To Ride the Chimera

by Kevin Killiany

  “Do you think you’re up to delivering such a declaration without giggling?”

  “I have people, Philip,” Jessica said primly. “Trained professionals who can stand in my stead as I recover from the emotional shock of this news.”

  Philip chuckled, a sound she’d heard more often since his “exile” had relieved him of duties.

  You never wanted power, did you, dearest? A quiet life with me is all you’ve ever desired.

  “Why Stewart, I wonder?” Philip was reading the report again.

  “What?”

  “If I’m reading between the lines correctly, a sizable number of his forces got off-planet,” Philip said. “Why didn’t he go, too? Why make a stand on Stewart?”

  “Perhaps he got cut off,” Jessica said, but the words did not feel right. “Or perhaps he just got pissed off.”

  “Dear, neither duchesses nor captains-general should talk like guttersnipes,” Philip observed. “But I think you’re right. Going out in a blind rage sounds just like him.”

  “We should get word to Nikol to be on the lookout for the forces that escaped,” Jessica said. “Without a Marik-StewartCommonwealth to fight for, they’ll be looking for a home.”

  “Difficult to imagine,” Philip said, “a world without the Marik-StewartCommonwealth. I had always expected the irritation of Anson Marik to be a constant in our lives. He was always the biggest opponent to your captain-generalcy.”

  “Physically the largest,” Jessica agreed. “And the loudest. But not the most dangerous.”

  First Regulan Hussar

  Command Mohenjo Daro, Regulus

  Regulan Fiefs

  “Damn that arrogant bastard!” Lester Cameron-Jones crumpled the report in his fist and slammed it down on his desk. “If he weren’t dead, I’d kill him.”

  “Sir?” Salazar asked.

  The man blinked when Lester turned on him. It did him good to see a man twice his size daunted by what little threat he represented.

  Don’t be an ass, Lester corrected himself. It’s your position, not your rage that gives him pause.

  My rage. I’m thinking—I’m not thinking—like Anson.

  Lester turned away from his SAFE director. He wanted to pace, but this was the military-issue office he used when at Base Mohenjo Daro. A quarter the size of his study at the palace in Chebbin, it simply didn’t have the room for serious pacing. He contented himself with four stiff steps to the window and stood there, left hand massaging his right fist. He was getting too old to punch unyielding metal desks.

  On the exercise ground the mixed forces of the Steel Hussars, resplendent in full dress colors, were forming up for his annual review. The sight of the military power at his disposal calmed his nerves.

  He was self-aware enough to recognize that deriving comfort from so superficial a source indicated just how raw his nerves were. Regulating his breathing, he willed his pulse to slow.

  “Anson Marik has died,” he said, breaking the obvious down into words of one syllable for his chief of intelligence. “Without leaving me one command protocol, one breakdown of assets, one comm number to call.”

  “That gluttonous bastard always said he wasn’t leaving much behind. But this—”

  Lester realized he was growling through clenched teeth and paused. With an effort he relaxed his jaw. Lowering his shoulders required a bit more effort. He wished Emlia were here. Discussing issues with her was far more satisfying.

  “There was supposed to be a contingency plan in place, a way for me to continue the fight for the Marik-StewartCommonwealth if he fell,” Lester said—still angry but sounding, he hoped, a bit more rational. Anson is the one who throws tantrums. Was. Turning away from the orderly arrangement of war machines beyond the window, Lester deliberately strolled back to his temporary desk, which was still covered with the readiness reports that a moment ago had been interesting reading. “Instead, Anson Marik chose to believe himself invincible and made no plans for continuing his realm after his death. With no unified defense, the worlds are going to fall piecemeal to the Lyrans and the Wolves.

  “And with almost all of his forces massed at the other end of the Commonwealth, I have no way to reach them quickly, no way to coordinate command.” Lester noticed he’d raised his fist again and lowered it. “The Commonwealth is going to fall because of one man’s arrogance.”

  “My impression has always been that the Marik-StewartCommonwealth was very much a nation of personality,” Salazar said in his maddening monotone. “Perhaps Anson Marik made no plans for its survival beyond his death because he knew that without him there would be no Marik-StewartCommonwealth.”

  Lester looked sharply at his subordinate, but the larger man’s face remained as blandly impassive as his voice.

  “You’re saying that the Commonwealth no longer exists?”

  “My assessment is that it ended on June fifth, when Anson Marik fell.”

  Lester felt his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline.

  Every now and then, Gustav. Every now and then you remind me why I keep you around.

  His mind racing, Lester turned again to regard the Hussar BattleMechs and armor arrayed in neat rows on the exercise field. Salazar and the urgent communiqué he carried had delayed the scheduled review. The morning sunlight glittered off every polished edge and plane of heavy metal. Weapons hungry for use.

  “If the Marik-StewartCommonwealth no longer exists,” he said, “there are worlds that depended on its protection that are now helpless in the face of the Lyran-Wolf onslaught.”

  “That is my thinking, Your Grace.”

  “Salazar, prepare me a detailed analysis of the Atreus system. Everything we know about its defenses and assets.” Lester’s tone was thoughtful. “That’s a vital world—a symbolic world—that needs our protection. But we’d best be prepared in case the citizens don’t see the Fiefs taking them under our wing in quite the same light.”

  “Already done, Your Grace,” Salazar said, producing a noteputer from his attaché case. “I took the liberty of preparing tactical analyses of the Alterf and Ionus systems as well.”

  Lester made no effort to hide his pleased surprise as he took the noteputer from his security chief’s hand.

  “Mr. Salazar,” he said as he keyed the machine on, “would you be so kind as to inform Colonel Petrovski that the First Hussars should stand down from review? Then ask that he and his staff officers join me in the situation room posthaste.”

  Tamarind-Abbey Defense Command

  Tripoli, Gibraltar

  Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey

  “Damn.”

  Fontaine Marik looked up from the noteputer and met Roland’s eye. Outside, a winter storm had turned the noonday to a swirling cauldron of grays and whites—more blow than blizzard, it made travel impossible.

  “Damn,” he repeated flatly.

  “What happened?” Christopher asked.

  The question startled Fontaine. He’d half forgotten the boy existed despite the fact he’d been in conversation with him when Roland arrived.

  The duke handed the noteputer across the chessboard, letting the young man see for himself.

  He was beating me anyway, he thought, looking over the array of the interrupted match. Checkmate in…four. I let myself get distracted by that damn rook feint of his.

  “Anson Marik is dead?”

  “On that both the Lyrans and Commonwealth agree,” Fontaine said. “Though there is some disconnect on the details.”

  “The headline says suicide,” Christopher read. “Then the article goes on to detail twelve bullet holes in his body and head, only three of which could not have been lethal, or at least critical. Who okayed a stupid release like that?”

  “Trillian Steiner oversees propaganda and disinformation,” Roland said. “But I agree that lacks her usual finesse.”

  “More important than how he died is the fact that he’s dead.” Fontaine extended his hand for the noteputer. “Without him there’s no co
re to the Commonwealth.”

  “Nonsense,” Christopher said. Then added at the duke’s expression, “Sir.”

  It wasn’t the lack of address that had startled Fontaine, but he let it pass, interested in seeing how the lad analyzed the situation.

  “A chain of succession and transitional protocols are fundamental to any government.” The lad waved as though able to indicate the precept floating somewhere in the air above the chessboard. “The new leadership won’t be as flamboyant as Anson was, but the Commonwealth will survive.”

  Ah.

  “A chain of succession and transitional protocols are fundamentals of government to careful planners like your mother and old men aware of their mortality,” Fontaine explained. “Anson believed himself invincible, and governed his nation as though he were immortal. It is widely known that he counted no one his heir. You can take it as a given that there’s no orderly shift in command structure planned for any individual or body.”

  Christopher’s expression of surprise was almost comic. Then it transformed into something decidedly more thoughtful. Wordlessly, he turned to the window, staring out at the swirling snow with furious concentration.

  Fontaine half smiled. He was willing to acknowledge Christopher was his master at chess and had heard rumors of his skill with dice; but those were games of skill and probability. The boy was going to have to learn to school his expressions—to not visibly announce his every thought and feeling—if he was ever going to win at poker. Or rule a nation.

  Roland began to speak, but Fontaine forestalled him with a raised finger. Watching his young protégé, he waited for the lad to quit worrying whatever bone he’d latched on to and give them his thoughts.

  “This can work to our advantage,” Christopher said at last.

  “How so?”

  The boy turned from his contemplation of the weather to regard Fontaine levelly.

  “If the Commonwealth is coming unraveled without Anson at the center, the worlds are going from a united nation to individual planets,” he explained. “Capturing solo worlds is easier than waging war with a nation. But capturing many individual worlds is a time-consuming process.”

  “Meaning you expect the Lyrans to suspend their campaign against us and focus their resources on the orphaned worlds of the former Commonwealth.”

  “It makes sense.”

  “So does abandoning most of the Commonwealth to the Clans and concentrating their forces on crushing Tamarind-Abbey,” Roland pointed out.

  “Only if their objective was to share equally with the Wolves,” Christopher countered. “Or in this case, give them the lion’s share for little effort. Generosity is one charge that has never been leveled against a Steiner.”

  Fontaine smiled at the assessment but did not comment, content to let Roland and Christopher sort it out.

  “Which speaks to the point that we do not know the full scope of the Steiner objective,” Roland said. “To gain territory, yes. But how much? To destabilize any effort to reunite the Free Worlds League, almost certainly. But how do we know they will be content with the death of Anson? There are other Mariks still alive who could rally the League.”

  Some more than others, Fontaine thought, watching Christopher’s face as he absorbed each of Roland’s points. And some of them not blood Mariks.

  “All of that’s true,” Christopher conceded. “But there are patterns to the Lyran’s behavior. Their attack on Merton showed they are as interested in acquiring unaligned worlds as they are in destabilizing nations.”

  And taught the Steiners that choosing the wrong targets can strengthen a nation. Fontaine allowed the corner of his mouth to quirk at the thought. One poorly managed sortie and Tamarind-Abbey’s rapid response had accomplished what a decade of negotiation had not. Both Merton and Sackville had sued to join the Duchy that now shielded them from Lyran annexation.

  “Even if their eventual goal is the destruction of Tamarind-Abbey and the death of Duke Fontaine,” Christopher was saying, baldly stating the issue as though Fontaine were not in the room, “in the short term they’re going to have to focus their efforts on assimilating as many of the Marik-StewartCommonwealth worlds as they can. Otherwise Clan Wolf won’t just be a presence on their border, they’ll have enough worlds to be a major nation-state of their own.”

  Roland nodded slowly. “It’s going to be a feeding frenzy.”

  “The Lyrans have a deep bench and deeper pockets.” Christopher glanced at Fontaine, including him in the conversation. “So it’s too much to expect them to pull all of their forces out of Tamarind-Abbey. But…”

  “But their attention is going to be elsewhere.” Roland picked up the thought. “And with so many combat-ready assets so close to where they need them, siphoning off a few and leaving skeletal garrisons in their stead makes logistic sense. Particularly on worlds that haven’t been giving them any trouble.”

  “Like Tamarind.”

  “Like Tamarind.”

  Fontaine nodded as his lieutenants looked to him. Having the liberation units left on Tamarind keep their heads down and focus on intelligence-gathering had been Roland’s idea, and it was a good one. The quiet worlds were occupied by fewer—and less experienced—soldiers.

  “We can springboard from Loongana,” he said. “But I see no way to take Tamarind without tying up Simpson Desert. A heavy feint would do it, but…we’ll need to plan for a joint campaign.”

  “And a quick one.” Christopher pointed out the obvious. “We can’t give them time to redistribute forces and get reinforcements in place before we’ve kicked them off the planet.”

  “Doable?” Fontaine asked. He felt Karli nudge him and realized he’d framed his question in one of Christopher’s most oft-used terms. Influence works both ways.

  For his part, Christopher nodded quickly, then caught himself and looked to Roland for the answer.

  Good catch, boy, Fontaine thought in his direction as the two waited for the SAFE director to work through all the checks and balances.

  “Yes,” Roland said at last. “Particularly if we don’t move immediately. The Lyrans will expect a cathartic response to Anson’s death. Give them several weeks to decide we’re doing nothing and a couple more to quietly rotate what forces they will into the Marik-Stewart theater, then make our move.”

  Fontaine proffered Roland’s noteputer.

  “Gentlemen, assemble the command staff. Bring them up to speed.” He smiled. “I want to see plans and contingencies detailed by next Monday. That gives you eleven days to design a two-planet campaign.

  “In the meantime, I want a few annoyance raids—nothing substantial and nothing spinward of Edmondson. The Lyrans are expecting us to react, and we won’t disappoint them.” His felt his smile grow to a predatory grin. “But we won’t alarm them too much either.

  “I want them comfortable and complacent right up to the moment we take back our home.”

  40

  Al-Hassam,

  Mosiro Duchy of Andurien

  15 July 3138

  The commercial center of Mosiro lay in ruins.

  Thaddeus walked the broken streets, feeling the grit under his boots and smelling the smoke of fading fires.

  The afternoon sun prismed off a field of broken glass; the façade of a high-rise office complex had become a drift of diamonds at the feet of a gaping metal frame. Squinting against the glare, he looked up at the tower’s skeleton, imagining how it had looked before Ex-Force had arrived.

  He knew his security people hated his out-front approach to leadership. Intellectually he knew it was not wise: his death could undo every military victory his people had fought so hard to earn. But he could not deny the drive within him, the need to be in the thick of things, to put his bare hands on the work he was doing. Perhaps it was a reaction to his years of manipulating events from behind the scenes, waiting for the opportunity to act. Or perhaps it was a premonition of the decades ahead of him; diplomatic missions and backroom deals as he wo
rked to forge the disparate nations of the Free Worlds League back into a stable union.

  Or as stable as it ever was.

  Thaddeus paused in the center of an intersection, an open space that made him an easy target. His people had secured the area, but all it took was one sniper…. He could feel the battlearmor squad escorting him click into a higher level of readiness as they surveyed the empty boulevards and scarred buildings.

  Looking back the way he had come, he could see Kriegaxt standing where he’d left it at the edge of the riverside park. The replacement missile rack and the armor patches were still in dull primer, but the overall effect was still resplendent in the white light of Mosiro’s sun.

  Pride in things, Thaddeus chided himself. Not a good trait in a leader. The people must come first.

  With that thought and no word to his bodyguards, Thaddeus strode to the relative security of a covered walk. In the final block approaching the government center, the street was a broad mall, closed to vehicular traffic and dotted with decorative fountains and abstract sculptures. A row of restaurants lined the right side of the mall, and metal awnings, molded to look like street-market tents, extended their seating areas into the open air. Thaddeus had no idea whether the lightweight metal offered anything more than symbolic safety, but his guards deserved the gesture of caution.

  Reports and the holovid images he’d seen testified that the planetary capital of Al-Ilb was very nearly intact. Carved as it was from the face of a kilometer-high cliff above a forest, the city was practically inaccessible, at least to the volume of traffic a commercial center required. Al-Ilb was devoted to the arts, a city of museums and concert halls, the largest mosque rimward of Terra, and a major university. None of them viable targets. And for once the Anduriens had followed the rules of war and kept their own forces away from the city.

  Al-Hassam, on the other hand…

  Here the fighting had been building to building. Long after sound tactics dictated the defenders withdraw or surrender, the Second Guards and Mosiro Planetary Militia had thrown themselves at the Expeditionary Force. In the case of the Militia, it made a sort of sense; they were defending their home from invaders. But the Second Guard could have withdrawn as a viable force and repositioned themselves to fight again on another world or to retake this one. Instead, they had…