To Ride the Chimera

by Kevin Killiany

  Acing the live-fire qualification exercise had helped.

  Though he’d only had a few weeks to become familiar with this particular Cronus, the design had been his favorite at Princefield. However, an owner with more faith in firepower than trust in electronics had swapped out the C3 unit for an extra ton of missiles to feed the four-tube streak missile launcher that rose above his cockpit. Christopher liked the thought process, and knowing he was going into combat with twenty-five additional salvos was a comfort.

  Coming to another intersection, Christopher paused again to scan ahead. Intel placed at least a demi-company of Lyran BattleMechs in the industrial district. So far no one in Teteli Company had made hard contact with anything remotely threatening. Given the heavy fighting Tamarind Company was reporting nearer the center of town, this was wrong at a number of levels. Instinct said rush ahead, move to support their comrades already in the thick of it. But common sense, and Lieutenant Whittaker, commanding Teteli, said move slow and look sharp. The tactical situation had ambush written all over it.

  Ahead of him the pavement was drenched. Seawater spuming over the side of the aqueduct above made a permanent rainstorm about a dozen meters across. The keepers of the waterway were evidently protesting the Lyran occupation by either deliberately letting the system overflow or not clearing the channel of debris. Probably both. It wasn’t much as acts of resistance went, but every little bit helped.

  Rainbows danced in the falling water, the morning rays pouring through a cross street washed the pavement and the pillar of the aqueduct in golden light. If the stream had been in the shadows between buildings, Christopher would have missed the charred circle extending beyond the soaked ferrocrete. Something had scorched the ground. Not weapons fire, more like a burning vehicle or…jump jets?

  Turning his Cronus to face the open arch beside him, he squirted a narrow microwave signal toward the Hercules.

  “Can this sluice support BattleMechs?”

  Missy’s machine stopped midstride.

  “I’m not sure. It doesn’t look overengineered, but architecture ain’t my field.” There was a pause. Christopher hoped she had the wit not to focus her sensors on the aqueduct before they were ready to engage whatever enemy might be up there. “I sure wouldn’t risk anything big up there. A scout maybe?”

  “Hughes to Whittaker,” Christopher said on the tac channel.

  “Go, Hellion.”

  “Carter and I think there might be a scout ’Mech on the aqueduct. If we’re right, we’re standing right under him.”

  “Keep walking,” Whittaker ordered. “Try not to look like you saw him. If they’ve got a spotter in the trees, you can bet they’ve got a heavy in the bushes to protect their eyes. Stay sharp.”

  “Thermal!” Missy shouted before Christopher could answer. “Fusion reactor powering up bearing three-oh degrees relative. Range two-nine-oh.”

  The lookout’s defender Whittaker had expected, on Missy’s side of the waterway.

  “Multiple start-ups,” someone shouted into their microphone. “Tally…three in zone baker. Hard contact grid baker-tango.”

  “Alpha lance, gamma lance, form on me,” Whittaker ordered. “Beta lance, form on Carter. Take out the guard dog and blind the bird dog.”

  Christopher aimed his extended-range particle-projection cannon at the arch of steel and stone thirty meters above. He hesitated. What would a PPC do against the structure? Taking blind potshots might rattle the Lyran spotter, but taking him out was going to require a clear shot. He backpedaled into the street.

  “Got a Falconer,” Missy called out as the Lyran heavy broke cover on her side of the aqueduct.

  “ETA twenty seconds.” Ngyuen, leader of beta lance. “Pull back through the arch. Lead him to us.”

  “Blinding the bird dog,” Christopher announced.

  Stomping his foot controls, he launched the Cronus into the air.

  A triple stream of laser darts cascaded along the length of his BattleMech as it cleared the lip of the waterway. The wire frame lit up with reports of lost armor—nothing vital.

  Christopher feathered his jump jets, cutting his arc short and twisting to bring his torso weapons to bear on the Lyran ’Mech. Twin contrails marked the passage of short-range missiles through the space where he should have been.

  The tac display labeled his opponent a Battle Hawk as his finger spasmed on the fire control. All three lasers went wide, boiling the water that rushed past the smaller machine’s hips.

  Christopher kicked his jump jets hard. Coming down in moving water in a torrent ten meters wide and at least four deep was not something a BattleMech was designed to do.

  His respect for the Lyran pilot doubled as his legs were swept from under him. Flexing the knee actuators to their maximum, Christopher just managed to keep his torso upright. He swung the thick arms of the Cronus up and out, parallel above the surface, lest the current grab them and drag his machine over backward.

  Did not anticipate this.

  Fortunately he was still facing his opponent, now a hundred meters upstream. The lower of his over/under-mounted medium lasers was underwater, and waves were breaking over the small laser below his cockpit. He didn’t think that would affect them, but to be safe he triggered only the upper laser. Ghostly in the sunlight, the green beam splashed across the Battle Hawk’s chest, melting armor in a ragged scar just below the escape pod.

  Nothing vital there.

  Tapping in a code, he primed the four streak missiles in their tubes above his cockpit. At near-contact range he didn’t wait on the targeting computer, firing his salvo the instant the missiles went hot.

  The Battle Hawk’s right arm bent impossibly back as explosions blossomed across its shoulder and chest. The light ’Mech shuddered, staggering toward the kneeling Cronus in the grip of the torrent. Planting its legs wide and reaching out with its good left arm to grip the edge of the aqueduct, the Lyran seemed to get control of his machine. At least it stopped staggering toward Christopher. But it continued to shudder, vibrating faster than the rushing water should have caused.

  Gyro?

  As if in answer to his question, the head of the Battle Hawk seemed to explode upward. The escape pod arched up and out over the rim of the aqueduct.

  Without the pilot to keep it upright, the Lyran BattleMech, still vibrating as its massive gyroscope reeled in its mount, tumbled forward. Christopher’s hope that the machine was massive enough to resist the drag of the current evaporated as the headless shape scraped ponderously toward him.

  If the smaller machine jammed against his, he would never regain his feet. Even if the Battle Hawk’s shredding gyro didn’t damage his Cronos, he’d spend the rest of the liberation trapped in the aqueduct until someone came and rescued him. Or he could punch out and take his chances running around the streets of Padaron in cooling vest and shorts threatening Lyrans with his laser pistol.

  Desperately working the joysticks, Christopher tried to get his legs under him. Bent back, they were directly beneath the muzzles of his jump jets. Firing the jets would destroy his legs, and an off-balance and legless BattleMech would not land well. At all.

  He was facing upstream, and so the wall of the sluice was close to his right arm. Unfortunately, the only hand the Cronos had was on its left arm, which was about six meters too short to reach the other wall.

  Swinging his right arm up, he brought the ER PPC down hard on the stone wall, trying to make the heavy cylinder find purchase. On his third try the cooling vanes caught on some imperfection. Pushing down with all the pressure the arm servos could muster, he was able to bring the Cronos’ right leg forward and up, getting the foot planted firmly on the bottom of the sluice.

  The ’Mech rocked.

  Looking up, Christopher expected to see that the Battle Hawk had finally reached him, but the Lyran machine was still a dozen meters away. He watched it a moment to confirm the current was still pushing it slowly along.

  How much water movi
ng how fast can push a thirty-ton BattleMech—

  The Cronos rocked again.

  Christopher realized the rushing water, which had been level with the muzzle of his small laser moments before, was now flowing around the lower edge of the cockpit canopy. The water was rising.

  Except…

  The far wall looked higher than it had before. And the stonework glistened wetly above the rushing water.

  He wasn’t cockpit-deep in rushing water. He was cockpit-deep in rushing water in an aqueduct thirty meters above the ground. An aqueduct that had never been designed to support a fifty-five-ton BattleMech. And there were an additional thirty tons of heavy metal creeping closer every second.

  His ’Mech wasn’t what was rocking.

  Christopher stomped his jump jets just as the wall under his right arm collapsed.

  48

  Zletovo, Lesnovo

  Rim Commonality

  23 September 3138

  Hopelessly homely, Frederick Marik thought, inclining his head as the young woman with the wide blue eyes was introduced. But with a family name like Bey-Hughes, Lady Genevieve could grow a second head and still have her pick of any young scion antispinward of Regulus.

  As a cousin of Elis Marik, the soon-to-be wife of the Rim Commonality’s prime minister, Lady Genevieve’s stock was about to go up substantially. Frederick decided he liked her eyes.

  As he had expected, fashions and society on Lesnovo harkened back to mores outgrown by Euro-Terran culture twelve hundred years ago. With the exception of hands, there was no bare flesh below the throat on men or women, despite the oppressive humidity. Though he imagined the preponderance of light silks and lace in both men’s and women’s fashions indicated an oblique attempt to keep cool.

  Most startling to him were what he assumed were corsets of some sort worn by women of every age and class. He couldn’t see their exact design beneath the dresses, but they evidently constricted the midriff tightly, then flared out at the top. The net effect was an improbably tiny waist and breasts thrust up and forward as though set on a shelf. The breasts themselves were properly covered, of course—usually with silk, though some of the younger women at the reception practiced brinksmanship with yokes of translucent lace—but the effect was just a bit disconcerting.

  A quick glance at his personal assistant confirmed that Ayza shared his bemusement at the local fashion.

  “Lord Marik.” Their hostess snagged his arm with what he suspected was socially daring familiarity.

  Lady Gladys was, if he was tracking familial connections properly, both the maternal great-aunt of the blue-eyed Genevieve, whom Elis Marik addressed as “cousin Gen,” and Philip Hughes’ second cousin. Or third.

  Reflecting on the fact that aging dowagers should be spared the hellish corsets, Frederick missed her next words as she steered him toward a sober group of men and women. And standing out as sober at a Lesnovo fete required a bit of doing.

  Sharpen up, old boy. Until you know the lay of the land, every encounter is vital.

  “I’m sorry, Lady Gladys, but I missed that last,” he admitted. Charming honesty was always the best policy. At least when there was a danger that playing off a lapse might lead to a strategic faux pas.

  “It is a bit convoluted, I shouldn’t have thrown it all at you at once.” Lady Gladys slowed her pace a bit to allow an extra moment of conversation before reaching the group. “The short form is, these are the prime movers in the Goth Khakar cartel, which controls trade in the coreward third of the Commonality. Economically, they are closely tied with—” “Independent worlds coreward of your borders and the Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey?” Frederick guessed to cut short her explanation.

  “And you said you’d missed it.” Lady Gladys patted the arm she still held. “They have some serious concerns about how this impending alliance will affect their trade relations.”

  Frederick was peripherally aware of Ayza trailing slightly on his flank. With a glance and a nod, he summoned her to come abreast as Lady Gladys introduced him to the group.

  Technically, Ayza was not of the same social class as those attending this afternoon’s gathering. The contrast between her Oriente-style business suit and the local finery, combined with her unfortunate disfigurement, tended to emphasize this, making it difficult for her to mingle as an equal. But Frederick wanted her out of his shadow and clearly established as a major player from the beginning. Her role in integrating the economies of the two realms would be made easier if she was perceived by all involved as a person of substance.

  Particularly on this backwater—

  Shoving his elitism where it belonged, Frederick smiled and extended his hand to the evident leader of the cartel. Introducing Ayza Aborisha as an economic analyst, he set to work building the Free Worlds League.

  Amur, Oriente

  Oriente Protectorate

  Jessica settled back in her chair and nodded to Torrian. Her intelligence chief dimmed the lights without a word. There was a moment of twilight before the flat-screen monitor came to life. The resolution was sharp, sharper than most holovids, and Elis’ smiling face seemed close enough to touch.

  She’s been getting too much sun, Jessica thought, then chided herself for being a fool. That’s makeup. Elis recorded this before she left. Before we knew what her sister was up to.

  Her daughter appeared to be sitting in a sunroom of some sort. Visible beyond her was a broad window through which could be seen a garden of vaguely exotic plants. Jessica was certain the image accurately represented the appearance of a garden in Zletovo on Lesnovo a month ago, when this recording was supposedly made.

  Torrian’s people did good work.

  “If you are seeing this, you know that my mother granted my wish,” the recorded Elis was saying. “I wanted to be the first to tell everyone on my home of Oriente and all through the Protectorate some wonderful news.

  “At first, to some who do not know my mother well and who do not understand all she has been through, this may not seem like good news. But…”

  And here Elis sighed, visibly gathering herself before pressing on.

  “There is some bad news that must precede the good.

  “You all know that tragedy touched our family over a year ago. A tragic loss that wounded my father in ways few can understand. I know it is generally assumed that he left my mother, though there has been no formal announcement. He did leave. But not because he no longer loved my mother. He left because he could no longer endure the pressures of public office, no longer bear to live in the house where his eldest son, my brother Janos, died. Though they will always care deeply for one another, he could no longer be a husband—a daily companion and support—to my mother.”

  Jessica wished she could sip her tea, but she’d set it down before she was fully settled and now it was out of reach. She considered leaning forward and stretching for the cup, but decided the tea had probably grown too cool to enjoy.

  “For those of you who have been wondering what became of him, I am now authorized to tell you my father has come to the Rim Commonality and will be living for a time at the estate of cousins here on Lesnovo.”

  The recorded Elis paused for a long five-count, giving her listeners the chance to absorb the shock.

  Jessica liked the strength in her daughter’s face. Her delivery struck just the right note: emotionally vulnerable without being maudlin. And clear-eyed—clear-eyed was important. The public expected the Mariks to be clear-eyed in all they did.

  “I asked Father to join me in recording this news, so everyone who cares about him will know that he is as genuinely pleased as I am, but he said that he is not ready to face the public yet. Not even in recorded form. He did ask that I tell all of you who have been praying for him that he is doing much better. He hopes to be able to tell all of you—and to show all of you—someday soon.”

  Again Elis paused. Her eyes seemed to turn inward and a small smile curved her lips. The very image of a young woman reflecting on
something good before sharing it.

  “As I adjust to my life here on Lesnovo and prepare for my wedding, which should be happening about the time you see this recording, I do miss my mother. But I know that in these trying times her people need her on Oriente. The universe does not stop because a mother wants to go to her daughter’s wedding.

  “Or because a daughter wants to go to her mother’s.”

  A broad smile lit Elis’ features, radiating delight.

  “Though no man can take my father’s place in my mother’s heart, someone I know is admired and respected by all of us has come to be her steady support, her trusted adviser, her daily companion and her very dear friend. Even before we left Oriente, my father and I grew to know and appreciate this man’s steady dependability, his solid moral judgment and his unswerving devotion to the ideal of the Free Worlds League. He is a friend to us both. And we were both delighted to learn that he has grown to be something more to my mother.”

  Jessica didn’t think it possible, but Elis became even more radiant—positively luminous with joy as she leaned toward the camera with transparent eagerness to share her news.

  “My friends—my family of the Oriente Protectorate—it is my very great pleasure to announce that at sixteen hundred hours Amur time on Sunday, the thirtieth of October, 3138 my mother, Captain-General Jessica Marik, will wed Warden Thaddeus Marik.

  “Please join our entire family in celebrating her joy.”

  The image froze, imprinting Elis’ delight on the viewer’s mind; then the screen faded to a restful blue before going dark. A moment later the room’s lights were restored.

  “Well.”

  “Indeed,” Torrian agreed. “Consensus in my department is the holovid industry missed a golden opportunity. She made that recording in a single take.”

  Jessica nodded.

  Elis always had the gift of making herself invisible. The ability to project any image she wants must be a natural extension of that talent.