Pandora's Gambit

by Randall N Bills

  “It’s all over the local news. They’re calling you ‘Hellion Hughes.’ A slap in Our Grace’s face and smear on her rightful use of the Marik name and you’re laughing? You’ll be kicked off-world. Perhaps even out of the Commonwealth.”

  He shrugged and then hissed as his muscles protested. “Damn it. Leave me alone now, eh, Charlie? So they’re going to kick me off the world. Been there, done that. Plenty of other worlds to conquer. Plenty of other mountains. My mother, Your Grace, gave me permission to go on this trip . . . so I’m gonna take it.”

  Despite all the strings attached.

  Amur, Oriente

  Oriente Protectorate

  Janos Marik carefully placed the page on the desk in front of him, making sure the edges aligned with the stack beneath, as Force Commander Casson entered the room.

  “Force Commander,” Janos said before the outer guard even finished shutting the heavy door.

  “Sire,” Casson responded with a sharp salute.

  Janos looked at the man gravely after returning the salute. He had never cared for Ivan Casson, and knew that the force commander was aware of his feelings. He didn’t know or care how the man felt about him. Despite the fact that you enjoy Mother’s patronage, I don’t like loose cannons, and you and your Eagle’s Talons are powder kegs.

  “Have you made a decision regarding my request, sire?” Casson said.

  Janos’ hand carefully straightened the pen on the desk until it sat perfectly parallel to the stack of papers and flicked away an imagined mote of dirt. Always impatient, Force Commander. It’s what cost you your raid on Wyatt. It’s why you’re still stuck here, even if Mother has given you a new rank. He let the silence lengthen until the other man betrayed his nervousness by running his hand over his salt-and-pepper flattop.

  “I have, Commander. You want me to approve funding for, what did you call it, ‘orbital insertion training’?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “I have to ask, Force Commander, why have you come to me with this request? It seems to me such a request should go directly through your own chain of command. Is that not so, Commander?” Janos settled more firmly into the high-backed chair in the well-appointed office, as though settling in for a long philosophical conversation to while away the evening hours.

  The other man once more ran his hand over his hair.

  Annoying, actually.

  “Yes, sire. But I have been directed to . . . develop . . . some new training protocols.”

  Janos raised an eyebrow.

  The other man’s eyes shifted away, as if he’d rather be anywhere but here.

  And so I wish you were as well, Commander.

  “Sire,” the other man finally responded, looking him full in the face, “this training has been ongoing under the direction of Her Grace. It was initiated under her signature and continues at her will.”

  “Even though it is outside the chain of command.”

  “Yes, sire.”

  Janos frowned, reached forward and lifted the paper he had been examining when the force commander arrived; a report detailing how Ambassador Rikkard from the Magistracy of Canopus had spent almost twice the usual length of time—in twice the usual number of visits—with Duke Ari Humphreys of the Duchy of Andurien in a month’s time. He certainly didn’t need to review the report again; he’d already decided that the ambassador likely was lobbying for a renewal of the contracts for a Pleasure Circus to cycle through Andurien space. He had jotted a note to himself in the margin to check when their own contracts expired. The Canopians were notorious for getting the upper hand in such negotiations, and Janos meant for the Protectorate to be on top for once. Something to show Mother when she returned. No, he was reviewing it now just to put Casson in his place.

  Mother. There is a chain of command for a reason, and it should be followed. Why will you not see that? Such loose cannons as Casson can only go off in yourhand. After reading the page several times and not remembering a word of it, he finally placed the paper back on the table. Took a moment to realign it on the stack.

  “I am only a regent in my mother’s absence. I’m well aware of my mother’s actions concerning your Eagles, and I’ve already countersigned the approval for the additional funding.”

  “Damn it,” the other man said hotly, eyes flashing. “Then why’d you run me through this?”

  “Force Commander,” Janos responded coolly.

  The other man flushed, then broke eye contact, pegged his eyes to the back wall and snapped a sharp salute. “I apologize, sire. I was out of order.”

  “That is all, Commander.”

  “Yes, sire.” Casson came to attention, about-faced sharply and left.

  That’s better. My mother gives you too much slack. But I’m willing to smooth off your rough edges.

  He firmly placed Casson into a mental stack of finished business and picked up the next report. He read the page several times—something about a request from a border world for a formal reception with his mother—but his mind was distracted and he couldn’t make sense of it.

  You think as little of me as I do of Casson, Mother. Even Father doubts. That painful realization came years ago, creating a wound that refused to scab over for a long time. Now it was simply a scar that he rubbed now and then, that ached when the weather of politics darkened and he discovered anew that his mother no longer believed him fit to rule. Their mother felt the same about Julietta, and that made him angry; how dare she think so little of his best friend?

  I’ve given you everything, Mother. I have been a perfect son. Someday, when you see that the wild sides of Christopher and Nikol cannot be tamed, you will find that the son who has stood by your side is the one right for the Protectorate.

  He sat and stared at the page for a long time.

  6

  Geneva, Terra

  Prefecture X

  The Republic of the Sphere

  2 June 3135

  Jessica Marik tried to suppress the smirk threatening to edge onto her lips, knowing that it masked her grudging admiration. You do know how to put on a show, don’t you? Even dressed in rags you would come off looking better than other rulers backed by a regiment of ’Mechs.

  She and Nikol stood mere steps inside the main hall of the Capellan Cultural Center in Geneva. A literal host of tradesmen worked like busy beavers, their efforts covering almost every inch of the large room’s walls. More like busy bees, and all answering to the queen. The joke fell flat against her admiration.

  “We welcome our honored guest to the Hall of Celestial Purity,” Chancellor Daoshen Liao intoned in the formal drone he always used. She looked around, and then slowly inclined her head, one ruler to another. Acoustics are magnificent. Hardly speaks above his normal insufferable tone and despite this ruckus, it’s like we’re sharing tea on a quiet morning.

  While it was hard to see what the current austere lines of the room would become along the walls, the back of the hall already sported most of its more . . . imperial design. The thronelike chair in which Daoshen sat ensconced, like a spider beckoning to its dinner, stretched a full meter higher than Daoshen’s head—an accomplishment, because at two meters- plus, the chancellor generally towered over anyone in his presence.

  You must enjoy that, Daoshen.

  She considered the rest of the gaudy setup as she began walking sedately down the newly laid black carpet strip; one of the only clean places at the moment. Above the chair hung the seal of the Capellan Confederation, etched in glossy green and black and a full two meters in diameter. Well-placed wall sconces angled light around the chair-throne, turning the burnished metal into a halo highlighting the chancellor. While the effect tended to turn Daoshen into a creature of shadows, Jessica knew the man’s features well: dusky complexion, dark hair worn loose around his shoulders—often falling over his face like a shield— and his eyes . . . eyes like polished jade.

  Stone eyes. Beautiful and beguiling but dead. Dead. Dead.

  “Chancell
or Liao.” She inclined her head once more upon coming to a stop a handful of steps from the chair-throne, confident Nikol followed in proper form.

  “We are most intrigued by your request for an audience, “ he responded.

  This close, Jessica couldn’t make out Daoshen’s eyes at all and was left looking elsewhere for nuances. Then again, even if I could see his eyes, I’m not sure I’d find what I need. Not just dead, but mad. Mad. Mad. Madder than old Max after the Fourth Succession War, and that’s saying something. Your great-grandfather, Daoshen. Must run in the family.

  “When I requested an audience, Chancellor, I expected something a little more . . . intimate.”

  “If intimate is what you desire . . .”

  “Intimate is what we desire, Chancellor.”

  From his shadows Daoshen seemed to contemplate her for several breaths before he casually raised his right hand.

  She just managed to keep a startled expression from sweeping her features (simultaneously trying not to frown at the small squeak of surprise from behind) as two guards stepped away from the deep shadows behind the chair-throne, both raising their wrists to their mouths and speaking softly. The abrupt halt to all activity in the room created a deafening silence, before the shuffling of feet scraping heavily dusted flooring announced that every worker was making his way out of the hall. In less than twenty seconds the industrious room was a sepulcher of floating dust and empty echoes of breathing as the guards walked out the door and closed it softly.

  “We appreciate intimacy.”

  Show-off. She inclined her head once more. “I thank you, Chancellor.” She caught herself looking around for a place to sit, before chiding herself. Not in his presence, Jessica. This is as intimate as it gets with a god . . . . She smiled sweetly.

  “I received a missive from you several months ago thanking the Protectorate for services rendered.”

  Silence.

  “In that missive you expressed a desire for our two realms to seek a mutually beneficial future arrangement. “

  Silence.

  You’re going to make me come right out and say it, aren’t you, Daoshen? Going to make me look like a supplicant. She inhaled a slow, deep breath, feeling the mauve dress pull tight against her breasts, before letting it out along with her anger; it would make no impression against his façade. For the good of the Protectorate. “I have come to ask whether such a mutually beneficial relationship is worth either of our efforts at this time.” Chew on that.

  Silence.

  Jessica refused to respond again without some verbal concession from Daoshen. Emasculated The Republic may be, but we are on Terra. I’m not about to stick my neck out and admit we’re on their doorstep discussing carving up their house. She gazed demurely at her folded hands, keeping her attention focused on waiting for a reply even as the rustling of heavy fabric behind her told her Nikol was losing her fight with patience. You’re coming along so well, yet you have so far to go.

  “Our last endeavor was mutually beneficial,” Daoshen finally responded.

  Are you capable of another tone, Daoshen? Or do you practice?

  “And I am confident we will find another mutually beneficial circumstance. Hopefully one that we will be as successful as the last.”

  “Of course, Chancellor. Is it possible that you have something in mind?”

  “We have heard wonderful things about the bazaars on one of your traditional worlds, set against a giant mountain range. There is beauty in such industriousness, would you not say?”

  Jessica’s mind raced. As though on cue, her long hours of studying The Republic/Protectorate/Confederation border brought up a crystal-clear mental image. The purple of the Oriente Protectorate in the anti-spinward/rimward region, the green of the Confederation spinward of the Protectorate and the brown of The Republic nestled at the top of both borders. Except those borders were fraying like a hem snagged on a thorny bush, the wearer blissfully unaware of what transpired. Yet in this case, The Republic is all too aware . . . and there’s nothing they can do about it.

  She poked and prodded at the mental image, hoping to quickly decipher Daoshen’s enigmatic message. I’m not the only one unwilling to stick his neck out, chair-throne or no chair-throne.

  The Confederation had invaded The Republic late last year and netted numerous worlds, including five worlds past the previous Confederation/Republic border to the jewel of Liao, the birth world of the Liao dynasty. Also last year, while Liao ate into Prefecture V, as part of a verbal agreement reached with the Confederation Jessica allowed her troops to lunge at the world of Elnath, just across the border into The Republic’s Prefecture VI. In reality, they moved anti-spinward and grabbed the world of Ohrensen, almost without a shot being fired. This move helped to keep Prefecture VI stymied, unsure of how to respond to the Liao incursion: this was the “mutually beneficial” circumstance.

  But this? This would be bigger. The chancellor already holds Liao. He’ll now be thinking bigger fish. Nanking and its production facilities? No . . . Tikonov. Production facilities to dwarf Nanking, and an ancientLiao stronghold. But that would be pushing it even for Daoshen, reaching clear into Prefecture IV. He’ll want continued pressure into Prefecture VI. Keep Prefecture troops on New Canton from launching a strike on Liao while his back is turned.

  She made minute, unnecessary adjustments to the smooth-as-water silk of her dress to buy more time to think, as if she were rearranging some unseen, out-of-place pleat.

  Then the light flashed on and she allowed a warm smile to light her face. Zion. That bazaar is on Zion. An old League world, and it would put us one jump from New Canton . . . more than enough pressure to keep them off Liao.

  She cleared her throat, the sound overly loud in the large hall. “I’ve heard similar things, Chancellor. I would very much like to show you such splendor.”

  “We appreciate the invitation. Before the end of the year, perhaps?”

  She sucked in a breath, the pungent incense hidden somewhere in the room prompting a light coughing fit she could not stifle. The end of the year! Ambitious, Chancellor, very ambitious.

  She smiled sweetly once more. “I’m so sorry, Chancellor. I think I may be coming down with something. I request your permission to depart.”

  Silence.

  “But before I go, I would be happy to accept your invitation to show you an ancient bazaar before the year is out.”

  “We are pleased. You may depart.”

  “Thank you, Chancellor,” she said, inclining her head before turning gracefully to retrace her steps, barely conscious of her daughter at her heels.

  There are many bazaars, Chancellor. You put far toomuch trust in your ability to intimidate. And far too much trust in the purity of my ambitions, Chancellor. Watch yourself.

  She swept from the room, her smile never wavering.

  Near Orbit, Irian

  Prefecture VII

  The blue ball slowly spun in the void, its four land-masses unrolling into view and then slowly spinning away again.

  “Does this place call to you?”

  Pulled from his reverie by words that so closely echoed his last meeting with Galaxy Commander Kev Rosse, Rikkard glanced away from the ferroglass porthole and the view of the world of Irian. Found the bald head of Janis Nova Cat in the darkened room by looking for the reflection. The harsh, actinic light of the G5III-class star in the system—uncut by any atmosphere—created harsh shadows, making her appear almost skeletal. Except for her eyes, which fought the sun for brightness. For glare. Must we always contend . . . ?

  “No, this place does not call.”

  “Then why are we still in orbit?”

  “Because I wish it.”

  “You wish it?”

  “And I still seek.”

  “Still!”

  He looked away from the eyes that tried to flay him and found the emptiness of space soothing. The world, in its own way, conveyed strength. Strength of purpose and dedication. The size of t
he universe dwarfed the planet, regardless of the planet’s size in human scale. And yet it never wavered from its course. Revolved on its axis; revolved around its sun; revolved with the entire galaxy around the core; revolved as the entire galaxy roamed the universe.

  Strength.

  “This world does call to you, quiaff? If it does, let us take it. Now. Why do we hide in orbit?”

  She does not take silence well. He continued his contemplation, easily maintaining equilibrium in the microgravity aboard the Starbinder Overlord-C-class DropShip as the craft continued its silent orbit of the planet; let the silence stretch further.

  “Clansmen never shy away from combat.”

  Her sarcasm slid off his skin like oil and water. It is true. “Yet Clansmen never waste. This world does not call to me. And so a fight would be a waste, quiaff?”

  “Neg,” she shot back. “We have been far too long without combat.”

  “And what would we call this combat, this Trial, if not one of possession for the world?”

  “A Trial of Grievance.”

  “Grievance?”

  “Aff. Grievance for the very fact they are spheroids.”

  He ran both hands across his face, carefully to not upset his balance, rubbing gently at tense muscles and too-tired skin. Late afternoon stubble pricked his flesh. He was not going to get into a semantic debate over what constituted a spheroid. Not after last time. Will you never learn? Will you always buck against my leadership, Janis? Are your Purifier beliefs so absolute they cannot accept a different kind of leadership?

  “There will be no combat this day.”

  “It is The Republic, quiaff? Kev Rosse remembers serving The Republic, and his cowardice has rubbed off on you.”

  Rikkard slowly lowered his hands, extending his right foot toward the deck plating where his magslip adhered, allowing him to easily attach the other foot before he turned to face her. “If you have a grievance with Galaxy Commander Rosse, you may bring it before him in a trial when next we meet,” he said, his voice low, but pitched with the authority earned in blood. “Until that time, I will not hear his name derided. If you need to bring a grievance before me this day, then this day we shall fight and I will defeat you again.”