Though one part of Nikol wished to rail at the silliness of turning her question into philosophical-sounding rhetoric, her mother’s other words seemed to rob her of the ability to think of any further questions beyond one: she honestly wants my opinions?
The hovershuttle pulled up in a blast of cold air and snow, and the security detail swept forward to verify the safety of the vehicle. Nikol surreptitiously stared at the fine lines of her mother’s face around the edges of her fur-lined hood, and a single thought drummed in her head, despite a thrum of growing excitement she tried to temper. . . .
Why?
Regulus City
Chebbin, Regulus
Regulan Fiefs
Lester Cameron-Jones finished pulling off the leather doublet and placed it haphazardly on top of the matching kilt on the overstuffed chair. Despite the room being lit only by candles, the saffron flowers woven into the reddish material were still garish. I suppose it’s a good thing these aren’t my chambers.
With only a slight strain, he pulled the purple undershirt off and then the russet pants; almost lost his balance as he pulled off his boots. Could they make this blasted outfit any more difficult to remove? That he agreed to wear the ceremonial clothing in an effort to placate conservative elements within his government only snarled his agitation more. In another moment he stood naked, his aging, trim figure a pale ghost in the candlelight. Mood lighting? More like a wake.
The idea brought him up short. Have to let that go. Can’t forget my duties, now, can I? He hated sarcasm in others and doubly so in himself.
As he stepped toward the bed, the plush emerald carpet (he could almost ignore how it clashed with the rest of the décor even more dramatically than the chairs) soothed his taut nerves as it brushed against his naked soles, pulling away the anger of another fruitless session in the Palace of Mirrors. Why will the Assembly not understand? Of course I’ve got to go.
He reached the edge of a bed almost three times the size of his own modest king-sized one and stopped as the coverlets rustled and shadows moved under the depths of a heavy canopy. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, shifting his mind to a place he traveled only once a month. Waited several long moments as he commanded his body to obey, then slipped between the sheets.
Despite the warm body that awaited him, the sheets seemed preternaturally cool to his skin, sending a shiver out to his tingling fingertips. Flesh touched flesh, the hiss of thousand-thread silk imported from Molokai the only sound beyond quickened breathing.
Lester got to work.
An hour later he lounged in the hated chair, stirring a cup of selaj tea, a cool blue robe sheathing his body in a comforting embrace. Emlia entered from her bathroom, clothed neck to foot in her own robe. As she made her way to the table recently occupied by his clothing and now containing a set of the finest Brahma River china, Lester carefully placed his cup on a saucer and poured a second cup. She gracefully sat down in the matching chair across from him, her blond, shoulder-length hair easily hiding the gray starting to come in, while her smile lit her beautiful face and her eyes shone with endless love and her gratitude for the monthly service rendered; nothing would be spoken on the subject, as usual.
God, how he loved his wife, despite the distasteful necessities.
“I assume the esteemed governor of Tiber is voicing his displeasure at your acceptance of The Republic’s invitation?” Her soft voice lilted with the edge of her deep intelligence that had won his heart so many years ago.
He chuckled. They both shared a smile at the idea of the concept “esteemed” being associated with David Eislan. Man’s more pig than human. “Sometimes I wish Duke Seren would have the balls to rein the pig in.”
“Such language, love.”
“I’m sorry. But how the duke can let the man run roughshod over him . . . just don’t understand it.”
“There’s a lot to not understand. But despite the man’s . . . abrasiveness, he’s managed to ally many to his opposition of you.”
“I know. I know.” Frustrated, he raised the cup to his lips too fast and managed to spill a small amount of tea on his bathrobe. “Blakist!”
“Dear!” Emlia’s voice rose in true outrage.
He set the cup down, grabbing a linen cloth to dab at his bathrobe as he glanced up apologetically. “Sorry, dear. Just . . . they simply don’t want to see.”
“Oh, I think you’re wrong there, dear. They see quite well. It’s what they see that differs from your view.”
“Huh?”
“What they see is one more step along a path, regardless of your intentions. They see a man attempting to solidify his dictatorship.”
He shook his head, anxious for his hands to be occupied, but he folded them in his lap instead. “This isn’t about me. This is about the Fiefs. If we’re to ever gain any respect, the rest of the Inner Sphere must recognize us. Must respect us. How many times have our trade overtures to the Confederation and Commonwealth been shot down in the last decade alone? It’s reached a point where our trade delegations practically prostrate themselves in an effort to gain an audience with the chancellor, just so that he can berate them and send them on their way. Berate me.” He clenched his fists, anger over the wording of the chancellor’s last correspondence—after sending the Fiefs’ trade delegation packing—still a fresh sting, like an hours-old gauntlet to the face.
A calming hand touched his forearm, its reassurance enhanced because the contact was through the robe, not directly on his skin. “Anger solves nothing, my dear.”
He breathed in the heady scents of candles and the soft caress of wet loam from the window he had cracked (both masking other, unpleasant aromas lingering from their earlier activities) and let his anger go. “You’re right, Emlia. I’ve got to find a way for them to see.”
“But not now.”
"Huh?"
“You don’t have time now. If you’re to make the paladin’s funeral you know you must leave tomorrow. “
A heavy sigh shook his frame. “I know.”
“I will see what I can do. The Gala of Lights is coming.” She withdrew her hand after another squeeze. “I’ll miss our dance, but I should be able to plant a few seeds here and there.”
“It won’t stave it off completely.”
“Of course not, dear. But a few well-placed words should build enough of a tangle to keep our esteemed governor from gaining any further ground while you’re gone. But, dear . . .” She paused, eyes narrowing. “You must return with something concrete. For the Fiefs.”
He nodded slowly. “I know, dear. I know.”
A companionable silence fell, the slight clink of china and sipping sounds soft counterpoints to the thickening patter of rain now washing through Regulus City. “Oh,” he said, remembering a passing conversation with his head of intelligence. “I want you to meet with Salazar.”
“Again?” she said, exasperation obvious in her voice and on her face. “The man is so tedious.”
He smiled kindly. “I know, dear, but it’s that very quality that makes him such a good intelligence director.”
She flicked her hand as she began to pour another cup and he smiled at her casual acceptance.
“Thank you, my dear.”
“And why am I meeting with our SAFE director?”
“There’s been some strange rumors out of Clipperton.”
“Bandits again? Do we really need to be worrying about bandits at a time like this?”
“Salazar feels it’s more than bandits this time. I trust his instincts, dear. Just want you to be kept informed . . . want Salazar to know that I take this situation seriously. He always works better when he feels I’m paying attention.”
She sighed with heroic martyrdom. “Of course, my dear.”
They shared a smile, and the comfort only decades of daily friendship brings settled like a shield of armor around him; he drank in the sight and scent of his wife, knowing he would be long, long months without her strength.
What would I do without you, my dear? Gods forbid I must ever find out.
3
League Central Command and Coordination
Mandoria, Marik
Marik-Stewart Commonwealth
11 March 3135
Laughter boomed in the Spartan room, concrete walls amplifying the sound.
“Ah, my lady Halas, could my esteem for you drop any lower?” Captain-General Anson Marik leaned back in the expensive chair—the only accoutrement out of the ordinary in the stark office—settling into the luxuriating sensation of electric fingers kneading his back. He held the stiff, water-marked paper up in the air, as though to verify its official status.
“Your son wishes to ski on my mountains,” he continued, as though addressing Jessica personally. His gruff voice held disbelief and condescension in equal measure, as his right hand grabbed a thick shank of his graying hair, then scratched at the muttonchops covering the sides of his face. “An official request to ski on Autumn Wind’s K20."
“We’re heading toward, dare I say, the most important meeting of leaders in this century and you not only allow your son to go pissing off on some damn fool trip, but you take the time to personally request permission for his entrance to my realm?”
He shook his head. “Thrice-damned mountain practically pierces the atmosphere and you wish your son to ski it, eh, my lady?” Another laugh boomed from his thick torso and he placed the paper back on the table as he reached for a pen. “You’ve caught me in a good mood, my lady. Big things afoot and if you want to send one of your misbegotten brats to his death, far be it from me to stop you. Hope he snaps his neck.”
With a flourish he signed the document, setting it into the Outbox for his secretary to handle.
The door opened and he glanced up as General Daniella Briggs entered, smartly snapping a salute. Anson glanced toward the clock on the wall, noting she’d arrived almost to the second for the appointment. As usual. He stood and returned the salute with equal dedication, then waved her to the waiting stool in the corner. “At ease. Please, Daniella, be seated.”
“I prefer to stand, sir,” she said, moving into a slightly more relaxed pose.
He expected nothing different from the fiery-haired woman who managed to be such a boon and a pain all in one short package. “As you will.” He sat back down and tapped the chair console to cut out the massager; too distracting. “I see you’ve read the report?” he said, waving casually toward the bright red manila folder under Daniella’s arm.
“Of course.”
“Your thoughts?”
“Very thorough. Very credible.”
He smiled. Straight to the point and blunt as ever, eh, Daniella? “Then what should we do about it?”
“Sir? What more can we do about it than what we’ve been doing for years? Particularly after Stewart? “
His big, beefy hand slapped the table. “I told you not to bring up that cluster.”
“And I told you, sir, that to ignore our failures is suicide. We’re not the Lyran Commonwealth. Hell, sir, we’re not even the Capellan Confederation.” Her words made clear the horror of that statement, a counterpoint to his clenched stomach muscles.
Lord, how we’ve fallen! We were the first Great House—and now we’ve got to fear even House Liao and their crazy chancellor!
“So, sir,” she continued, “ignoring our defeats is tantamount to putting a blade to our own throat. We erred badly on Stewart. We sent too few forces and we didn’t understand the situation enough to realize a Clan Sea Fox Aimag could be brought into the fray. We lost too many good men that day. I’ll not do it again.”
He was tempted to slap the table once more, but managed to keep his temper. Just. Lord! What an aggravating woman. But he had to concede her point, bitter as it was to swallow. He nodded, knowing that even with her eyes pegged to the back wall she knew exactly how many hairs were out of place on his mammoth sideburns. “Right as ever, Daniella.”
She simply nodded, which aggravated him further, but he directed his ire into useful energy. He opened a drawer with his thumbprint, slid out one of three folders identical to the one in Daniella’s hand and flipped it open on his desk.
“Yes, we’ve prepared for an invasion by the Lyran Commonwealth for decades. Since their last foray. But according to Snowlily, this is something altogether different. They’ve stepped up preparation. Actually begun troop movements.”
“It’s not definitive. Even Snowlily states as much. But we’ve verified some of the troop movements as best we can despite the communications blackout and it is very . . . suggestive.”
“Suggestive, Daniella? That’s the most you’re going to commit to this, isn’t it? Suggestive.”
“Sir. We’ve corroborated his information as much as we’re able to at this point. It’s all very, suggestive.”
He contemplated his top general, his fingers once more finding their way to his sideburns. Though his large frame made him almost her height when he was sitting and she was standing, her cool blue eyes still managed to burn holes into the concrete behind his head, even though she had to be seeing forehead and the jungle of his thick gray hair. He thrummed fingers thick as sausage links on the table, the hard, plain edge a constant reminder that life was filled with pain and unexpected edges that could and would cut. That thought matched the feeling in his gut. And despite its large girth (large muscles, not fat), his gut never failed to point him right.
“I understand, Daniella. But this is different. We’ve got our losses from Stewart in that failed attempt to grab the world last September. We’ve got the thrice-damned Lady Halas with her own odd troop movements. And of course, let’s never forget ol’ Lester, just waiting for me to slip up somewhere.”
“Duke Lester would never invade.”
“You’re right, he wouldn’t. Ol’ man’s too yella for that. But he could use his trade agreements with some of my enemies to force some members of Parliament to try and block some of my initiatives.”
“Parliament doesn’t have the teeth, sir. You’ve seen to that.”
He ignored the implied rebuke. “Yes, but I’ve still got a public to handle, and crying MPs wringing their hands on prime-time holovid doesn’t make my life any easier. Especially as I’m away for the next few months on this thrice-damned trip to Terra.”
She actually managed to look him in the eye briefly, before returning her eyes to something that just must be fascinating behind him, to hold her attention so. “Sir, I thought you said this trip is vital.”
“It is, damn it. It is. But it doesn’t mean I’ve got to like what’s going to happen while I’m gone.”
“How can much happen while everyone is in attendance on Terra, sir? It would seem you’ve got some protection on that front.”
“You’ve forgotten your history, Daniella. Fourth Succession War ring a bell? That’s exactly what ol’ crackpot Maxy thought. Even ol’ rod-up-his-ass Takashi got snowed by that mean son of a bitch. Sat there, right on Terra, while everyone munched on cake, and smiled, knowing a hammer blow was cutting House Liao in half. Damn, but Hanse was a warrior to admire. Crying shame he died drooling at his desk. A warrior like that should go out guns blazing.”
“Yes, sir.”
He tried to lock eyes with her, but she wouldn’t budge her gaze from the wall. I don’t think you agree with me, General. You’re competent to the hilt, Daniella, but our little conversations always shine the ol’ noggin light on why I’ve never promoted you to marshal. Need someone just a hair more under my heel as my top gunslinger.
“As I was saying,” he began, flicking on the massage chair despite its distraction, grateful as the kneading metal balls worked away his frustration. “Just because we’re all away doesn’t mean the mice won’t come out and play. And Lester’s the type to trust his subordinates all too much. Especially that wife of his.”
“What are you suggesting, sir?”
“I’m suggesting I’m surrounded by enemies. I’m suggesting tha
t the Lyran Commonwealth is going to invade. And it’s not simply a case of them coming, because of course the thrice-damned Elsies are going to invade us again some time. My gut says sometime is a lot closer than we’d like to think. If they’ve got the balls to try and invade while I’m gone . . . I could almost see them trying to pull it off. And when they come, the hammer will be as big and heavy as their money can make it.”
She cocked her head slightly, her “I’m deep in thought” mannerism a further annoyance sucked away by his chair. His eyes began roving the walls, the digital clock seemingly slowing down as he waited for some response from his general in command of the world of Marik.
Birth world of his dynasty. And yet . . . a world right on the edge of Republic space, whether The Republic was shattered or not. A world all too close to other enemies: Lady Halas and her thrice-damned Protectorate . . . ol’ man Lester . . . the Lyrans. When the Free Worlds League shattered during the Jihad, his Marik-Stewart Commonwealth might have lucked out in nabbing the world of Marik and in getting the fortress that housed the League Central Command and Coordination, but his gut told him not even a facility designed to survive orbital bombardment would protect him from what was coming.
“Perhaps we should move the capital, sir.”
“What!” Her words hammered at his concentration, a mallet to a gong. How in the hell . . .
“I said, perhaps we should contemplate moving the capital.”
He breathed heavily through his nose, the stale scents of the room cut with his own sweat and a light dusting of some flowery smell—he assumed Daniella’s perfume. Though that didn’t seem likely. “Very good, General. As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” Point to you for catching that, Daniella.
Anson smiled as he managed to force her eyes off the wall. “Sir?”
He relished the slight confusion. Not often I catch you flat-footed, eh, General. Throw out some hare-brained idea and you actually toss the dart almost into the center. It’s why I keep you around, Daniella. When you stop hitting the bull’s-eye, though, that’s when I’ll need to think about what to do with you.
Pandora's Gambit Page 4