“What I didn’t know, what I didn’t understand until he’d ordered us off-planet just as the Wolves and Steiners were on the ground and committed—” Cameron-Witherspoon stopped himself. “No, that’s a lie. I didn’t understand until after I heard he was dead.”
Zeke glanced over at Byers, who had surely heard this recitation as many times as he had. She was watching Cameron-Witherspoon with unwavering attention. Satisfied he wasn’t the only one still moved in his gut by the tale, he looked back to his commander.
“I didn’t understand until later that he was using us as a lure, as part of something greater. He was doing all he could to save the people of the Marik-StewartCommonwealth. Not the Commonwealth, that was lost as soon as the Wolves and Lyrans decided to carve us up. He gave his life so the people of the Commonwealth had a chance.”
The silence stretched for a full minute before Captain Byers spoke up.
“Ian, what has this got to do with Oriente taking Atreus away from Regulus?”
“Oriente isn’t taking Atreus away from Regulus,” Cameron-Witherspoon said mildly. “Captain-General Jessica Marik is calling on the unified Free Worlds League to retake our capital.”
“Sir?” Zeke was startled into breaking his own rule of silence.
“This very broad campaign summary was part of a proposal submitted to the Protectorate Coalition Senate by Captain-General Marik.” Zeke noted Cameron-Witherspoon spoke the title without sarcasm and the name with neither Halas nor Hughes. “She posits a Free Worlds League uniting to take back Atreus, then working to build a new nation on the foundation of the old.”
“The logistics of such a cobbled-together campaign would be a nightmare,” Byers said. “Rebuilding the Free Worlds League government? A thousand times worse.”
“The political side I don’t pretend to know about,” Cameron-Witherspoon said. “The military side? If the member nations buy into the idea of a reunified Free Worlds League military, it can be done. The FWLM did it for generations.”
Zeke opened his mouth, then shut it again.
“Spit it out, Lieutenant.”
“Sir, I track the part where Captain-General Jessica Marik made this proposal to the Senate and the Senate passed the campaign summary along to you for assessment, but I don’t understand what this has to do with the Silver Hawks. You said yourself that Captain-General Anson Marik made you understand that our duty, our loyalty, is to the Silver Hawk Coalition. If we’re considering any campaigns, shouldn’t they be about retaking Shiloh? Or Callison and Marcus?”
“In the long term, yes. We will not rest until all the Silver Hawk worlds are free,” Cameron-Witherspoon said. “But in the shorter term—and as part of the long term—it comes back to serving the people of the Silver Hawk Coalition, not the government.
“And I think a case can be made that the people will be better served as citizens of a unified and potentially powerful League than of individual and isolated enclaves.”
“Okay.” Zeke drew the word out. It was clear to him his commander, and by extension the Protectorate Coalition Senate, had decided to support the plan. He just wasn’t sure they were right.
“I’m counting on your judgment for the details of the campaign, Lieutenant.” Cameron-Witherspoon confirmed his worst fears. “I’m sending you on ahead to liaise with the centralized command. If you have any doubts, let us know.
“Otherwise Captain Byers and third battalion will be joining you on Tongatapu.”
Third battalion; mostly heavy infantry and light armor. That left two BattleMech battalions and a bit more guarding the Protectorate Coalition. Not as bad as the full commitment Zeke had been dreading. But still…
“Sir, it’s not the campaign I’m worried about so much as the aftermath.” Zeke tried not to rush his words. “Once Atreus is secured, what prevents the captain-general from reneging on her promise? We don’t know her, and what we do know is not good. Duchess Jessica Marik has been known as the enemy of the Silver Hawks for my whole life. How can we trust her now?”
“That’s the beauty of it,” Cameron-Witherspoon answered. “We don’t have to.”
“Sir?”
“Captain-General Jessica Marik is putting together this campaign, though her husband probably has a lot more to do with the nuts and bolts than she does. It’s her plan, so going in the Oriente Protectorate has overall command. Simple, commonsense logistics. But—” Cameron-Witherspoon grinned. “Once she pulls it off—if she pulls it off—Oriente doesn’t have the muscle to face down the rest of the Free Worlds League.
“When the dust settles, who rules the Free Worlds League will be up to the people of the Free Worlds League.”
54
Fidelity, Loyalty
Former Marik-StewartCommonwealth
13 April 3139
Alethea Chowla turned up the collar of her tunic as she strode along the broad walk. The wind was little more than a breeze, and the temperature what nine out of ten people called “comfortably cool,” but she was the tenth person in that survey; she was cold and she hated the feel of blowing air tracing across her freshly shaved neck.
The late morning sunlight was watery but clear, bright enough to make the black and leafless branches of the slender trees lining the mall stand out in sharp contrast to the slate blue stone sheathing the public buildings. Autumn, she guessed, though she didn’t know enough about the local climate to be sure.
“I like the black,” said Nordhoff, keeping easy pace beside her. “Though I suppose it’s more a midnight blue. Much more businesslike than the clown orange.”
Alethea remained silent, in no mood to discuss her hair. Especially not with the bland weasel who had parlayed a coincidence of timing into command of the Westover Militia.
If she’d had her way the man would never come within ten jumps of Atreus; but she didn’t have her way. Westover built aerospace fighters and, despite the generally accepted story of limited production over the last six decades, had committed four wings of Stingrays and Rievers to Operation Homecoming. Her people were going to be doing the fighting on the ground, but to get to the ground they needed the aerospace under Nordhoff’s command to punch through the Regulan orbital umbrella.
Strategically, the oily turncoat clicking along the pavement beside her was as vital to the liberation of Atreus as she was. Alethea squinted against the headache that thought brought on.
“Why aren’t your people here?” she demanded.
“They are here,” Nordhoff answered easily. “Or more precisely, they are aboard their carriers holding station at the nadir jump point.”
“I mean your people, the Lyrans. They stopped two jumps short of one of the biggest JumpShip yards in the Free Worlds League.”
“I wouldn’t say one of the biggest,” Nordhoff contradicted.
The fact that he easily ignored her verbal jabs while quibbling on irrelevant points annoyed Alethea more than the verbal barbs he fired in return. Worse, she knew he knew that.
“While a JumpShip production facility, even a damaged one, might look like a prime objective, Loyalty is simply too far into League space to be held. They’d have a long, easily severed neck—much the same reason the WarShip yards at Ionus were left untouched.” Nordhoff sounded as though he were schooling a cadet on the obvious. “Lyran forces came as far rimward as they did in this region because Vedet had his own agenda. Competent advisers warned him Laureles presented unnecessary risk for negligible gain.”
The mall broadened into a smallish square in front of the Count’s Palace, home of Liberty’s Senate. Alethea hoped today was the last day the senators’ chamber served as temporary headquarters for the antispinward arm of Operation Homecoming. She was ready to get off this rock and into the action.
“Now, that is beautiful.”
Despite herself, Alethea followed Nordhoff’s gaze to the Tirana memorial rising from the center of the piazza. There was no denying the effect of clean, angular lines leading the eye upward, reminding the
observer of the heroic battle fought thousands of kilometers above.
“Any monument to men and women who died fighting for freedom is beautiful,” she said.
“True,” Nordhoff agreed. Then added: “But I’ve seen some god-awful ugly ones.”
Alethea chose not to answer.
Hunching her shoulders against the quickening wind, she mounted the palace steps, hurrying toward what she hoped was their last briefing.
Zenith Recharge Point, Aitutaki
Free Worlds League
OvKhan Petr Kalasa hung at his ease, untethered, but within easy reach of a half dozen handholds.
Around him the bridge of the Voidswimmer was nearly silent. All batteries were charged, all systems ready. His command would set the officers around him into furious action, cause the great ship that carried them to wrap space around itself and jump through a dimension men only pretended to understand. At his word the JumpShip would leap instantly to a place the sunlight now caressing its hull would not reach for another thirty years.
The thought filled him with a peace no ground dweller could understand.
“Were their academy not destroyed, we could raise an army here.” Rikkard’s voice came from relative above. Petr tilted his head to look directly at the Spirit Cat securely clipped to the bulkhead. “Lady Julietta tells me this world has sworn undying hostility toward the fiefs of Regulus.”
“Oh?”
“A spheroid tangle I did not follow. Apparently there was an unforgivable betrayal on some point of politics.” Rikkard smiled slightly. “In my search for tranquility, I find I must learn more and more of the convoluted social machinations of the Inner Sphere.”
“It is not really difficult.” Petr shrugged, then flexed his left leg to counteract the imparted spin. “Everyone—Clan or spheroid—does what they do because they believe it will gain them that which they want. Discover what they want, and why, and everything else becomes clear.”
“I believe you have just revealed a core belief of the Sea Fox.”
“We have never claimed it was a secret,” Petr acknowledged solemnly. “Just that it is honorable.”
“A truth I easily accept,” Rikkard answered.
“More easily than you accept the honor of our current position?”
Rikkard did not answer.
“This is a transaction, an investment in the future,” Petr said, reminding his friend of ground they had covered. “For the Clan Protectorate to flourish, the Free Worlds League must be strong. Though there is no tangible return in the short run, our Clans and the worlds we protect are best served through this action.”
“One can accept truth while still finding it strange,” Rikkard answered.
“Comm, I wish to record an announcement of who we are and why we are at Atreus,” Petr said, following his own thought. “You will load it for clear transmission on all major channels the moment we arrive. I don’t want to take fire from allies who don’t know we exist.”
55
Ministerial Residence
Zletovo, Lesnovo
Rim Commonality
19 April 3139
There would be no better time.
After today, there would be no time at all. For months she had maintained the illusion of economic analyst by rewording reports prepared by the rest of the staff, adding her own insights into the personalities of the people involved. But yesterday Frederick had asked her to personally assess a proposal from a cartel the very nature of which was obscure. Without access to the resources Father Pauli had established on Oriente, she had found the columns of numbers and screens of graphs opaque. Her cover would not survive five minutes’ conversation with the monster’s accountant.
At first glance, a disaster. But on deeper thought, an obvious prodding by Ayza. She had delayed too long. And today was perfect.
She moved briskly down the sunlit corridor; broad windows along the southern wall made the passage a virtual solarium. Several French doors opened on to the formal veranda and the garden beyond. After a quick glance to confirm both were vacant, she ignored the view.
So many things were different. Midafternoon, not night, and dressed in the informal business attire of a consultant, not the white ceremonial dress that had passed for so many months as a nightgown. Cendar and the creature Elis he’d taken to wife were in their chambers. It was a Wednesday tradition in the Cendar household, going back generations, she’d been told: conducting business in their private sitting room, meeting the functionaries who actually did the work of running their government without ceremony or servants.
If she believed in luck, she would have called the confluence of the Cendar family tradition and Frederick Marik forcing her hand a coincidence. With the wisdom of her faith she recognized that Obatala had ordained both, setting events in motion generations ago that would lead to this one fated afternoon.
She turned from the corridor into one equally broad with sage green walls and a floor of dark polished marble. Here there were alcoves, each a shrine to a piece of art; paintings and sculptures, no doubt considered priceless by someone, individually displayed. A museum without patrons or guards. This deep within the house, there was no security. This was Lesnovo, not Oriente, a peaceful world with no political dangers requiring armed defense.
She longed to duck into one of the alcoves, to scrub the dye from her hair, to peel the pink appliqués from her face, to shed the obscenely restrictive clothes. The Orisha’s work should be done purely, sky clad and without masks. But for the work to be done at all, she must do nothing that would draw attention to herself.
The demon daughter Elis and her husband—victim or willing accomplice no longer mattered—would be alone and unguarded and at their ease. A faceless minion, unscheduled but not unexpected, would enter. Subservient, obedient, apologizing for having the gall to breathe, she would wait her turn until others left if need be. If not, she would approach directly.
Cendar first; for though they were both soft consumers used to living off the efforts of others, by his very mass he would be the stronger of the two. Then Elis—no doubt screaming her horror—would fall beneath her blade.
From that point it would be a simple matter to lock the door. If anyone knocked she would tell them through the speaker that the prime minister and his wife did not wish to be disturbed. Until Frederick and Philip—the tool of the caplatas and her mate—asked permission to enter.
Then she would open the door. And usher them in to justice.
Perhaps while waiting for them, secure behind the locked door, she would shed her disguise and the ridiculous clothes. The image of the pasty old men spending their last moments unable to choose between staring at the horror of the slain husband and wife or the nakedness of her body amused her.
After their deaths, there was no escape. She knew of no tunnels beneath the estate grounds, had no safe houses planned on this alien world. She would run, of course. Live and kill for as long as she could. How long she lived did not matter. Her ebo was complete. Her place among the petro—whatever it would be—was set with the deaths of the evil one’s pawns.
Great would be the monster’s suffering.
She paused, setting her neoleather folio on an incidental table between alcoves. Reaching behind her to release its clasp, she pulled the necklace of her naming blade from beneath her shirt. Worn always next to her skin, but hidden from eyes that might recognize it, her weapon was warm and ready. With a practiced twist she aligned the crescents, locking them into a single lethal blade.
Still smiling at her image of the old men’s confusion, she clasped the knife flat against the folio and resumed her path.
Ten paces ahead, the door to the prime minister’s private apartment opened.
* * *
“Fascinating.”
Green watched Michael Cendar and Elis Marik—Elis Marik-Cendar—exchange thoughtful looks.
Such a short time together and they’re already beginning to function as a team.
The sitting room of the suite Cendar had set aside as an inner sanctum was modest, or would have been if one did not realize the few distinctive pieces of art decorating the walls were priceless originals. Though there were several armchairs, husband and wife had chosen to share a divan that had been turned so that its back was to the fireplace. The effect was to make the traditional conversation area into an informal work space, allowing them to sit in physical contact as they dealt with visitors.
“You have not laid out all of this for my mother.”
“That is correct,” Green acknowledged. “It is my understanding that Sir Thaddeus will explain all phases of his program to the captain-general at a later date. If he has not already.”
“Well, I for one am grateful to Riktofven.”
“Madam?”
“If he hadn’t squatted his Senatorial Alliance right in the middle of your patron’s plan, the Oriente Protectorate would be facing a much more savvy adversary than Anson Marik ever was.” Her smile did not quite take the edge from her words.
“Sir Thaddeus never intended an adversarial relationship with the Protectorate, milady,” Green assured her. Then honesty—and her one cocked eyebrow—compelled him to add: “Although he did believe healthy competition enabled a nation to refine its purpose.”
Cendar chuckled.
“Each of these communities, as he calls them, was based on mutual advantage and interlocking goals,” he said. “No coercion, no significant bribery, no assassinations, and no funding of revolutionaries. Very civilized—very Free Worlds—and very well thought out. And, if I’m reading between the lines the way you and Thaddeus Marik intended, you deserve a good deal of the credit for the hands-on engineering of these communities.”
To Ride the Chimera Page 30
