“But we’ll lose a lot of troops that we’ll need later.”
“Aye. But if the train is filled with civilians? Will any number of troops allow us to hold this world if you become known as a butcher?”
She caressed the controls of her BattleMaster, bringing the light gauss rifle and large laser in her right arm to bear on the nose of the incoming train. Her HUD read it as out of range, but a numerical readout rapidly counted down the distance. A yawning gulf opened up inside her at the prospect of firing on a civilian vehicle, but the loss of Karla, Pamm and Ron to just such a trick haunted her, the letters written to their families still fresh in her mind. Her fingers twitched and her pulse roared until it drowned out her surroundings, washing away thought itself.
She yelped as the tone of a target lock sounded; the train passed into her weapon’s targeting range and a spasm shook her hand. A shriek did escape her then, as she jerked her hand away from the joystick, sick at how close she’d come . . . how close she still knew herself to be.
“Commander?”
“Nothing,” she croaked out past lips abruptly dry. Shaking, she closed her eyes. Damn it. Is this how an heir to the Protectorate acts? Is this how Mother wouldreact? An urgent warning tone pulled her out of her desperate internal bid for control of the situation. A glance at her readouts showed the train was slowing. Not a quick reverse that would indicate an attempt at rapid deployment, but the steady deceleration of a train that knew it should stop before crossing a line.
“Marik forces,” a voice broke across the open frequency, almost causing her to jump once more. “This is Captain Forcythe.”
She cleared her throat twice before answering, hands twitching to dash away the sweat hanging like a row of dewy pearls along her eyebrows. “This is Nikol Marik.” She couldn’t bring herself to say anything else.
“Nikol Marik,” the man responded slowly; then static filled the air as the train continued to decelerate. In the rising tension, she found her hand once more on the joystick, a flick away from bringing her primary weapons back on target with the front of the train.
“My name is Captain Forcythe,” the voice abruptly spoke again, “and on my own authority, I surrender. Oceana is yours.”
Thunderstruck, she couldn’t respond, though a chorus of cheers erupted on secure Protectorate channels. Another world under my belt. Asellus Australis, Asellus Borealis, Sophie’s World, Lungdo, Sorunda and now Oceana. What a great commander I’ve become! Julietta would be so proud. Her sarcasm soured her stomach. I came so close to butchering those men and who knows how many civilians. She had taken six planets now, five of them without a shot fired; the seeds planted by her mother had borne strong fruit.
It didn’t matter that her gut reaction had been right about the Trojan horse gambit. What mattered is that she’d almost ordered the death of hundreds, perhaps thousands, in a single volley. Would she ever be able to order such a thing? Even for the sake of the Protectorate?
She lost herself in dark thoughts of leadership as her troops continued to cheer.
Jacob’s Escape, Union- class DropShip
Near-orbit, Clipperton
Regulan Fiefs
Lester stretched his back, amazed it could hurt so in microgravity. Just your age catching up to you, Lester. Just your age. The imagined commentary from his wife lit a smile on his face, despite the gravity of his mission.
“My lord, we’ve made contact with the local baron,” the comms tech reported, speech and manner perfectly military despite his slovenly dress and the three days’ growth covering his pale, blotchy skin in patches. “He wants to assure his captain-general that, the recent incident notwithstanding, there is no Word of Blake cell operating on his world.” The man scratched his chin as he glanced around the bridge of Jacob’s Escape . The Union-class DropShip’s bridge was not large, and with so many crew currently manning stations as they prepared for interface with the planet’s atmosphere, it almost seemed downright claustrophobic.
Lester’s eyes strayed to the man’s hand on his chin as the comm tech’s eyes came back to rest on his liege, causing him to pause in his scratching for a moment and then jerk his hand away, snapping to even stiffer attention, if possible.
“You can inform Baron Montok,” Lester said, “that while I appreciate his assurances, the gravity of the . . . incident . . . compels me to make my own evaluation of the situation. I would hope he will extend me all courtesies.”
The comm tech looked as though he might swallow his tongue. He bowed in acknowledgment, and then moved carefully back to his seat in the pounding gravities, a mere minute from atmospheric interface, to transmit the message.
Lester readjusted his position in the small jump seat to the side of the bridge and pondered the comm tech’s reaction, then nearly out loud. How long have I been secluded on Regulus, love, forced to mince words with the likes of the esteemed David Eislan in order to accomplish the smallest thing. Yet here in the boondocks of the Fiefs, my word is law. No wonder the comm tech’s eyes bulged.
The moment of humor dissolved as the craft began to shake violently on its approach into the atmosphere of Clipperton. The three-dimensional holoprojection in the middle of the bridge showed the trailing DropShips of the small fleet as burning furrows across the vast expanse. Almost two full battalions . . . the largest assemblage of troops I’ve commanded in decades. His eyes found the forward viewscreen and the burning atmosphere that now swallowed all normal vision.
Yet a world is a very large place. And if this terrorist act really is the work of a Word of Blake cell . . . then I may be long from your side, my love. His rustling sigh was lost in the bustle of activity on the bridge and the firestorm of reentry.
Amur, Oriente
Oriente Protectorate
Jessica almost dislocated her shoulder by the force with which she opened the door to her chamber and then ripped open the panel into her secret room. She clutched the message delivered moments ago by courier like a burning brand of shame in her palm.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so angry that she could feel her fury surge through her veins. The calm face of Torrian Dolcat almost pushed her over the edge; she stopped herself from screaming, eyes closed until the red receded to a faint line of pink inside her eyelids. After several deep breaths, she opened her eyes and spoke calmly to her intelligence director.
“How did this happen?” I am still in control of this situation!
“Your Grace, this action falls within the operational parameters that you reviewed and signed off on.”
“But so many deaths!”
A slightly worried look etched his calm features, bringing her fury back to a boiling point that he could maintain such control. “My lady, such talk is unwise even here.”
“Such talk?” she began, then stopped. She tried to wet her lips, but her tongue was like sandpaper. She imagined she could actually feel her blood pressure soar. “Such talk. Do you know how many died!”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“Of course.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “Of course you would.”
“Your Grace. We agreed on the operational parameters. If this incident was to mimic other . . . events . . . then half measures were not worth the effort, Your Grace.”
“Half measures . . .” Her voice trailed off again. Hot brands pricked her skin and her gorge rose until she threatened to gag. If half measures had been taken, there would have been only five thousand deaths. . . . Only!
She was barely aware that tears leaked from the corners of her eyes as the impact of Torrian’s comment hit home. She had known how far things might go and had signed the authorization anyway.
Is this, then, how I choose to lead? When I look at my children and say they have failed to prove themselves worthy, is this what I want from them? Where am I leading Nikol?
What have I become!
23
Amur, Oriente
Oriente Protectorate
11 April 3
137
Elis Marik entered the seldom-used room. For several moments, especially after the long JumpShip trip and the endless months away, the room brought comfort. Almost like I’m coming home.
Memories of a lifetime washed over her. Running down the hallway, the exuberance of childhood overcoming any decorum despite endless chastisements from watchful nannies; a stolen kiss in this very room, her first, with a cousin now long dead in a border dispute with the Fiefs; fleeing here to the solarium in the middle of a grand ball, shocked by the first awakening of her body’s womanhood (no one else knew what was wrong—they only saw the young girl, dress hiked up to her shins, dashing away from a shocked young man). Her room had never been her refuge; though they had shared the space only briefly, her elder sister still cast a long shadow there. For reasons she could never quite explain, in all the palace and the surrounding woods, the solarium was the only place she’d ever felt truly comfortable.
Elis breathed in the familiar smells of the room, firmly setting aside her melancholy recollections—and the jasmine of her mother’s perfume reached her senses before Elis became fully aware of her presence. Though she longed to close her eyes at the assault to her childhood memories, long years of conditioned obedience kept her moving, around the seldom-used piano, past the gently flowing water wall in the center and the lonely tree it fed, to the back of the room where she did hesitate for just a moment as her mother, father and Janos all came into view.
Why are you here, Janos? A bitter taste abruptly sat heavy on her tongue, but after only a slight hitch in her stride she flowed smoothly on, swept a bow and bestowed a light kiss on each before moving into her place at the small table. “Mother. Janos. Father.”
“Welcome home, dear.”
Once again Elis hesitated for a heartbeat before easing into a seat. While a cursory look at her mother showed the usual strong façade, a strange tone in her voice prompted Elis to surreptitiously take a longer look. Hidden well, but detectable to someone who knew Jessica’s mask, she saw a . . . darkness. Not the right word, but I cannot think of another way to describe it. What has happened, Mother?
But she had long ago learned the fruitlessness of asking such a personal question of her mother.
“How was your trip, Elis?” Janos asked.
“Uneventful, if long.” She met Janos’ eyes briefly before allowing her gaze to move elsewhere. He was more uncle than brother (and not the cool uncle you want to come to your parties), and Elis had never had much use for him; they had nothing in common except their parents. Now, though, perhaps sensitized by the strangeness in her mother, she caught something in Janos’ voice as well—a melancholy at odds with his usual joyless yet stolid disposition. What has happened while I’ve been gone?
“We’ve missed you, love,” Phillip said, his tone warm.
A real smile brightened her face as Elis looked at her father. “I missed you as well, Father.” It was nice to speak the truth now and then in her family’s presence. Especially as she could not detect any change in her father. The one person who held no extravagant expectations for her . . . and she held none in return.
“What news from the Rim Commonality?” her mother asked.
“Genevieve and her mother send their best.”
“Of course. And what news from our esteemed prime minister?”
Elis’ head swiveled to her mother, surprise again unsettling her at the tone of mild impatience she heard in her voice. I can’t remember the last time something affected your mood, Mother. Whatever has happened, is big. Her fingers slipped into the hidden pocket of her silk dress to retrieve a verigraphed letter, and she slid it across the table to her mother. A second letter was in a small safe, buried under the planter of the tree in this very room . . . no chance of anyone finding out the contents of that letter before it is time.
Her mother’s eyes never wavered from her own. “And.”
Again Elis foundered, the rehearsed lines and actions of months of thought pulverized to errant spray against the strange coastline of her mother’s irritable responses. A lifetime composed of a thousand situations and her mother showed more . . . reaction . . . in a two-minute conversation with her daughter. Something has shaken you badly. Her mind began racing, possibilities percolating, angles becoming visible.
“Prime Minister Cendar expresses an . . . extreme interest . . . in your proposal.”
“And?”
Elis licked her lips; a hint of nervousness both real and feigned. She hoped to discuss her own angle in all of this. For now. “And he is very interested. One might say he is almost eager.”
“Then we were right.”
She nodded. “It would seem the act of actually asking . . . well, the Fiefs never ask, only demand.”
“Oh, that might upset Lester no end,” Phillip said.
“If the Rim Commonality throws their support behind us simply because we’re not the Fiefs?”
Janos showed no reaction to their father’s joke, but Jessica smiled momentarily.
“Do you believe him?” Jessica said.
Elis glanced at the letter, knowing the words by heart. And you know I’ve read it, Mother. She waited a moment longer, not to draw out the situation, but to savor it. Elis was already becoming accustomed to the new currents and tide pools on this abruptly exotic coastline she called her family. I must know what has thrown you, Mother. With any luck, it will mesh with the angles I have set up. She felt deep curiosity regarding Janos’ issues, but finding out what had affected him was a far secondary goal to discovering her mother’s secret. Unwilling to actually make her mother angry, she finally answered the question.
“Yes, I do. To be honest, Prime Minister Cendar sounded almost . . . desperate is not the right word.”
“Eager?” Janos said.
“No,” Elis responded, choosing her words carefully.
“No. Perhaps ‘earnest’ is the best choice. As though he’s been waiting for someone significant to treat with him, if not as an equal, at least as though he is a leader of worlds. Something Lester is apparently incapable of doing. Of course, I brought additional incentives to the table to foster such eagerness, if I do say so myself. “ She inwardly smiled.
Jessica nodded, her eyes hooded. You see the possibilities spreading before you, don’t you, Mother? Until now, it has been small worlds and insignificant leaders. But I bring you something bigger. Much bigger . . . and I see the possibilities as well.
“Very good, my daughter. This is all very good.” Jessica smiled, but Elis still saw the darkness lurking at the corners of her mother’s eyes and in the cant of her lips.
“I am glad you are pleased, Mother.”
Chazwasl Starlord- class JumpShip
Nadir Jump Point, Angell II
Marik-Stewart Commonwealth
“It all seems so unreal,” Nikol whispered. She looked up to see Casson’s face awash in the glow of the holoprojection, the command berth seeming small, almost intimate, despite only the two of them as occupants.
“You must never fall into that trap, my lady,” he responded, quick as a striking snake. “This is as real as it gets. We MechWarriors contend we are the finest, most elite warriors in the universe, and it does take courage to enter battle, even protected by a BattleMech. It takes courage of a whole other stripe to strap yourself to a fusion rocket and hurtle through the endless vacuum of space, knowing that a piece of shrapnel the size of your fingernail could breach your cockpit. And if you lose your ride . . . You’ve got two hours of oxygen if you’re lucky, floating in a void as deep and dark as the chancellor’s misbegotten soul.”
This was the most passionate speech she’d ever heard from the man, and she stared at him for long moments before she turned her attention back to the unfolding drama. She inhaled the dry, stale air and tried to calm her stretched nerves. “Maybe it’s just because it’s silent. A battle should have sound. Even with dampeners in our cockpits, the sounds of a battle are . . . awesome. This silence . . . it’s
unnerving.”
“There is no sound in space. No one can hear you scream.”
She shivered at the deadly serious tone, despite the overused axiom. “I know. I know. But it doesn’t change my need to hear it.”
He nodded.
They both turned their attention back to the aerospace battle that raged a thousand klicks from their position. They’d jumped into the Angell II system, their proximity alarms blaring before the aftereffects of the jump through hyperspace were fully washed away. A sizable fleet of JumpShips was already in-system, bearing the unmistakable symbol of the Marik-Stewart Commonwealth, their jump sails fully deployed.
Immediately sizing up the situation and without consulting his superiors, Force Captain Mason scrambled every fighter in the fleet, then went so far as to deploy their few assault-class DropShips. While tempted to protest this decision—the DropShips would be imperative in breaking any blockade the Commonwealth might have thrown up around Marik— Nikol also grasped that smashing this force could give them the victory before they even reached their ultimate goal.
After several long minutes of trying to keep the various rapidly moving shapes within the context of what little she knew of space combat, she swallowed her pride and asked, “How are we doing?”
His expression remained serious, but Casson’s lips curved into a smile. “Very well. Very well indeed.”
She nodded, a small knot loosening in the pit of her stomach. “What about the JumpShips? Will they leave their aerospace assets behind?” She glanced at a secondary monitor that captured a still-frame feed from an aerospace fighter, an image taken almost half an hour in the past (eternity in a space battle), showing most of the JumpShips rapidly furling their kilometer-wide solar sails. Or as rapidly as such an endeavor could be accomplished without damaging the molecule-thick material.
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