropPort.
“When a stranger comes bearing gifts, the least you can do is see who they are.” Cameron-Witherspoon’s voice sounded decades older than his face. “Never expected to see a Halas-Hughes Marik this far from Oriente.”
Nikol inclined her head in acknowledgment. The Halas-Hughes, unheard of in the Protectorate, was the norm throughout the worlds of the former Marik-StewartCommonwealth and former Republic, and she tried not to read too much significance into the fact that both nations were now former. That Cameron-Witherspoon added Marik was a courtesy.
“We try to go where we’re needed, Colonel,” she said aloud.
“Not where you’re wanted?”
Take this head-on.
“There was bad blood between my mother and Anson Marik. The lack of blood too, come to that.” Spiked that cannon. “But that was the past. This is the present, and we need to be looking to the future. History is important, it should not be forgotten, but the question we need to answer now is, where do we go from here?”
“Canned speech?”
“Canned? No. But one I’ve repeated on a half dozen worlds in the last six months,” Nikol answered. “The truth doesn’t change with repetition.”
She opened her shoulder bag and pulled out a noteputer. She waited four seconds as the DNA scanner confirmed her identity from her thumbprint and deactivated the security and handed the tablet to Cameron-Witherspoon.
“That’s our inventory,” she said.
“And you’re giving all this to the Silver Hawks?”
“If you need it. But it’ll make it damn hard on the next worlds down the line if they have to wait for us to resupply from Oriente before we get to them.”
Cameron-Witherspoon grunted and focused his attention on the screen.
She saw his shoulders straighten as the numbers registered. Anyone who saw that inventory had a pretty good idea how big a fleet she was hiding from the Lyrans. And the fact she was showing him that list told the Silver Hawks commander how much she was trusting him. So much of communication is in the presentation.
Giving Cameron-Witherspoon time to digest the information, Nikol glanced around the command center, careful not to look as though she were trying to assess the Silver Hawks’ assets. It was pretty standard issue. Central table, ring of communications consoles, situation map—any staff officer from any military in the Inner Sphere would have felt right at home. And the map, which could have been blanked for her visit, revealed…
“A force that isn’t supposed to be here, and you’re defending New Hope?” she asked Zeke.
“I wouldn’t know, ma’am.”
Nikol fought the urge to grin at him. The man was un-flappable. He hadn’t blinked when his colonel said her name either, which meant he’d known who she was since the DropPort.
So much for our security.
“Our presence here let half the Protectorate Coalition Militia go haring off after Warden Marik when the Covenant Worlds rushed to support your war with Andurien,” Cameron-Witherspoon answered her question. “If Coalition security did their job, Covenant is a bit bemused by their unexpected generosity.”
“The Protectorate Coalition sees the Covenant Worlds as good allies?” Nikol asked.
“More than allies,” Cameron-Witherspoon corrected. “Anyone who can read the signs can see it’s shaping up to be a union.”
“Do you like that?” Nikol asked; then: “Forgive my asking. But my people are pretty thoroughly cut off out here. A big part of my job is figuring out where it’s safe to surface. Knowing the political situation is a big part of that.”
“Formation’s a bit weak through the middle,” Cameron-Witherspoon said. “The state would be too easy to cut in half through the short axis. But it looks like a good fit.”
Nikol nodded and said nothing more, waiting as the colonel went through the noteputer screens, tabbing items his people needed.
“There’s a second half to your canned speech,” he said at last.
“Pardon?”
“Your reputation precedes you,” Cameron-Witherspoon said. “This generosity just gets your foot in the door. You’re laying groundwork for your mother taking over the Marik-StewartCommonwealth.”
Well, at least he didn’t hint at it.
“I am laying groundwork, as you call it,” she acknowledged. “But not for my mother or anyone else to take over.”
Cameron-Witherspoon grunted, returning his attention to the noteputer.
Nikol judged that her first impression of a front-line scrapper had been right. Cameron-Witherspoon wasn’t a man to waste words—or time—on someone else’s agenda. If she read the tac-sit right, this was going to be her one and only chance to reach him.
“The Free Worlds need to be reunited,” she said, careful not to rush as she jammed days of discussions into a single salvo. “The people deserve a League large enough and powerful enough to defend them against the predatory Houses that think an accident of blood gives them the right to conquer and destroy on a whim. These little nation-states—Covenant Worlds and Regulan Fiefs and, yes, Oriente Protectorate—can’t do it. We’re being eaten alive from the outside and tearing ourselves apart from the inside.”
That brought Cameron-Witherspoon’s eyes up from the inventory screen.
“I happen to believe my mother would make the best captain-general, but I know that’s just my opinion. The leader of the Free Worlds League must be chosen by the people of the Free Worlds League, through our Parliament, because the captain-general does not rule the people. She—or he—serves them.”
Nikol felt Zeke’s eyes on her profile. In fact, she was aware that no one in the Silver Hawks command center was even pretending to monitor their consoles. All eyes were on her. And she kept her eyes locked on Cameron-Witherspoon’s.
“I’m laying groundwork, but not for a takeover,” she repeated. “I’m laying groundwork for the day the people of the Free Worlds regain their vision and remember that who we ar
e is not about whether we live in the Oriente Protectorate or Tamarind-Abbey or the Regulan Fiefs or the Duchy of Andurien or the Rim Commonality or the Silver Hawk Coalition. We are the League. And the people of the League stick together. No matter what our differences. It’s what makes us who we are.”
Nikol stopped talking. The critical part of her mind, the mother-trained political part, told her she’d gone on too long, sounded too much like a stump speech. She squelched the doubt—and the urge to say more—and waited for Cameron-Witherspoon to respond. She could hear her breathing, she could hear her pulse and she was sure that if anyone dropped one she would hear a pin fall to the dining room carpet.
For a moment—surely not the days it felt like—Cameron-Witherspoon regarded her, his eyes narrowed and his lips pursed. Then he thrust the noteputer toward her.
“I think this will about cover it,” he said. “You can work out delivery details with Lieutenant Carleston.”
52
Manchu-ri, Oriente Protectorate
26 November 3138
“One minute, Your Grace.”
Thaddeus nodded to the young man directing traffic at the wing of the broad stage, aware his expression was grim. He still had the urge to look over his shoulder whenever anyone addressed him as Your Grace. The title, the marriage to Jessica, did not actually trouble him, but he was honest enough to admit he was not fully comfortable with it.
Warden, he liked the title Warden. He’d earned that one. Your Grace, and Count of Oriente; those he had married. He had yet to earn them. He shied at the mental image the idea of earning the right to be called Jessica’s husband conjured.
“Is everything all right, Your Grace?”
“Yes.” Then, seeing the stage manager flinch at his abrupt tone: “A painful memory, nothing more.”
“There are plenty of those to go around,” the stage manager agreed.
Thaddeus didn’t wonder. The battle of Mansu-ri—the series of battles of Mansu-ri—had earned the heretofore unremarkable world a place in legend shared with few others. Like Coventry and Kathil in wars past, Mansu-ri had earned the right to be called meat grinder. Months ago, this little man beside him directing traffic for this honor ceremony could have been crouched behind a ruined wall, training his carbine on approaching infantry. Now he waited in the wings of an opera house making sure a visiting noble didn’t screw up his entrance.
To Ride the Chimera Page 28
