To Ride the Chimera

by Kevin Killiany

  Two armed escorts in the dark green and purple livery followed a dozen paces behind him as he strolled. A reasonable precaution given who he was and the assassination attempt that had brought Star Colonel Rikkard to Amur. With Sonja now beside him, he did not need to turn his head to confirm that four guards now drifted in their wake.

  The residence of the Oriente rulers was dense with history. The hand-carved woodwork represented generations of artisans, each adding to foundations prepared by others. The woods of the floor, visible on either side of the central carpet, appeared at first glance to be a parquet of stained pieces, but closer examination revealed they were parallel planks of natural wood with distinctive grain patterns precisely matched to create a harmonious whole.

  It seemed almost sacrilege that the carpet protecting the wood was of machine manufacture.

  None of the incidental furniture spaced along the walls touched the carpet. He was certain that for affairs of state, when symbolism was more important than utility, the carpet was rolled away to allow the full beauty of the wood to show.

  A detail of a carving that framed an anonymous door caught his eye. Repaired. By the planes of the cuts and flats, he knew the artisan had been left-handed while the original craftsman used his right. He wondered what had damaged the door frame.

  “Trade for your thought,” Sonja said. Talar caught the tension beneath the banter. It matched the wariness that seemed to haunt her most welcoming smile, her most intimate glance.

  What is it you were ordered to discover? Talar thought in her direction. Ask and we can move beyond this charade.

  Aloud he said: “I was wondering how often violence came to these halls.”

  “I doubt they have the stomach for much,” Sonja answered.

  This time Talar did look at her. The same beautiful smile, the same watcher crouching in the chestnut eyes. He realized she thought he meant physical conflict.

  “The battles that rage here are deadly,” he said without enlightening her. “And continuous.”

  * * *

  “What are they doing?” Jessica asked.

  The physician beside her did not answer at first. Jessica realized the woman was studying the scene the same as she was and trying to formulate a meaningful answer. She bit back the urge to demand an immediate reply.

  There were seats behind her but she ignored them. In front of her and below, on the other side of sealed glass, her eldest daughter lay under the surgeon’s knife. Though there was little to indicate the figure facedown on the table was Julietta: only the nape of her neck and the shaved back of her head were visible, the rest covered by sterile barriers. Blue paper-cloth shields speckled with drops of her daughter’s blood.

  She became aware of the hand she was squeezing tightly and looked to her left. Philip met her gaze, a rock of reassurance.

  Our daughter’s blood, Jessica amended.

  “Your Grace?” the physician interrupted Jessica’s thought.

  The rounded accent of Davr Khuna was supposedly legendary in its ability to calm the hearer’s nerves, but the soft sound made Jessica want to scream. Not trusting herself not to, she kept her mouth firmly shut and invited the neurosurgeon to continue with a raised eyebrow.

  “Your Grace,” she repeated, obviously unsure how her words would be received. “Beyond a general grasp of the procedure, I do not know what they are doing.”

  “Could you explain what you do understand?” Philip asked mildly. “And speculate about what you don’t? All I see is our child under the knife, and any information would be a help.”

  “Of course.” The imported expert glanced at Jessica before answering Philip.

  “What was thwarting our efforts to help your daughter is that nerves are nerves,” she said. “There is no external way to tell a sensory nerve from a motor nerve. And no way to tell a touch nerve, for example, from a heat nerve.”

  Philip nodded his understanding. The gentle squeeze of his hand reminded Jessica that shouting at the woman for reciting familiar knowledge would do them little good.

  “More to the point, while we can reconnect nerve tissue on a gross level, we cannot stimulate its growth,” the doctor went on. “What’s damaged is damaged. Nerves do not regenerate.

  “Except…”

  Her voice trailed off as she turned to regard the scene in the operating theater below them.

  “The person under the microscope hood seems to be testing each nerve fiber,” she pointed. “That blue box is connected to microfilament probes. Their surgeon is using them like an electrician’s circuit tester.”

  “Remarkable,” said Philip.

  “Impossible,” the doctor countered. Then remembered: “Your Grace.

  “Even more impossible, he seems able to identify halves of severed nerves.” She pointed again. Beyond the fact the damned woman was indicating something on the screen above the blue box, Jessica could make nothing of the gesture. “Once he’s tagged the matching ends, he is connecting them.”

  Jessica realized the emphasis indicated the second Clan Spirit Cat physician who leaned forward as the first stepped back. His hands disappeared inside a large metal box resting directly on Julietta’s exposed neck. His head was bent as he apparently studied a screen built into the top of the box.

  “Would it be too much to activate the teaching screen?” the doctor muttered.

  Jessica realized the words were not directed at her.

  The two-meter-wide repeater screens, positioned to allow medical students in the operating theater gallery to see enlarged images of the procedures, remained dark. She wondered if she really wanted to see the damage to her daughter’s spine in such intimate detail.

  “So the Clan physicians have the technology and the technique for identifying and repairing nerves but they won’t share them,” Philip said quietly. “That must be terribly frustrating.”

  God, Philip, how do you do that?

  The doctor nodded, not taking her eyes from the procedure.

  “I don’t suppose you can tell how it’s going?” Philip asked.

  “Good, I think.

  “Your Grace,” she added a moment later, remembering to whom she spoke. “The surgeons have the focused but relaxed body language of pulling off a tough one….”

  Again a damnable pause as the woman surveyed the scene below them.

  “I do not think this is a fast procedure,” she said at length. “We’re looking at either the first of several operations, or the first team on a long operation.”

  “How long?” Jessica surprised herself by not shouting the words.

  “Based on what they’ve done so far,” the doctor considered, looking from the mysterious metal box to the wall chronometer and back. “Seventy, maybe eighty hours. I don’t really know enough to be sure.”

  Jessica nodded, forcing herself to be content with the imprecise answer.

  “We certainly cannot watch from here for eighty hours,” Philip said. “You should get some rest, my dear. I’m sure Dr. M’Bai here will keep us informed.”

  Jessica nodded again, but did not move.

  The Clanner was wrong. I never sent you to die. Your failure I expected, an object lesson to strengthen Nikol, give Christopher some focus. But not your death, never your death. Don’t die on me now. Jessica began to turn, then stopped. Pressing against the guiding pressure of Philip’s hand, she looked down at her daughter one last time. Please.

  16

  Zanzibar, Tamarind

  Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey

  7 November 3137

  “You’re lying, boy.”

  Duke Fontaine Marik had let his hair grow since Christopher had seen him last, and his face had become more drawn and gaunt. But the sapphire blue eyes glaring at him from beneath lowered brows had lost none of their fire.

  Christopher imagined he could feel his skin blistering.

  “No, sire,” he answered solemnly, meeting Fontaine’s level gaze with his own.

  Getting in to see the duke
had been easier than he’d expected, if a bit more painful. The Lyrans did not control Tamarind. Yet. Their diplomatic envoy was cooling her heels at the Lyran embassy while Fontaine organized the Duchy’s defenses. No mean feat without hyperpulse generators enabling instantaneous communication.

  Christopher had, after a day and a half of wandering the streets, worked his way to the ducal castle by systematically doing the opposite of what every warning sign commanded. His plan had been simple: wait until cover of darkness to get inside the compound, then—safe from the Lyrans by virtue of the security blanket of the Ducal Guard—identify himself.

  He hadn’t counted on the nightlife of the noble district: ground cars and foot traffic had flowed steadily on every street long after most houses in Amur would have been dark. It was well after midnight when he’d scaled the walls.

  Once on the grounds he’d enjoyed nearly twenty seconds of freedom before security invited him to spend the night in lockup. At least he assumed they’d invited him: he had no memory of events immediately prior to waking up on the floor of a bare cell. From the bruises he could see, he suspected the festivities had included falling down several flights of stone stairs.

  While he’d been unconscious, Tamarind-Abbey SAFE had evidently deduced his identity. At least the anonymous men in civilian business suits watching over him when he awoke were SAFE; Christopher recognized the stereotype. They had delivered him here—an anonymous, windowless conference room off an unmarked hall three floors above the holding cell—and left him alone, shutting the door behind.

  Christopher had used his time alone to stretch. He’d never been thoroughly beaten before, but he’d been pummeled by enough rocks, waves and trees in his life to know keeping limber was the best defense against the long-term effects of the bruises covering his body.

  He’d had to scramble to his feet when the door swung inward, admitting another anonymous civilian, this one two meters tall and twice the age of the men who’d escorted him through the empty halls.

  SAFE director, Christopher guessed.

  Behind the stranger had been Fontaine Marik.

  The duke was dressed in formal, perhaps even ceremonial, robes and did not sit. Christopher decided his arrival hadn’t been important enough to wake Fontaine, but the ruler was curious enough to pause on his way to some affair of state to question Christopher directly.

  It had taken Christopher two minutes to deliver the bare bones of his mother’s assurance of Oriente’s support. And her confidence that Tamarind-Abbey would fully support her once she had met the precondition the duke had set.

  From Fontaine’s glower it was clear the duke wasn’t happy with Christopher or the news.

  “Don’t split semantic hairs with me, whelp,” Fontaine said. “You are not telling the complete truth.”

  “You’re right, sire,” Christopher admitted.

  “Why?”

  “Because I cannot tell you everything my mother has in mind.” Christopher kept his voice formal. “Negotiations are still pending.”

  Fontaine glanced to the other man.

  Christopher didn’t turn his head to follow the look, but from the duke’s expression whatever the man communicated was reassuring.

  “But her objective is to bring Marik blood into the line?” Fontaine demanded with less heat than a moment before. “A Marik captain-general?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  Fontaine’s eyes lost focus in speculation.

  “Unless she’s selling your sister to Anson…”

  Christopher did not rise to the bait.

  “The only Mariks available are the Rousset-Mariks,” the duke said at last. “And they supported the Blakists and turned against the Free Worlds in favor of Stone’s Republic.”

  “They were used by the Blakists—as so many were, sire,” Christopher countered. “When they realized the cult’s true nature, they turned on the Master and pursued him with as much determination as everyone else.”

  “Not everyone else.” Fontaine surprised him by chuckling. “It will cause old Lester no end of torment to have a Rousset-Marik presuming to be captain-general.

  “The bastard will count him twice a traitor,” he added. “First for being descended from Alys Rousset-Marik and second for becoming a paladin of the damned Republic of the Sphere.”

  “Sire, I didn’t say it was Thaddeus Marik.”

  “You don’t have to, boy.” Fontaine shook his head. “You as much as admitted it when you defended the Rousset-Marik line.”

  Christopher said nothing, tacitly conceding the point.

  “Thaddeus is the only offspring of theirs that’s amounted to anything,” Fontaine said. “And paladin of The Republic is about as high as anyone can get—or could get before the damn thing collapsed.”

  The old duke pursed his lips, frowning into the middle distance. Christopher could almost see the wheels turning as he poked at the idea from every angle.

  “If Thaddeus Marik’s wandering around loose outside that damn Fortress of theirs, getting back to his roots makes sense,” Fontaine said at last. “And him as captain-general would sit well with the League worlds that got traded away and ended up orphans—even if it was his misguided grandmother who did the trading.”

  Christopher’s understanding of the Rousset-Marik betrayal, as his mother called it, ran a little differently but varied only in the details. Only her daughter Agatha’s marriage to Calvin Marik redeemed Thaddeus and Frederick in Jessica’s eyes. But he said none of this, letting Fontaine spin his own web of meaning.

  “Nor does Tamarind forget he’s the great-grandson of Kristin Marik. Theresa and Jeremy Brett practically adopted her. That makes Thaddeus the next thing to family in the Duchy.” Fontaine glanced to the tall man at the edge of Christopher’s vision. “Your mother continues to play the long game well. Elis could do a lot worse.”

  He cocked an eyebrow, pinning Christopher with a sharp eye.

  “Or will it be Nikol?” he asked. “I’ll bet a paladin’d appreciate a good MechWarrior for a bride.”

  “Sire, you’re asking me to betray a trust,” Christopher said. “I cannot go against my oath or my position.”

  The old duke’s gaze held his for a moment longer. “You’re right, boy.”

  Christopher thought he read approval in the man’s nod.

  “But you did not need a Mule to carry family gossip,” Fontaine changed the subject briskly. “What else have you brought for Tamarind-Abbey?”

  “Two Mules, sire,” Christopher corrected, pulling the manifest crystals from his belt pouch. “The Hudson remains docked to the Captiva, a Tramp-class JumpShip of Rim Commonality registry.”

  The duke regarded him in surprise for a moment, then nodded toward the other man and said, “Billings, my security chief.” Christopher handed over the crystals and Billings fed them into his noteputer.

  “How did you come by a Rim Commonality JumpShip?” Fontaine asked.

  Christopher hesitated.

  “The Captiva happened to be at Oriente on unrelated business when we received word of the Lyran assault on Tamarind-Abbey,” he said carefully. “We were able to inveigle the captain into providing transport.”

  “Skated close to another one of those family secrets you’re not allowed to tell me, didn’t you, boy?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “I’m tempted to ask you how the ship happened to have two suckling Mules—which I assume from context are loaded with war materiel—at the exact moment you needed them just to see how you avoid that answer,” Fontaine said. “But I’m old and time is short.

  “A Tramp has three DropShip rings. Is there a third ship you haven’t mentioned?”

  “Only two were available, sire.”

  Fontaine nodded.

  “I have church in forty minutes,” he said, indicating his formal robes. “And when in residence at the MarikPalace, I do not dare miss Mass at the Marik Cathedral. Half the congregation attends only when I’m in town.”

 
Christopher hesitated, but the duke forestalled him with an upraised palm.

  “It’s best you stay under wraps, boy.”

  Neither Fontaine nor Billings made a signal Christopher could detect, but the door to the hallway opened instantly. Instead of the muscular men who’d escorted him, a slender young woman in palace-staff livery entered.

  “Please take our friend to guest quarters,” the duke said. “And find him appropriate clothes.”

  Christopher opened his mouth, but the duke waved him toward the door.

  * * *

  “What did Oriente send us, Roland?” Fontaine asked his head of security as soon as the door closed behind young Hughes.

  “A mixed bag of construction material and ordnance,” the SAFE director answered, reading his noteputer’s screen. “Looks as though they grabbed everything that might be remotely useful off the shelf.”

  “Or the shipments were bound somewhere else?”

  “Not these precise shipments,” Roland said. “The mix is too eclectic. However—

  “Delete the ammunition and generic ’Mech parts and the rest of this materiel would be just what you’d need if you were rebuilding an assembly plant,” he said. “In fact, add the ’Mech parts back in—call them templates—and you could make a case for someone rebuilding a BattleMech plant.”

  “And why would the Rim Commonality be doing that, I wonder?”

  “The boy’s not going to tell us.”

  “That’s a given,” Fontaine chuckled. “Not really our concern, anyway. More significant is the empty docking ring and the Mule still attached to the JumpShip.”

  “They’re expecting Tamarind to fall.”

  “And providing us with means of escape,” Fontaine said. “I wonder if that was young Christopher’s idea or his mother’s.”

  “The difference being?”

  “One might be a genuine offer of help.” Fontaine adjusted his robes. “The other would definitely be a ploy to put us in debt.”