“But not how you’re thinking. Capital needs to move. I need to move. But the MPs had a field day with the disaster on Stewart. That one’s still too close. And with them sniping at my heels for heading off to Terra for the shrimp’s funeral . . . Well, suddenly announcing I’m moving the capital? Don’t think even I’ve got enough snake oil to wash off the shit-clods they’re gonna throw.”
“Then what, sir?”
“Gonna pull one of the oldest ploys in the book.”
Sudden comprehension flooded her face and she nodded once before turning her attention back to the oh-so-fascinating wall. “Your body double.”
“Bull’s-eye. In fact, I’ve already started. While I’m gone, most of the critical data and personnel for running the realm will be slowly rotated to my hunting estate on Atreus. Little by little, with the first already off-world.”
“Your body double’s good. But not that good.”
He smiled, pushing against the edge of the desk, enjoying the pleasurable snap of vertebrae aligning, while hyperaware of the edge of the table and how close he rode to splitting the palms of his hands open. The finest line. The finest line between pushing the limits and winning . . . and spilling blood. Especially my own.
“Don’t you know that I had to fire my personal physician for giving me the wrong inoculations for visiting Terra? I’ll have come down with the most terrible case of fever and flu.” He smiled wider at the wrinkle of disapproval that marred her pretty face. Changed his voice as though mimicking his press secretary: “Nothing too serious, of course. We’ve gotten a clean bill of health from Dr. Xavier. But he will need to rest and recuperate. As such, he’ll be in seclusion at his hunting lodges on the Azman Sea for the near future.”
“It won’t hold up forever. And if the MPs find out, they’ll be outraged.”
He shrugged aside her worries. “Of course it won’t. And they’ll always find something to be outraged about. Crybabies the lot of them. But it’ll last long enough. And when the Commonwealth invades”—he hit the desk sharply, the sound like a supersonic slug from a gauss rifle—”we’ll be prepared and I’ll have my vindication. Let the MPs cry all they want at that point. They’ll be standing on sand.”
“Very good, sir.”
Anson squinted at her. She sounded too smug. So she’d guessed one of his plans. Let’s see if you got this one, Daniella. He heaved up out of the chair and swept around the desk, a bull on the move. “Follow me.”
Anson stomped down one of the primary arterial hallways of the League Central Command and Coordination building, Daniella hurrying to keep up. As Anson made his way to the mammoth natural caverns abutting the complex, where a battalion’s worth of ’Mechs could be serviced and deployed, he continued. “When the Elsies come, can we stop them?”
“Isn’t that why you’ve set up the switch of the capital?”
He grimaced and yanked on a sideburn, glancing around to make sure no one was too close. Not to mention that staring the inevitable in the face for so long still managed to be bitter. “Careful where you talk of such things. And when they come, they’ll hammer us. And even without ol’ man Lester and Lady Halas to worry about, and even ignoring the thrice-damned Republic, we probably couldn’t hold.”
The silence behind him was deafening.
“So how do you fight an army with far superior numbers and resources?” Anson continued. He slammed open a door, angry at her too-long silence; glanced over his shoulder as he came to an elevator, after typing in the access code and applying his thumb for ID. “Well?”
“You expected a response? I didn’t realize we had the time to discuss the complexities of strategies surrounding the minimization of a superior force by inferior numbers.”
He stared daggers, annoyed, as ever, at her ability to so easily ignore his anger. “You build a regiment.”
She slowly met his eyes, lips thinning. “Another regiment is not likely to make a significant difference. Not when the disparity of forces is so great.”
You want to frown. Go ahead. Frown, Daniella. Would be good for you to let an emotion shown now and then. He grinned, as though to guide her to an emotion. Any emotion. “Of course not. If we could build ten regiments, that might be worthwhile. But why build a new one when we’ve got other regiments that need refitting and replacement, right?”
They entered the elevator and it swooped down as he waited for a response. Despite her reticence, humor grew in place of the usual irritation he felt at Daniella’s ability to get under his skin. You guessed the capital swap, but you’re missing this one. He mentally patted himself on the back.
With another swoon of unease in his belly from the speed of the descent, the elevator came to a halt and they exited into a giant, natural cavern. Halogen lights lit the grim interior like daylight, showing off a small city’s worth of steel girders, buildings and shacks stretching for hundreds of meters to either side of the door and nearly a thousand meters to the other end. The opening was shielded by a giant, semirigid cloth shell, similar to a rigid-shelled air-ship. Despite the overwhelming scale of the cavern, the metal giants inhabiting it still retained their awesome presence. While Anson had long ago lost most of his sense of awe at the behemoth metal BattleMechs, he still appreciated the raw power they represented.
The hustle and bustle of the cavern cleared the way for the thumping approach of an assault-class ’Mech, its metal feet pounding the rocky cavern floor with a gracefulness of movement that signaled an accomplished MechWarrior as its pilot.
At the sudden intake of breath he heard at his side, a supernova smile flashed onto his face. Gotcha!
Anson waited patiently as the BattleMaster approached to within a dozen meters—even his breathing quickening as fourteen meters of metal death cast its giant shadow over him—and powered down. The cockpit hatch popped open and a chain-link ladder fell to the ground. Bare legs emerged through the hatch first and then a fit young man in MechWarrior togs skimmed quickly down the length of the ladder and trotted the last few meters to Anson, snapping a regulation salute as he came to a halt.
Anson returned the salute. “Force Commander Cameran-Witherspoon.”
“Captain-General,” Cameran-Witherspoon responded.
“I gather you like the gift?”
Force Commander Cameran-Witherspoon glanced almost lovingly back over his shoulder at the green-and-brown-camouflaged ’Mech. A silver falcon, wings and talons outstretched, set against a large blue-black disk, featured prominently on the right leg. “Absolutely. Thank you, Captain-General.”
“You have a roster for me to review on my trip?”
“Aye, Captain-General.” The man nodded earnestly, fingers combing a rain of sweat from a tangle of unruly blond curls. “I’ll turn over all appropriate documentation within the hour.”
“Good. You’ll have my comments before I leave the system. This is going to take time, Force Commander. I don’t have a regiment of ’Mechs to toss in your direction, so it’ll be up to you to keep the ball rolling. I’d better see a unit when I return.”
The other man’s eyes showed appropriate fear before Force Commander Cameran-Witherspoon saluted and marched away.
“Why are you resurrecting the Silver Hawk Irregulars? “
The confusion in her voice affected him like tossing back a shot of whiskey, making him feel warm all the way down. “Why, indeed.”
“So many units were shattered during the Jihad— regiments with a history far more storied than the Silver Hawks. They’re a provincial regiment.” She almost managed to conceal her distaste.
“So the Silver Hawks Coalition worlds wanted a locally raised force to protect their boundaries. The Silver Hawks accounted for a number of victories, not just for those worlds but for the Free Worlds League as a whole.”
“So did a host of other regiments. What makes them unique?”
Anson turned to face Daniella, the gleam of satisfaction at completely stumping her fully apparent; her own features changed f
rom confusion back to their usual studied neutrality. “It’s exactly because of their origins.”
“I don’t understand. The provincial regiments were always more loyal to their own worlds than to the League as a whole. Why wouldn’t you want a more federal-oriented regiment? A Legionnaire regiment? They would be far more loyal to you.”
He slowly nodded his head. “They would be. And if I could raise ten regiments, that’s exactly what I’d do. But I can’t. One regiment is all I’ll get, and even then I pray the thrice-damned Elsies will give us the time to make sure they have more than modified IndustrialMechs to fight in.”
“Then why the Silver Hawks?”
I’m not going to give it to you on a platter, Daniella. He patted his stomach, wondering if he had time for a sandwich before his final meeting of the day. But I suppose I can give you one part. You’ll figure out the rest. “You’ve seen all the sims, same as I have. Which worlds are the Commonwealth likely to hit first? Eh, Daniella, which worlds?”
Despite her mask, Anson saw her realization the moment it crystallized. “Concord. Amity. Old Coalition worlds.”
“Bull’s-eye again. Provincial units fight more fanatically for their home worlds than for any loyalty to a federal cause. Nearly all those culled from other regiments to join the ranks of the Silver Hawks will have ties to the original Coalition Worlds.”
“Several Cameran-Witherspoons have commanded the Silver Hawks over the years.”
Anson once more patted himself on the back. “Bull’s-eye. Can’t believe I managed to dig him up— and he’s actually a good commander. I would’ve taken an ugly cripple.”
“They’ll never survive.”
Anson smiled again at the too-even tone, easily able to ignore her implied rebuke this time. “Of course not. But I’ve got one regiment I can build, and this way we might just cause the most bellyaching when the Elsies try and swallow those worlds.” Of course he hoped they might do a lot more than that, but if Daniella wasn’t up for figuring that part out, then he’d leave her swinging. His generals were expected to think on their feet . . . albeit under his. He laughed out loud, loving the strained look on Daniella’s features.
“Where does that leave me, sir?”
“You?”
“Yes, sir. Where do I stand in all of this? The capital . . . issue.” She looked around, in such an open area rightly avoiding any clear comment concerning moving the capital’s most critical functions. “And a new regiment for the border. Where do I stand in all of this?”
His smile grew, until the edges seemed to disappear into his muttonchops. They locked eyes one more time and he saw she knew exactly what he was about to say.
“Regardless of what I do on the border, they’ll be coming for Marik. Daniella, you’re the bull’s-eye.”
More important, she knew exactly what he didn’t say.
And you’d better not lose.
4
Geneva, Terra
Prefecture X
The Republic of the Sphere
25 May 3135
Nikol Marik stepped lightly to the entryway, her soft slippers on the marble floor making a mere whisk of sound largely masked by the hubbub ebbing into the long hallway. Eyes darting around the room, she unconsciously wetted her dry lips as she became aware of the lack of a herald to announce her entrance. Nikol immediately knew she preferred this more intimate setting to the grand affair of the Exarch’s Ball that had transpired just over two weeks ago.
That previous event was simply too bombastic, oft-times surreal. Overwhelming architecture and ornamentation; gaudy holographic displays jouncing her nerves; the orchestra making it difficult to think, much less talk; the unsubtle display of power The Republic attempted to project, as though desperate for the attendees to forget the weakness glowing underneath like yellowed bones through decaying flesh on a body too long in the dirt; the attendance of khans and House lords from nearly every major star empire spanning the thousand light-years of the Inner Sphere (an evening without a political agenda— ha!) . . . The mental and physical fatigue of that evening, especially trading barbed words with Caleb Davion, had exhausted her more than she cared to admit.
A smile nevertheless found its way to her face. But I got in more zings, Caleb. The smile slipped away at the memory of those haunted eyes and his anger focused on her. Nikol almost shivered. That man is creepy !
She breathed in, drawing the aromas of the room into her nostrils as though tasting the air, sensing for danger. Despite the elegant jade-green gown that fit her from ankle to wrist to throat like water woven into thread—causing some in the crowd to turn, eyes probing for secrets she kept hidden—her stance spoke volumes to those who knew what to look for: here is beauty and confidence.
At least that’s what you want them to believe, right, Nikol? A dangerous warrior. She almost giggled, and then her lips thinned into taut lines of determination as she tried to ignore the voice asking if she wasn’t spending too much trying to emulate Danai Liao-Centrella and that woman’s natural strength.
Her eyes continued to rove the room. I thought Mother would be here.
A mere twenty meters on a side, four human-scale baroque-style windows ( only three meters high) looked out on the greensward and a private section of Magnum Park, almost directly across from the three-story-tall ferroglass wall of the hall that had hosted the Exarch’s Ball. This hall seemed full with only several dozen people in attendance; she had noted that each ball attracted fewer and fewer people. The Clan khans were the first to stop coming; even if the events were only once a week, she couldn’t help but sympathize that their warrior society didn’t exactly prepare them for this type of . . . engagement. She did note that some of the youngblood Clansmen were still in attendance; the giant frame of Lars Magnusson rose above the crowd in his usual fine form.
Now, why did I think that? She glanced quickly away from the broad-shouldered warrior, then chuckled softly. I’m likely one of the few to attend of my own free will. Might as well enjoy, right?
Having spotted someone she might speak to without lapsing into mindless pleasantries, she flowed down the stairs with the natural grace of a gymnast.
Before she could reach her destination, however, two men crossed her path. Her breathing quickened, despite her resolve to show strength.
“Ah, I believe this would be Nikol, eh, Lester?” Duke Anson Marik said, his voice seeming too loud even for his generous size.
Anson’s companion glanced in her direction, hawk eyes looking past a hawk beak at something he spotted in the middle of a field. And Lester appeared very, very hungry. “Why, yes, Duke Marik. My lady Nikol,” he said with a slight tilt of his head.
“Lady?” Anson actually glanced around a moment, before sizing up Nikol as though inspecting a hunk of meat. “Oh. I see. Sorry about that, Lester. Misunderstood what you meant.” Despite his words, Anson’s eyes conveyed about as much sorrow as twin PPC blasts to the chest.
You don’t scare me, Anson. She managed to keep her skin clear of a blush, and once more ignored the little voice that warned her she needed to stop lying to herself. She had strength; knew she had strength. Had met with world leaders before, walked in the parades, shaken the hands. She might be fifth from the throne, but that didn’t absolve her of the duties of royalty. Her mother would always find a way to use a child of royal blood, whether she had five or fifty. But this was different. These were captains-general. These men stood above her, both literally and figuratively. More to the point, and despite words to the contrary, they were effectively her enemies.
She tipped her head down slightly, as though she were actually taller than them and looking down her nose at some insect. “I accept your apology, Duke Marik.” There was no quaver in my voice.
Duke Marik squinted as his hand, twice the size of her own, seized a clump of hair on his face that reminded her of nothing so much as the dingy tabby cat that occupied the lower floors of their summer palace.
“I’m sure he m
eant no offense, my lady,” Lester replied.
While she found as much hostility and as little sincerity in Lester’s words as Anson’s, she caught the ever-so-quick flick of the man’s eyes toward Duke Marik. A slight tremble of his lips seemed like an effort to hide a smile.
Duke Marik flushed, eyes blazing, the heat of his hatred almost scorching Nikol’s face, before he looked away and let out a belly laugh. “Good for you. Stick up for yourself. I admire that, my lady.”
“Lady Marik,” she said before she could stop herself. She managed to keep her poise, despite her shock at her own temerity. She had resolved to show strength, but these still were dangerous men. Rulers of realms that bordered her own with no love lost for her or her family. Enemies.
But Janos or Julietta would never have made such a comment. Observing the niceties and all. No, they’d find a more oblique way to remind one of their status, without giving offense. They are experts in the endless dance of tongues. Her tension eased slightly as she labeled this encounter with the nickname she and Christo had given to politics. Then again, fifth from the throne . . . Perhaps I can get away with what they cannot. I usually do . . . perhaps this is no different. She hoped so.
Duke Marik managed to not look at her directly as he answered, as though he saw someone in the distance. “Of course. Of course.”
She glanced at Lester to see a mild look of distaste, but it was smoothed away so quickly she wondered if she saw anything at all.
They dislike me. No, they hate me. But they’ve no love for each other. How can I use that? She glanced back at Anson, ready to try to dig through his thick layers of skin, only to be thoroughly startled by the next conversational tack.
“So, my lady, what do you think of the political situation here on Terra?” Lester asked politely.
After several heartbeats she realized she was gaping at being asked such a politically charged question, her mouth hanging open like that of a country bumpkin come to see the sights of Geneva. She snapped it shut with an audible click and could feel a blush heating her skin at the knowing look in Lester’s eyes and the broad smile pasted on Anson’s face.
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