Pandora's Gambit

by Randall N Bills

  Her eyes liquid, she thankfully mastered her tears before they were shed. She briskly leaned back, tapping the paper. “What is it?”

  He momentarily closed his eyes in a prayer of thanks for his beloved wife. When he opened them, he said simply, “A proposal from Anson.”

  Her eyes immediately sharpened. “Anson.” She tilted her head and he let her mind rove. “He’s worried about Jessica.”

  “Bingo.”

  “Don’t tell me he’s suggesting an actual alliance.”

  He chuckled. “No, dear. Nothing so drastic. Anson knows I’d never trust him to keep an alliance.”

  “Then what?”

  “A mutual reduction of forces along our borders. He points out that Jessica has begun to expand her—” He broke off, glancing at the text. “What did he call it? Ah, her adventurism.”

  “We’ve already begun our own maneuvers along that border to see what she’s up to.”

  “Of course. But if we reach an understanding with Anson, we might take our movements to another level.”

  “Do we trust him?”

  "Not as far as I could throw a BattleMech. But I trust his loathing of Jessica as much as I can trust anything.”

  “And of course there are the Lyrans.”

  “Exactly.” He took another sip of tea, the cooling, mint-flavored liquid tingling on his lips and tongue. “I’m sure his reports are more complete than ours. And even I’m worried. If the Lyrans attack and Anson collapses . . . they’ll be sitting on our border.”

  She nodded. “What else? There has to be more than just this for you to suggest our . . . compromise.”

  Despite her wordplay, which came as close as any statement in the last decade to discussing the forbidden subject, he smiled. Regardless of the years I’ve spent benefiting from your intelligence, I respect it more each day. “I’ve got another report from Salazar.”

  She sniffed. “Not Salazar again.”

  He held up both hands. “I know, love. I know. But the bandits . . . there are, well. The evidence is pretty lean at this point, but still.”

  She rapped her knuckles on the table, narrowing her eyes. “Out with it, love.”

  He took a deep breath. “Blakists.”

  Her face paled and her lips thinned until their bloodless look made him afraid she might faint. “A cell?”

  “That’s what Salazar is coming to believe.”

  “It’s been so many years.”

  “Exactly his argument. Almost two decades since the last eradication. Enough time for a new one to have formed . . . or for the children of any survivors to be old enough to want revenge.”

  “Then this deal with Anson?”

  “Exactly. We have to take this seriously. We maintain bare-bones troop maneuvers along the border in order to conceal our redeployment from Jessica, Anson and everyone else. And then we determine if the eradication action is required.”

  She took a deep, deep breath, let it out slowly as her eyes unfocused, before she abruptly stood. “We’ll make a decision in two days’ time.”

  “My thoughts exactly. But I wanted your mind working on this as well, as always.”

  “Excellent. The horses?”

  He smiled, despite the gravity of the situation; he found Emlia’s ability to compartmentalize and prioritize a godsend. “Of course.”

  “You never did comment on my hair.”

  “It’s beautiful as ever.” As are you.

  She smiled and departed, leaving him with an overpowering urge to dive back into the report. No. Let it simmer on the back burner. He stood up, leaving the dangerous news on the table for his manservant to put away properly under lock and key, spirits lifting as he looked forward to the rest of his day.

  15

  Royal Park

  Near Zletovo, Lesnovo

  Rim Commonality

  31 July 3136

  Elis walked slowly, trying to ignore the heat of the late afternoon, which was exacerbated by the weight of the excessively ruffled dress Gen had stuffed her into that morning. The way the heavy silk folds dragged at her legs was nearly intolerable. Her only consolation was that Gen’s dress used kilometers of lace, while Elis’ dripped with mere meters of the stuff.

  Elis further distracted herself from the heat by contemplating how much the enveloping lace of her cousin’s dress actually revealed. The way the lace accentuated Gen’s breasts, she might as well have had a neckline down to here. She refrained from commenting, however, because the look on Gen’s face made it clear she was determined to uphold the façade of propriety. If you’re trying to snag a young buck at theroyal park, I don’t care. But don’t pretend—especially with me!—that that’s not what you’re doing.

  They came to an intersection where eight paths merged into a cobblestone-paved hub, its perimeter defined by nearly two dozen benches. The cobblestones were laid in a pattern that suggested the motion of waves lapping toward the center of the plaza, where a large, beautiful fountain sprayed a fine mist into the air. Dozens of spouts shot graceful arcs of water in every direction from a number of marvelously mythical-looking horses. The beauty of the sculpture was somewhat diminished, in Elis’ opinion, by the fact that water spouted from some areas that made even her slightly uncomfortable. It didn’t make her blush, but she wouldn’t be offering her opinion on the fountain any time soon, not even with Gen.

  Julietta would probably pass out. She laughed at the thought and continued strolling toward the fountain, hoping to catch the cool mist on her face. But she’d find a way to pass out beautifully. She frowned at the thought of her older sister.

  “Elis!”

  Gen’s scandalized hiss pulled her up short and she turned toward her cousin. “What?”

  The other woman’s face was even paler than usual, which was hard to believe. “What are you doing?” she whispered furiously.

  Duh. “I’m going to cool off.” A fresh look of horror seemed to drain Gen’s face of all color. Well, seems you can get paler. Gonna beat out a corpse here pretty soon, Gen.

  “You can’t!”

  “Why?”

  “Because . . . because.” Gen gulped several times and her exaggerated look of growing desperation made it appear as though she was unable to articulate what even a five-year-old should know. “It’s just not done. That fountain was designed by Merridee De-Juc. It’s obscene.”

  Elis tried to not roll her eyes, but found them moving of their own accord. “Okay. I can see that. But so what? I’m hot.”

  “A lady doesn’t go near an object of such tastelessness. “

  I’m no lady, Gen. Jessica, my mother—she’s a lady. Julietta—oh yes, a lady to her toenails. Even pesky Nikol is probably more of a lady than me. I just know how to fake it. But she couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud; she could barely admit it to herself. So she tried to poke a hole in the obvious silliness of the custom.

  “Then why even walk here?” She glanced around and found a literal bevy of royals of various stripe talking in small groups around the outside of the large hub. “It’s not like we can’t all see the statues perfectly from right here.”

  Now it was Gen’s turn to roll her eyes. “Because Merridee De-Juc is considered one of the finest Lesnovo artists to have lived in the last half millennium. Her work is sought after across the Commonality and even in other realms. I heard one collector from The Republic traveled all the way to Lesnovo to purchase and personally oversee the shipping of one of her sculpts back in ’31. It’s just . . . some of her work . . . a lady just doesn’t stand too close to it.”

  Elis decided to keep her mouth shut rather than risk saying things she’d regret. “Fine,” she said. “Then I’m not going to stand here torturing myself by being so close to water I can’t benefit from. You said the arboretum was in that direction.” She pointed down a path to her right. “Let’s go there.”

  “But . . . ,” Gen began, trying to catch up.

  Unwilling to give Gen the satisfaction of gettin
g the last word, Elis set a rapid pace, forcing Gen, her skirt allowing even less freedom of movement than Elis’, to skip now and then to keep up. Finally reaching the arboretum, Elis looked over her shoulder and saw that Gen was still a dozen long steps behind her but closing; glistening ( not sweating, of course!) and out of breath. As she drew near, she pulled out one of her pristine lacy handkerchiefs to dab at her forehead, all the while visibly straining against bending over to catch her breath.

  Elis grinned at her cousin’s discomfort and forged ahead, still refusing to stop and listen to what Gen wanted to say. She passed through three sets of doors, an arrangement that kept the birds living in the arboretum from escaping, and nearly turned right back around; the temperature inside made her entire body instantly prickle with sweat. Only the I-tried-to-tell-you look on Gen’s face as she came through the last set of doors kept Elis in the sweltering heat. I will not retreat.

  She began to move slowly along the paths, her hands clasped sedately behind her back (in an effort to keep from wiping away the sweat). She examined each plant as though she really cared about this florae and that accompanying avian faunae; like she didn’t feel the heat and had all the time in the world. She ignored the heavy wall of silence Gen threw her direction, especially after it became painfully clear that the place was seldom used by the public, its pathways overgrown and signs mildewed into inscrutability. Who’d want to come into this heat? She stiffened her resolve. No retreat.

  Elis stepped carefully around a large plant with flaming crimson leaves spattered with azure-colored spots, interspersed with razorlike, bloodred fronds that drooped like they were wilting in the heat. The plant was so overgrown that it covered almost the entire path and forced her to edge carefully through a rather slim opening between a slender birch and the nasty-looking fronds. She knew that Genevieve would avoid the fronds because they looked gross, but personally, she thought they looked dangerous. Once she made it past the plant, she looked up; then came to a sudden stop, her hands flying involuntarily to her mouth.

  Gen, watching where she was walking rather than where she was going, bumped into Elis, causing them both to stumble into the poisonous-looking plant. Both women yelped as their skin burned where the plant touched it; Elis leapt away from the plant and practically buried herself in a bush on the opposite side of the path. She was suddenly glad for the long sleeves of the dress as raw red welts immediately appeared on her hand.

  “What in the world were you thinking, Elis?” Gen cried, truly outraged. “Look at this!” She held her hand in front of Elis’ face, as if the welts weren’t visible at half a dozen meters. “Look at my skin. I’ll have to wear gloves for weeks. In midsummer! And . . . and . . . it hurts!”

  Elis carefully inspected her welts, noticing that the pain was already being replaced by a sensation of numbness. Then she noticed a clear, sticky fluid slicking the sleeve of the dress. Without further thought she gathered the lightweight material of the sleeve in her right hand, pulled it tight and used her teeth to rip a hole.

  “What are you doing!” Gen protested. The end of the question turned into a shriek that sent a few birds into flight as Elis tore the entire sleeve off her dress. Now she was thankful that the sleeve had been lace rather than a more substantial material, because she might not have been able to get rid of it before the sap soaked through.

  “Elis Marik, that is my dress. From last year, but my dress. How dare you destroy it when—”

  Elis cut her off by tackling her arm, which sent Gen into a paroxysm of shrieking and the flailing of her free arm. Elis ignored Gen’s laughable efforts to stop her and managed to tear her sleeve off without touching the sap. She threw it away, and both women stood panting in the overbearing heat, their left arms bare from wrist to shoulder.

  Gen found her breath first. “Gods above, Elis! What has come over you! This is my new dress. For this season! Do you have any idea how much money you just destroyed? And if you think I’m furious, gods above, my mother . . . Have you become fevered with the heat? If you were not my cousin I’d have you horsewhipped for this, you—”

  “My lady.” A gentle male voice interrupted Gen’s tirade.

  While Elis had momentarily forgotten about the man, she at least had a measure of ability to cover her own surprise, having seen him sitting and reading on a bench two dozen steps farther down the path. Gen, on the other hand, had no such preparation, and so when she turned toward the interloper, her anger died into a whimper. Elis had to admire her pluck; despite the situation, Gen recovered her upbringing sufficiently to sweep a perfect curtsey.

  “My lord Cendar.”

  “Please, my lady,” the man replied, a smile creasing his wrinkled face. “I prefer Prime Minister.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  “My lady?” he prompted, smiling even wider, his blue eyes twinkling mischievously.

  “Um . . . yes, Prime Minister.”

  “Thank you. Now, I wonder if you would mind telling me why you’re here? I suspect you’ve gone and spoiled my secret hideaway.”

  “My lord?” Gen responded, trying to surreptitiously straighten her hair and dab at her face.

  “No one visits the arboretum during the summer months. It’s way too hot and run-down. I’ve been using it to get away from things for an hour or so each day. But now”—he sounded very regretful—”I fear I’ve lost that option. The minute my security detail finds out that someone else was here, after all the effort I put into convincing them they could safely leave me here alone . . . well.”

  “I’m so sorry, my lo . . . um, Prime Minister.”

  As Gen continued apologizing, Elis marveled. The devil’s own luck, Mother. I come here thinking maybe, just maybe I might run into him in a public setting and can perhaps set up a meeting—and here he is, by himself, perfectly situated to hear your message. The devil’s own luck . . . and my luck as well.”

  “We will leave immediately, Prime Minister. And again, I do apologize for my cousin’s behavior. It was simply deplorable.”

  The older man smiled again. “Actually, my lady, unless your cousin has come across the blood fern before, I would say she is very quick indeed on her feet.”

  Gen glanced quickly at Elis and then back. “I don’t understand.”

  “The sap of the blood fern causes those welts and the numbness you’re feeling. It is a carnivorous plant. The pain of the initial brush of the fronds shocks the victim into immobility long enough for the numbness to set in, which then puts the animal into a state of near-catatonia. Then the plant lowers its feeders and slowly—” He abruptly stopped speaking, clearing his throat at the sick look on Gen’s face.

  “My lady, I do apologize. I did not mean to be so graphic. But the sap of the blood fern was practically covering the sleeve of your dress. Considering that the lace appears to be the finest, thinnest of Goth Khakar silk—well, if your cousin had been slower to remove your sleeve, the sap would have seared most of your arm and I’d be rushing you both to the hospital right now, as that much blood fern sap would be dangerous even to a human.”

  Gen turned to Elis and opened her mouth to apologize and to thank her cousin, clasping her hands in front of her waist—which is when she remembered that her left arm was naked. With a squeak of embarrassment, and trying to cover herself with her right arm, she turned and ran back the way they’d come, barely missing the offending fern.

  “My lady,” the prime minister called after her, concern etching his elderly features.

  “Don’t worry about Genevieve, Prime Minister.” Elis spoke for the first time. “She’ll be fine. She’s just indisposed at the moment.”

  “Is there anything I can do for her?” He glanced at the welts on Elis’ hand. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Here we go, Mother. And I’m going to take to heart all your lessons on playing the angles. “Yes, sir, there is.”

  Firehill Plains

  Mandoria, Marik

  Marik-Stewart Commonw
ealth

  General Daniella Briggs leaned heavily on the table in the field-command tent, eyes filled with the grit of too many days on the dusty plains in high summer. Too many nights without sleep.

  “General, Colonel James admits defeat.”

  She couldn’t move; it felt like the burden of her command was pressing on her shoulders with all the weight of a 100-ton ’Mech. Of course he does.

  “General?” the commtech finally asked again as Daniella remained frozen over the table.

  Finally sucking in a lungful of the searing heat, she looked up, the fire in her eyes a match for the halo of crimson hair that stuck out in every direction despite her best efforts to confine it in a bun after she’d risen at oh five hundred hours following a two-hour power nap. “You tell Colonel James that I do not accept his surrender. That he will find a way out of the trap I set for him. Or he is relieved from command.”

  The man gulped like a fish out of water, eyes goggling to match the metaphor before he sketched a salute and turned to relay the message. She tossed up a prayer to a God she didn’t believe in that her decision wasn’t a terrible mistake. But I have to do something. When the Lyrans strike, they won’t make the mistake we did hitting Stewart. If they can afford to, they’ll drop a regiment of assault ’Mechs on us and so we must be prepared to fight against overwhelming odds. Especially with Anson’s crazy crusade to reform the Silver Hawk Irregulars sapping our resources of vital men and machines.

  She leaned over the table again, her hands gripping the edges until her knuckles showed white, a bitter chuckle escaping her badly chapped lips. And there is no question that the merchant princes can afford it!

  Her eyes roved over the map as though it might somehow hold the answers to the questions that plagued her dreams and her waking hours equally. When will the Lyrans strike? When will some intrepid journalist finally suss out Anson’s body double and cry foul, leaving me to answer to a hostile public? When, when, when? The word was a prickly nettle she used to flog her back, the bloody mental furrows a spur to figure out how to manage it all.