On 25 October 3069, the extremist Word of Blake attacked the capital of the Free Worlds League and declared the League's leader, Captain-General Thomas Marik, a fraud. House Marik fell into disgrace, and after eight centuries of existence, the Free Worlds League shattered.

Three captains-general now vie to reunite the realm:

Anson Marik of the Marik-Stewart Commonwealth prides himself on possessing Marik blood and seeks to rule on its own strength. Lester Cameron-Jones of the Regulan Fiefs knows the Marik bloodline is defunct; only a new royal house can resurrect the League. Jessica Marik of the Oriente Protectorate is on a mission to redeem her father's name: the false Thomas Marik, the man who helped destroy the League. The world of Marik becomes a battleground as the three contenders prove that they will go to any lengths to further their causes. Only Jessica Marik appears to remember that the Free Worlds League was forged not through military might alone, but also through alliances of trust. They will all find the price for their ambitions is higher than they could ever have imagined. Who will be willing to pay?

Pandora’s Gambit

Warning Klaxons blared as the Stingrays angled near. Grabbing his right-hand joystick—eyes flicking continually back to the altitude readout—he centered the targeting reticule on the forward viewscreen on the fast-approaching fighters. His brain screaming through math he was never very good at, he made a last-ditch decision, brought the reticule forward to lead the fighters by several centimeters on the HUD and flexed his index finger.

Twin beams of coruscating energy ate the space between his Sun Cobra and the passing fighters in an instant, as a return swipe of azure and ruby energy slashed from the nose and leading wing edges of the Stingrays. Heat eddies spiked, the heavy hair on his legs moving with the flow of the thick air.

“Damn it!” Both beams missed. The enemy pilots had better luck, as two large lasers slashed across his ’Mech’s torso, vaporizing armor; almost a ton of metal sublimated away in the hellish wind. The Sun Cobra rocked under the assault, the keening whine of the mammoth gyroscope in the bowels of the ’Mech announcing that the machine was tapping his internal sense of balance through the neurohelmet to keep itself upright and in position, to not pulverize itself into the ground.

A wicked grin spread over his face as an eyeblink later a veritable latticework of energy darts and streams of autocannon rounds crisscrossed the sky from a company of dropping ’Mechs. Enough found their mark to completely tear away the right wing of one Stingray, sending it spiraling down to its doom; the other, whether intimidated or low on fuel, quickly fled.

27 – PANDORA’S GAMBIT

A BATTLETECH NOVEL

Randall N. Bills

ROC

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First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First Printing, August 2007

Copyright © WizKids, Inc., 2007

All rights reserved

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Acknowledgments are usually legion, with so many contributing in small and large ways to the creation of a book. However, this time around, I’ll leave the acknowledgments at the doorstep of a single, wonderful friend. In one form or another she has been by my side through my entire journey of writing, and always brings out the best in my work. More important, for this book, she gave me a chance after I previously dropped the ball, and then forgave lateness all too readily. Thanks for your friendship, and your story and editorial skills that always take my novels to a level they would not have reached alone.

Thanks, Sharon.

It’s been far too long since I dedicated a book to you, my wife. Your continued love and support through the years of the starving artist routine is . . . astonishing. If ever I doubted a Heavenly Father, I see Him every day as he allows me to share my life with you.

Prologue

Amur, Oriente

Oriente Protectorate

2 January 3135

The guard, dressed in the dark green and purple court livery, looked expectantly at Jessica, then stepped outside after receiving her nod; despite solid maintenance the worn hinges of the large, ancient doors creaked upon closing. There had been talk of replacing the doors—or at least the hinges—but she’d always balked. They had a history, too. Had served generations of rulers. Despite their age, they still were useful . . . still deserving of respect.

Laying her hand gently on the large, rectangular mahogany table, Jessica Marik tried to ignore the faint but growing outlines of liver spots on the back of her hand, or the enlarged, purplish veins that traced across her ever more translucent skin.

Perhaps I should start using makeup? She clenched her fist. No!

Her green eyes sought her daughter, Nikol. Impatience flashed in her youngest child’s bright jade eyes as she raked her hand through her shoulder-length, reddish-blond hair.

My mirror image, from so long ago. Can I really be so . . . old? Seventy-three?

She relaxed her hand and her mind wandered for a moment as she focused once more on the table, fingertips caressing the cool wood as if she could pull some answer from its hidden depths. A smile teased at her thin lips. I’m feeling old this day, but next to you I’m a spring chicken. What are you, almost nine hundred years old? Were you really fashioned the day Tomás declared Oriente independent from the Terran Alliance and formed the Federation of Oriente? Or did Tomás plant the seeds of that rumor in later years? Or Antonia after him, perhaps?

Of course, it didn’t really matter—though she would love to pull the secret from the darkened wood of how Tomás managed to forge the Federation without firing a shot; Can I do the same? What mattered today—and for many previous centuries—is that it was taken for granted that this very table, the table so lovingly cared for by the staff to preserve its ancient heritage, was formed on that seminal Oriente day so long ago.

Because if you say a thing enough times, it becomes the truth. She tapped the table as though in exclamation, her smile growing full and transforming her aging face into a strong echo of the beauty of her youth.

And the victor writes history.

The scrape of a chair startled her; she looked up to see her fourth child sliding into the high-backed chair upholstered in red satin at the end of the table. She managed to keep her forehead from creasing. Late as usual, my son. She inhaled a slow breath, deliberately perusing the intricately worked mahogany wall panels that complemented the table, the bright sunshine streaming through the glazed ferroglass past the heavily brocaded purple curtains to the luxurious inlaid wood floors, which were almost as well kept as the table.

Unfair, Jessica. Christopher has improved so much. Still some way to go, but he has come around.

“Sorry, Mother,” Christopher said by way of apology.

Jessica sniffed in mock disdain at the humor in her son’s words, the tingle of the citrus cleaning agents used just that morning to eradicate any dust before the family gathering still lingering pleasantly. Didn’t even comb that mop he calls a haircut. “I’m sure I don’t want to know why you’re late.” Despite her cool words, her smile stayed in place.

Christopher bobbed his head, his infectious smile beaming from his chiseled features, his eyes, so similar to Nikol’s, hiding mischief. “Probably not, Mother.”

“Looks like we are ready to begin, Mother,” Janos said softly.

Jessica turned to her eldest son on her right, whose almost completely gray hair and lackluster brown eyes framed by overgrown, prickly eyebrows always made her wonder if perhaps he and Julietta were born from a different husband; a quick glance to Janos’ left at her second oldest, Julietta, showed the same coloring, albeit with much less gray and only a light smattering of wrinkles as she neared fifty. Both wore immaculately tailored clothing, with every crease, button and lapel in its proper place. Such attention to detail should be laudable. . . . Should be.

“Yes, I think we are.”

“Why did you ask us here, Mother? We just had a council meeting last week.”

Jessica looked to the opposite side of the table from Julietta and Janos to find her middle daughter, Elis, leaning forward in anticipation, yet not appearing anxious as Nikol so often did. While she shared some of the darker coloring of her older siblings, her chocolate-brown eyes held depths that seemed to invite one in, yet allowed her to hide a world of secrets. So similar to Nikol and Christopher and yet still so unique. So willful.

So like yourself, you mean? That thought always gave Jessica pause. What do you expect, sandwiched between elder siblings almost old enough to be her parents and two a decade younger?

She took another deep breath to refocus her attention on the matter at hand, then lifted a verigraph from her lap and laid it gently on the table, as though serving up a valuable prize. A most valuable prize, though some will fail to see that.

“What’s that?” Elis asked.

Jessica raised her eyebrows and waited until she had everyone’s attention. She caught Christopher’s interested look as Phillip leaned forward from her direct left, as though he also was seeing the document for the first time. Jessica locked gazes with Christopher after his eyes darted back and forth between Jessica and Phillip, and his bright eyes widened as he caught the full implications. He leaned forward and placed his hands on the table, almost eager.

That’s right, Christopher. I’ve not even discussed this with your father yet. It’s that important. After a final review of her family, she licked her lips, tasting a hint of salt—it was already hot enough to sweat this morning—and spoke. “This is a verigraphed invitation from The Republic of the Sphere. Signed by the exarch himself.”

“Really? From The Republic!” Christopher said, his boyish enthusiasm coming through strong, despite his twenty-six years.

“That was what Mother said, was it not?” Julietta responded.

The two siblings exchanged mild looks. Jessica tapped on the verigraph somewhat impatiently. She behaves like a mother, but has no children—and is waspish, at that. Need to get you married, Julietta. There must be an alliance you can wed to the Oriente, despite your age. And despite your age, children can still come. Children to further strengthen the Oriente. Another day . . .

“Yes, really, Christopher.” Her stern tone did little to dampen his eagerness.

“I don’t think who it’s from is nearly as important as what the message contains, my son,” Phillip said, his deep voice filling the room with his affection for their rambunctious child. “Eh, my dear?” he said, turning his eyes back to Jessica.

They shared a warm smile. What did I do to deserve you, my dear? I keep such things from you and yet you always take it in stride.

He seemed to understand her silent question, and his smile stretched out into a grin, the heavy wrinkles around his eyes and mouth thinning like pulled taffy. The effect was a little comical, perhaps, but he was the love of her life.

“The verigraph, Mother?” Nikol spoke up.

“Of course.” She tapped it one more time for emphasis, then dropped the bombshell. “Paladin Victor Steiner-Davion is dead.”

Appropriately shocked looks swept the room, and beyond sharply indrawn breaths, silence reigned for all of five seconds. Broken, of course, by Christopher.

“No. Way.”

“Yes. Way.” Jessica almost chuckled at the way her son’s fair features brilliantly displayed his flush.

“What does this mean, Mother?” Janos managed to make his tone both neutral and condemning of the little brother he considered a disgrace, all in one short sentence.

Too bad you don’t realize what a talent you have there, Janos. Too bad you simply have no idea how to use such a tone as a weapon of state. It would be every bit as deadly as a regiment of BattleMechs.

“It means I will journey to Terra. In fact, if I’m to make the wake, I need to leave within the next week. Especially as I’ve an important stop to make along the way.”

“Who will be going with you?”

Surprised, Jessica focused on Elis. I thought Christopher would beat everyone to that question. She studied Elis’ dark eyes a moment; then her glance swept the room. “All of you have important matters you will be attending to while I am gone.” She raised her hand slightly, as though to tick off each point.

“Janos, you will remain here and act as regent while I am gone.” With no change in expression, Janos bowed his head, acknowledging his mother’s request. She managed to withhold a sigh.

“Julietta, we have received a marriage proposal from Charles Cunin the Fourth, have we not?”

A momentary flicker of surprise lit Julietta’s dull eyes before she responded. “Yes. Yes, three months ago. I felt the insult warranted such a delay before rejection.”

“I believe you should travel to Andurien and meet personally with Charles Cunin the Fourth. After all, it was obviously a heartfelt proposal, despite the fact that their house has fallen on hard times since Lopez was destroyed during the Jihad. We should give his proposal just and due consideration, no?” Jessica was confident Christopher would have laughed at the absurdity of such a statement, if his jaw wasn’t as unhinged as Nikol’s and Elis’.

Another flicker of surprise, before a slow nod of acceptance. “Okay. I assume I will receive further instructions from you on this matter.”

“Of course.” How did I raise such sheep? She brushed the frustration aside and turned to Elis. Now is not the time, Jessica. After too many decades of preparation and waiting, the catalyst stands ready.

“Elis, doesn’t your cousin keep asking you to visit her on Lesnovo?”

Unlike Julietta, Elis allowed her surprise to show on her face. She hesitated before responding, obviously trying to work out her mother’s strategy. “Yes,” she finally said.

“I think now is a wonderful time for you to go.”

“Of course I would love to visit my cousin, Mother, but now? I’d be gone at least half a year, if not considerably longer.”

“And so will I. We can cut our separation down from two ordeals to one, right, my dear?” She smiled, aware that her daughter’s mind was racing. Intelligent, willful, beautiful. If only we could find a marriage alliance worthy of you, Elis. She set aside the uneasiness that always ran prickles down her spine at the idea of Elis ascending the throne after her. She had never been able to articulate the precise reason for this unpleasant sensation, and today was not the day to figure it out.

“Yes, Mother,” Elis finally agreed.

Jessica turned to find Christopher practically bouncing in his seat, eyes showing his eagerness to hear his assignment. Despite herself, she smiled warmly at her ever-energetic son. “Christopher, you’ve been asking to go on your, what did you call it, extreme sporting tour?”

Christopher’s jaw worked through several open-shut cycles before he managed to find words. Jessica’s eyes twinkled. Not often I leave you without words, son.

“You’re going to let me go on the Extreme Sportsman Tour?”

Amazing how he can capitalize words without increasing his volume. “I believe you’ve earned the right.”

“Unity! Yeah!” He thumped the table and leaned back.

“Christopher.” Janos spoke sharply, a reproving look distorting his features.

Christopher glanced over at Janos, quickly looked at Jessica to gauge her mood, then forced a little more decorum back into his countenance and posture. “I apologize, everyone. I got a little too excited, there.”

You’re not sorry at all, Christopher. But that’s all right. For now. Soon enough you’ll prove just how far you’ve come.

With a final glance at the amused face of her husband, Jessica slid back her chair and stood. Can’t dance the flamenco anymore, but I might still make it through a waltz. She patted her hair unconsciously, caught herself in the act and smiled at her own indulgence. “I will provide additional information in the next few days, but at the moment I have to prepare for several more meetings today.” She paused, then did sigh as no response came from the end of the table. She moved toward the door, signaling Phillip to follow.

“Mother.”

Jessica turned back toward the table. “Yes, Elis?”

“You never said who would travel with you to Terra.”

“No, I didn’t. Perhaps if the right person had asked . . .” She turned, tapped on the door and waited for the guard to open it. She stepped outside and began walking down the long hallway, Phillip in tow, as the guards closed the door on her children. I know Nikol will take the public reprimand as intended. As needed. Time for her to start stepping up.

Elis Marik watched her mother depart. The room remained quiet for a whole thirty seconds before it exploded into conversation; even Janos and Julietta joined in, though they kept their conversation between them, their voices low.

Thanks to years of training, she kept the sneer off her face. That’s how they define subtlety. She considered her two younger siblings. Chris and Niki . . . they can be excused by youth and distance from the throne. But Janos and Julietta? There is no excuse.

“I’m going on the ski trip!” Christopher couldn’t stop talking, bombarding Nikol with his excitement. He obviously failed to see the darkness masked by her pale smile.

You’re so worried, Niki. So worried. Wonderingwhat Mother thinks of you. Wondering why Mother didn’t give you an assignment. Upset that she chastised you in front of us.

Though her fingers flicked, as though they wished to tap impatiently on the ancient table, she kept herself perfectly still. When she wanted, she could literally vanish, watching while others revealed all. She remained still as Janos and Julietta conducted their prim, hushed conversation of their own stupidities, as Christopher meandered through a stream-of-consciousness recitation of the worlds he would see and the mountains he would conquer, as Nikol tried to force an ill-fitting façade of equal eagerness to her face.

But I’ve kept a façade in place almost since you were born, Niki. And as they say, it takes one to know one. And I can see through your mask like the clearest glass. You’re terrified Mother has slighted you, leaving you here to rot while the rest of us are given important assignments. She managed not to snort. You’ve no idea. No idea you’re the favorite. No idea that Mother will be taking you to Terra.

Elis knew her own mission was important . . . already knew most of what it would entail. Unlike Christopher, and maybe even Julietta, she had already figured out the angles. Yet she was honest enough with herself to admit it burned that Mother would once more choose her favorite daughter to be at her side for such a seminal event as Paladin Victor’s funeral on Terra.

For many years, she had tried hard not to direct feelings of resentment toward Niki. She actually still liked her youngest sibling. But she usually didn’t try to stave off such sentiment when it came to her mother.

I don’t hate you, Mother. I know you too well. Youthink Niki is you reincarnated. But that’s only superficial. She is nothing like you underneath. Of all your daughters, I’m most like you. This time Elis gave in to the impulse, and her slender fingers touched the table. She carefully rested her entire palm on its surface, as though to create a mystical connection to the spot her mother touched . . . to her mother. She shook her head at her own folly.

You think you know all the angles, Mother. You think you have all your bases covered. But I have my own angles. I know what you want me to bring back from my trip. And I’ll bring it back. But under my own conditions.

She smiled, but the expression didn’t touch her eyes.

Jessica slowly paced in her personal quarters. Seven steps up one side of the room, twenty down the middle, seven to the wall, seven back, twenty and then seven and so on: her mind worked in lockstep with her movement, compartmentalizing each task that lay before her family, the coming months and years unfolding like the solar sail of a JumpShip. Methodical and slow, but a solid hedge to help guarantee success.

“That was quite a bombshell you dropped, my dear,” Phillip said, intruding on her thoughts.

He sat casually by the window, enjoying the sunshine despite the heat, his legs propped up on the cushioned window seat. Her frown didn’t budge them.

“I know,” she said, her pacing continuing without a hitch.

“You could’ve told me.”

“I know. But I wanted to see who would pick up on the fact I’d not told you.”

“Christopher.”

“That was a surprise.”

“And Elis.”

That did cause a slight hitch. “Really? I missed that.”

“Not a twitch of her muscles, and her eyes could hide the existence of a DropShip. But I know her too well. She figured it.”

Jessica nodded slowly. Of all her children, it would be Elis.

“Do you really mean to try to marry off Julietta to Andurien? You know it’s a dupe.”

A hitch again, forehead creasing at her husband’s quick change of topic. “Of course not. Doubt the man would have her, anyway. She’s too old.”

“Then why? To test Julietta? Hasn’t she been tested enough?”

Jessica blocked her empathetic response to her husband’s melancholy. “She is our daughter. Royal blood flows in her veins. She still has time to step up, to find the spark to lead. It just requires the right incentive.” She avoided her husband’s eyes, knowing her own would betray that she didn’t believe her words.

“So, then Elis and Christopher? Testing and missions.”

The pacing had begun to make her calves ache, but she refused to give in to the weakness. The day will come when I’m not even able to walk. Until then, my body will obey me. “Of course.”

“And what of Janos? What testing could he possibly face here on Oriente?”

A sigh rattled as she cleared her throat of the sudden desire to cough. “None. I have plans for our eldest upon my return. But for now, none.” This time she did meet her husband’s eyes as her pacing cycled her back toward him; their mutual sadness over their eldest’s apathy was a strong bond. Years of trying to find the spark of leadership in Janos, and all we find is competence. That would be fine for a commoner. But not for a person of noble blood, of someone destined to become a leader. She shrugged, exasperated for the thousandth time over her eldest children.

“And Nikol?” Phillip said, his tone knowing.

Jessica laughed softly, the optimism for her youngest a cool breeze against the stifling heat of disappointment in her eldest. “I have high hopes for her on this trip, Phillip. High hopes.”

“I can support what you are doing, Jessica,” Phillip began.

After a lifetime together, she knew from his tone of voice that he was about to force her to say something out loud . . . something difficult, yet something she needed to face; it was one of his most important gifts to their relationship.

“You know I can. But of all our children, of all the tests you are about to set them to . . . I feel that Julietta . . .” He paused, the quaver in his voice a match for her earlier inability to look her husband in the eye. “She’s being set up for failure. Even for Janos, you do not have a goal that he cannot accomplish. But you are sending her to fail. And you know it. Why?”

Jessica kept up her pacing with an effort, examining her own feelings. She’d made a decision, and her decisions moved mountains. For Phillip to question her after she had already suffered the anxiety of making the decision and when she’d already moved on showed his depth of unease over the situation.

As ever, Phillip, you are a mirror for my feelings. You know me better than I know myself. “It’s not just about testing her, Phillip. The time has finally come to move our plans forward. We’ve got to keep an eye on Andurien. Better yet, keep them occupied for a time.”

“Important goals. But it still doesn’t explain why she’s being sent to fail. You know our daughter will never marry. She will occupy Duke Humphreys, I’ll give you that. But she cannot complete the mission she is being sent to explore. You speak of her stepping up, and yet we both know that won’t happen. Elis has more chance of success at securing a marriage with the Anduriens than Julietta. So why?”

The rhythm of her footfalls kept up a steady, almost soothing cadence to the difficulty of the discussion. “She needs to be an object lesson to her siblings.”

“Ah,” her husband said, voice as weary as if he’d just finished a marathon.

“Despite the distance between Julietta and the three youngest, they still have attachments. She has failed to lead. Not once, despite the competence with which she manages her landholds, her corporate responsibilities, her . . .” Jessica breathed deeply to calm her nerves. “Despite every opportunity to lead, she has failed to step up and lead. They must see that failure. They must see that you can only give someone, even a member of the royal family, so many chances. But Julietta has had a lifetime of chances and has never been able to find her way to the goal. Now, in her failure, she can step up. She can succeed by her very failure. Succeed in showing Nikol and Christopher and even Elis that the state demands success. It is time for Julietta to become a leader . . . or be set aside.”

Though she faced away from Phillip in her current circuit of the room, she could feel his grudging nod of agreement at her reasoning, regardless of how painful the conclusion.

You simply wanted me to face it straight on, right, Phillip? Ever my conscience. She smiled, the thought supporting her in this moment.

A soft knock interrupted their conversation, ending Jessica’s pacing. She looked toward the sound, then nodded briefly to Phillip, who stood and departed with a casual wave. She moved to a hidden panel in the room; her fingers pressed three studs hidden in the floral paneling and she slipped inside the opening, closing the door behind her.

“How did the meeting go, Your Grace?” Torrian Dolcat asked.

Jessica took a seat in the tiny room adjacent to her personal quarters. Glancing up, she noted the red light, assuring her the white-noise generator surrounding the room was engaged and that no one was within ten meters of the room except herself and the other occupant. She looked at the youngish man seated on the other side of the small table built into the wall. His smooth-shaven face revealed clean lines and his hazel eyes were to die for. “Have I told you you’re much too good-looking and young to be my spymaster?”

Torrian smiled easily, revealing bright teeth. After many years, he could now play the game with casual ease. “I believe you have, Your Grace.”

“Well, you are. You should be twenty years older to head up SAFE. And the meeting with my family went just fine. Enough small talk.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” he said, nodding his head.

“What is the status?”

“Operation Stormdrain is still one hundred percent viable.”

“How prepared are we?”

“We’ve had to cycle through continual preparation phases. You cannot prep an operation of this scale for launch and then leave it uninitiated. You have to ensure downtime, rest the whole apparatus from a readiness stage. Yet all phases of the operation appear completely intact. General Hollis and his Eagle Corps have outdone themselves.”

She found such discussions vaguely distressing, but she accepted them and understood their necessity regardless. “Of course. Where do we stand now?”

“A full year is optimal.”

“A year!” She tried to keep her voice at an even level, but her exclamation echoed slightly in the stark room.

The other man nodded. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but you have reviewed every aspect of the operation. You know we cannot proceed swiftly at any level in such a complicated endeavor. The consequences of failure— of discovery . . .”

She breathed deeply, inhaling his musky scent, her own jasmine perfume and the unique aroma of cold concrete. “Would be catastrophic. I know.”

“Do you still wish to proceed, Your Grace? What is your word?”

She looked into his eyes, perhaps to find recriminations, but found none. I guess you can’t head up an intelligence agency and allow such things as morals to get in your way. She closed her eyes, allowing a hundred different scenarios to replay one final time. They all ended at the decision she’d made years ago. I’ve never wavered on a decision made, but what I’m about to set in motion . . .

She opened her eyes. Too late to turn back now, Jessica. Despite her resolve, she swallowed past a throat tight with anxiety.

“My word is Exalted Requiem.” Despite her soft-voiced delivery, the words seemed to echo with power.

No turning back now.

1

Desolate Pass

Juniper, Mallory’s World

Prefecture III

4 February 3135

“This place called you?” Kev Rosse’s disembodied voice flowed on the heat eddies of the mammoth bonfire eating voraciously at the wood.

Rikkard Nova Cat opened pale, almost violet eyes and responded immediately. “Strength.”

“You seem to be repeating yourself.”

“Fate repeats. I but travel the path.”

“Are you a Visionmaster now?”

Rikkard jerked backward, nearly overbalancing before recognizing the humor hidden in his Galaxy commander’s words. He resettled into his cross-legged stance with exacting precision, ceremonial leathers bunching, and then stretching. “I am no Visionmaster. “

“Of course you are not. Yet you return here. How many years since you first sought answers in this canyon? How many since you departed to attack Ozawa?”

Rikkard looked around the place that had been known as Desolate Pass since Mallory’s World’s first colonists landed. Though he could not see them, the force of the mammoth rock walls that towered around them called to him as surely as did this spot; he glanced up, a river of stars a thin ribbon against the overwhelming blackness of the canyon walls. “Not enough. Too many. It does not matter. I seek answers where I might find them. Find strength where it may be found. And I find strength here.”

“Then this place called you, quiaff.”

Rikkard’s eyes bored into the flames, demanding answers, yet none came. He clenched a will as hard as ferrocarbide armor around his frustration; knew that his refusal to answer was petulance. He placed his hands upon the sandy bottom of the canyon as if to evoke the spirit of Ian Davion.

“Why should he come to you?”

Startled by the question, Rikkard delayed answering; he drew in a deep breath of the aromatic scents of the burning juniper tree he’d dragged into the depth of the canyon. He looked up again to see his Galaxy commander looming over him.

“That is what you seek, is it not? Ian Davion’s blood washed this sand more than a century ago. You wish to evoke the spirit of The Hound.”

Rikkard nodded slowly, unable to articulate his need, the visions that drove him. “Strength,” was all he could manage.

“He was stupid.”

“What?” Rikkard’s anger coalesced and found a target at Kev’s demeaning of Ian Davion. “House Kurita’s Second Sword of Light was on the verge of destroying the Fourth Davion Guards. Ian Davion sacrificed himself that day to save his command. He held off and destroyed a host of enemy ’Mechs in this very canyon, before the Kurita commander himself, Yorinaga Kurita, killed Ian. What more could be asked of a warrior?”

If possible, Kev seemed to loom larger, his eyes abruptly blazing in the night. “You are so un-Clanlike at times,” Kev began, stoking Rikkard’s anger ever higher, just as the sparks from the bonfire leapt and danced into the night sky on currents of heat. “Clansmen are not known for studying history.”

“Clansmen study military history,” Rikkard shot back. His right fist dug into the sand in frustration, as though he might dig up a shard of armor from that centuries-ago battle.

“Clansmen study military tactics. They rarely study the generals involved. You reach deeper than most. You dig for the truths hidden in the generals and leaders behind the tactics that shaped the great battles of history. When first we came to Mallory’s World, you immediately set about studying the most significant military history that shaped this world, particularly the leaders involved. Which led to Ian Davion. I applaud such un-Clanlike initiative. Of all those who follow me, I see myself most in you.”

Rikkard glanced up from the sand slowly spilling between his fingers, found Kev still looming. Hearing the words of praise, but also the tone of reprimand; braced for it.

“Yet despite the eyes that see so much that other Clansmen do not, you miss a critical element of Ian’s performance. He was never just a warrior. He was the leader of his people. The Clans for too long have failed to recognize that while a leader should be a warrior without equal, he should be a warrior willing and able to place the honor and safety of his Clan before his own honor. Ian forgot that simple truth— a simple truth his brother never forgot. As you seek your answers, perhaps look to The Fox, rather than The Hound.”

Rikkard’s mind reeled as he tried to absorb the words. While they’d discussed such things before in theory, never had his Galaxy commander spoken so plainly of the faults of the Clans. He latched on to Kev’s final comment, defensive words spilling before he could stop them. “Hanse Davion ruled using a level of treachery and trickery Ian would never have condoned. How can you say he is a man to emulate?”

Kev’s voice hissed, eyes flashing again. “I did not say emulate. But you fixate on a single strength of a man, lauding his glorious death, when you should take that element and make it your own.”

“Hanse fought at the end of the Fourth Succession War.” The darkness hid the flush that spread across his cheeks at such a weak response.

“Hanse Davion fought because rogue units attacked New Avalon. Attacked his home world, his capital. There could be no other response than for him to marshal his troops and annihilate such a despicable act as that treacherous invasion. But unlike Ian, he never marched into war on the front lines.”

With a suddenness that took Rikkard’s breath away, Kev fell into a sitting position at his side, the looming specter of a Galaxy commander and his vision for the Spirit Cats set aside, leaving two warriors, old friends, to share in the intimate renewal of seeking visions in fire.

“You have never spoken so plainly before,” Rikkard finally managed, after swallowing additional useless arguments.

“This is true.”

A long pause. Out of the corner of his eye, Rikkard could see new lines of strain etched into the contours of Kev’s face, while his right index finger seemed to trace a pattern of its own accord in the sand.

“I feel . . . something.”

“A vision?”

“Nothing so concrete, Rikkard.”

“Then what?”

“More like . . . a vague sense of disaster. A . . . bad dream, forgotten upon waking.”

Rikkard closed his eyes again, hands resting on folded knees, his palms turned up. He soaked up the emotions of the night. Tried to sense what Kev might be feeling . . . found . . . a hint of darkness . . . and nothing. He let out a pent-up breath, willing frustration aside. It was his constant battle.

“Why did you come here?”

Kev’s words drew open Rikkard’s eyes. He stretched his neck until it popped. “Because I hoped . . . My visions haunt me.”

“Tell me.”

While sharing and potentially interpreting visions fell under the purview of Visionmaster Davik, Rikkard shared a bond with Kev—forged when Rikkard saved his life in battle and sealed by ritual—that allowed him to disclose such a sacred event.

“I see a predatory bird astride a tornado moving across an endless, hot and dry landscape. It has come to me at every Rite of the Vision and Ritual of Battle, and has even saturated my dreams of late. I know it is a key to finding sanctuary for our people, but regardless of the worlds I raid or conquer, the vision remains. And I continue . . . unfulfilled.”

Kev leaned forward and placed both hands firmly on the fine sand. The light and shadows of the dancing flames painted his face in unkind colors. You look old, my friend. Even as a Spirit Cat, a member of a Clan that looked upon age in a different light than any other Clan, Rikkard was shaken by the thought.

The companionable silence stretched, and soon Rikkard mimed the Galaxy commander’s position, pushing his hands smoothly into the rough grains. A light wind blew through the canyon as the night wore on, driving the flames higher and casting a shower of sparks like an offering of light to the ever-present darkness.

Muscles rigid with stress smoothed and relaxed under the soothing hands of the cool breeze. In the presence of Kev’s utter relaxation, the frustrations Rikkard kept banked like the embers of a cooking fire flowed away, as though enticed into the open through patience and dedication of spirit.

Rikkard floated, as all conscious thought swirled away. . . .

“Rikkard.” As though from a great distance the word tumbled. “Rikkard.”

He opened his eyes. Looking down, he saw he’d slumped forward until his forehead rested in the sand. As he slowly straightened, his eyes slightly widened when he saw how far down the fire had burned. He turned to find Kev regarding him with his head cocked to the side. “How long?”

“Most of two hours, judging by the fire.”

“Mmm.”

“Did you find an answer?”

“No.”

“What did you find?”

Rikkard leafed through the experiences of the unintentional vision quest and found—”Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

He considered for several long, deep breaths as he stretched his tired neck and shoulder muscles. His skin pimpled hard, the cold night air sucking away his body’s warmth. “No, not nothing. Peace.”

“Peace?”

“No, that’s not right. Patience,” he said with an epiphany, then conviction.

Kev smiled. “All too often warriors—Clan or spheroid, we all fall prey—lack patience. You have the vision, the key. You simply need to find the door. And I know you will.”

“Yet there are so many doors.”

“Now, there is the humor I have tried for years to instill in you.”

Rikkard glanced at his longtime friend in surprise. “I did not think there was humor in my statement.”

“Exactly.”

Rikkard’s eyebrows rose questioningly, drawing a laugh from Kev that cut through the night. At the sight of his friend—his Galaxy commander, who carried the weight of the Spirit Cats on his shoulders as the Clan tried to find sanctuary in a universe at war—laughing, Rikkard left his confused thoughts unspoken.

“Rikkard, go to Prefecture Seven.”

“What?”

“Go to Prefecture Seven. There you might find the answers you are looking for.”

“A vision?”

“No. A . . . feeling.”

Warriors’ eyes met for long seconds; then Rikkard nodded firmly. From Kev Rosse, that was all that was needed.

He stood slowly, testing tired muscles. From here he would walk to the hoverjeep that would take him to the waiting DropShip; once a decision was made, there was no need to wait, no long good-byes for friends, for warriors.

Yet he paused in midstep, glanced down and made a quick decision. Traveling to Prefecture VII would take him a hundred light-years and more from this world, whose history seemed to draw him like a moth to flame. And abruptly, with a conviction that matched his epiphany, Rikkard knew he would never visit this world again. Success or failure, my path will not lead to this place.

With firm motions he grabbed his small canteen, took a long swig and dumped out the rest of the water before filling it with several scooped handfuls of sand. Regardless of the truth of Kev’s words, Ian Davion epitomized the strength of will that any warrior could wish to emulate. If that is the only thing I take from Ian, I will take it.

He grasped the canteen firmly between both hands. “Strength.” He nodded once and strode off into the night.

2

Australis Hall

Talos City, Asellus Australis

Unaffiliated Worlds

27 February 3135

The long hall echoed discordantly with the murmur of a hundred voices. A step behind, Nikol tried to mimic the stately, demure walk of her mother and almost stumbled in the heavy layers of a dress she wore but once a year. Did Mother add extra layers to this dress just to see if I could walk in a strange public forum without falling? She wouldn’t put it past her mother; she tried to keep the small smile at that thought off her face . . . hoped she succeeded.

Peripherally, she noted the differences between a formal reception on Oriente and this one on Asellus Australis. While her mother promoted a somewhat informal attitude for such meetings, the initial progress of nobility toward the throne always was met with proper and silent decorum. As such, the whispering she heard startled her in its strangeness. Is that whatyou want me to take from this, Mother? That each encounter around us must be met with an open mind? The smile tried once more to push her lips up, but she kept a proper blank look in place. More likely that such open-mindedness allows for a quicker understanding of how to bind others to you. Now, that sounds like my mother.

Nikol almost stumbled again and refocused her attention, ignoring the whispers and more important, ignoring her mind as it raced with possibilities. One. Two. Three. Four . . . two dozen steps went by, and then she almost squeaked as she missed bumping into her mother by a finger’s length. She kept her eyes downcast after coming to an abrupt halt, suddenly fearful of hearing snickering from all around her. She breathed noisily—the heavy scents of perfume, sweat and too many lilacs making her want to scratch her nose—trying her best to ignore the heat flaming her face. I don’t care what they think. Why am I suddenly embarrassed?

“Ladies and lords, I present to you Duchess Jessica of Oriente, Her Grace the Captain-General Halas-Hughes Marik of the Oriente Protectorate.”

Nikol forgot all about her embarrassment and her head jerked up, surprise etching her features. Her eyes found the steward, standing in his finery at the base of the two-step dais that held a half dozen individuals, two of them seated on matching wooden chairs. Now, that’s interesting. Even more interesting was the fact that her mother’s shoulders had not twitched a millimeter. Her mother inclined her head as though she were accepting a high honor.

“Lord Garith, Lady Joslyn. Lord Collin, Lady Katirn. “ Jessica’s warm voice managed to almost instantly calm the hushed whispers in the room, her charisma enrapturing all in attendance with a bare handful of words.

Nikol struggled to school her features, but knew it was likely a failure as her mind leapt into overdrive. Why are you ignoring the slight, Mother? No one in the Oriente would dare use any last name but Marik. Yet she knew her mother well enough to know a method must exist to this madness. You always have a method, Mother. Even if I don’t always see it.

“I am most grateful you agreed to meet with me.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Lord Garith said serenely. “I must admit we were a bit taken aback by your request, as we had no news you would be in-system, much less desire a formal meeting.”

Nikol widened her eyes and managed to see past her mother to Lord Garith without appearing (she hoped) as though she were a rubbernecking tourist. The dapper gentlemen in his late fifties looked well suited to be the ruler of Asellus Australis. More important, his face appeared to hold honest interest.

“A last-minute decision, I must admit,” Jessica continued. “I am on my way to Paladin Victor’s funeral on Terra. I found myself ahead of our travel schedule and decided that I wished to convey my personal gratitude, especially when I heard that Lord and Lady Septunarin were on-world.”

The rulers of Asellus Borealis nodded graciously from their standing position behind Lord Garith.

“It is a happy coincidence that others are in attendance as well. Lady Tillin. Lord Golliel. Lord and Lady Yanez.” Jessica inclined her head in the direction of the rest of those gathered on the dais.

Though Nikol could not see her mother’s face, if it matched the tone of voice, she was turning the charisma on full-tilt. Don’t recognize Lord and Lady Yanez, but Lady Tillin rules Sophie’s World and I think Lord Golliel rules Lungdo? She trapped a sigh, slightly flustered. Why didn’t Mother tell me what was going on—why we are stopping at these backwater worlds? I could have at least studied some to know which ruler is from what world in this region. A sudden thought brought her up short, as a memory from their family meeting the week before they departed Oriente surfaced.

You planned this stop weeks ago. Why the lie?

She lost the thread of the conversation for several minutes as she batted that concept around. Of course her mother lied when necessary. Nikol was too much a student of ruling—despite sitting in seat five from any throne—to not be aware of such a need. Yet she couldn’t remember hearing her mother pronounce such a blatant lie before, especially to another ruler. Particularly when Nikol couldn’t see the need for the lie. Just tell them you made plans to stop by in person. Wouldn’t that make them preen all the more that Lady Jessica came calling to them specifically? Once again, Nikol seemed to be missing the method. She knew it was there. Knew her mother lived and breathed her methods as surely as Christopher lived and breathed the need to throw himself off a cliff. Yet it remained just outside her reach.

“We thank you for your kind words, and wish to extend to you an invitation to dinner.”

Nikol focused on the words of Lord Garith, and almost gaped like a fish as her mother accepted the invitation. We’re going to stay longer! We’re not ahead of schedule, we’re actually behind after the repairs inthe last system took an extra half day to finish, Mother. Why are you doing this?

The two stood bundled in borrowed, bulky cold-weather gear under the deep awning, waiting for a hovershuttle to take them out on the tarmac to their waiting DropShip. The blizzard had arrived swiftly, catching everyone unprepared.

This burg isn’t even large enough for an inside walkway out to the DropShip. Nikol shook her head in amazement. She’d been to many worlds, but to find a DropPort with only a handful of cradles for DropShips ... she looked around, almost expecting to see a shepherd or a herd of cows. She winced at the unintentional slight to the inhabitants of this world. Mother would never have such a thought. But Christo would . . . and he would say it out loud. Nikol smiled.

“Are you going to ask?” her mother finally said. Surrounded by their security detail, and blanketed by the blustering weather that kept all but the most critical personnel inside, no one would hear their low-voiced conversation.

Nikol breathed a huge white plume of exasperation into the subzero air. “I tried asking, but you wouldn’t answer me.”

“That’s because, my dear, you weren’t asking the right questions.”

The words came soft with a smile, and yet still stung. At least Elis isn’t here. She never cared if Christo overheard her mother’s rebukes. You get them as often as I do, brother of mine. And Julietta or Janos . . . she couldn’t care less what they thought. Might as well be my aunt and uncle. But Elis . . . her all-knowing sister managed to gloat without ever allowing such an unseemly look to grace her perfect features. Damn you, Elis.

“Okay,” she finally replied. “Let’s try again, then.” As always, her sarcasm failed to even dent her mother’s perfect equanimity. “Why have we wasted almost ten days on this side trip when we’re actually behind schedule?”

“It’s only been five days.”

Nikol breathed in the hypercold air, using the chill of it hitting her throat and lungs to calm her voice. After all this time she’d learned that anger never fazed her mother; it only caused Nikol . . . discomfort . . . in the long run. “You know what I mean, Mother. Five days back to the jump point. Unless you plan on having the captain burn to the nadir point at double g’s?”

Her mother wrinkled her nose. “Absolutely not.”

“Then ten days.”

“Okay. Ten days.”

“Why did you lie?” Nikol tried to switch gears on her mother.

“Are you afraid of a lie?”

Nikol laughed, perhaps a little too loudly. “No. I’ve lied plenty of times.”

Jessica nodded. “I’m sure.”

“And you taught me long ago that the truth can be more harmful than a lie.”

The trimmed hood nodded. “Then why are you questioning this lie?”

“Because it seemed so unnecessary. Why not tell them you’d come pandering?”

“It was an innocuous lie, wasn’t it? Just a small one. A little one. So, why would I provide such a little lie to rulers I’d planned on coming to treat with?”

Nikol stomped her feet several times, the vibrations bringing apparent warmth to extremities encased in too-thin boots. Nikol had been kicking that thought around for hours, all through the too-long meal, its insipid conversations and the overeager boy who thought he was a man trying to hit on her, not to mention the sickly sweet dessert that she could still taste despite thoroughly rinsing her mouth several times already. Why would Mother lie about that? It all revolved around why they came here, and she fell back to asking the same frustrating question.

“Why did we come here?”

“Weren’t you listening, my dear? I came to thank them for how well they have treated my ambassador and trade delegations over the last several years. Their wild grain stock is an absolute delicacy, and has proven quite a profitable import to the Protectorate.”

Nikol ground her teeth in frustration.

“That will only ruin your enamel, my dear.”

She ground them louder for effect. “We’re on our way to the most important meeting of leaders of the Inner Sphere since the founding of The Republic of the Sphere following the end of the Jihad fifty years ago. We’re behind schedule, and you take almost two weeks to travel to a no-name world to thank them for importing rice!”

“Let’s lower our voices, my dearest. I’d hate my work to go to waste with such talk overheard by a baggage handler, no?”

Nikol clamped her jaw tight, frustrated and yet amazed as ever that her mother could apply such a stinging rebuke couched in tones of honey. “I apologize, Mother,” she said, stamping her feet again to gain some warmth and buy her some time. Gazed into the darkness of the heavily falling snow to watch for approaching headlights. Hoped the hovershuttle would arrive and alleviate the situation. “You still didn’t answer my question,” she managed to get out.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re not asking the right questions.”

She swung her arms. “Mother, what do you want from me?”

“What do I want from any of my children?”

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop answering every question with another question.”

“But how are you to learn?”

“You’ve never asked such endless questions before, Mother.”

“I haven’t?”

“No. You usually tell me what my opinion should be.” Nikol sucked in a deep lungful of cold air, shocked at her words, desperate to take them back as eyes that so closely mirrored her own, despite her mother’s age, locked with hers. For once, her mother’s façade seemed to crack momentarily, a shadow of something moving behind her eyes before the tender smile of a favorite aunt quickly took their accustomed place.

“Perhaps,” her mother said. “Then again, perhaps I’m finding that giving you your opinion no longer serves my purpose. Perhaps I wish to find out what your opinion is, without my own getting in the way. But ask yourself this, Nikol, as you search for the right questions. Why wouldn’t I come to this world?”

Though one part of Nikol wished to rail at the silliness of turning her question into philosophical-sounding rhetoric, her mother’s other words seemed to rob her of the ability to think of any further questions beyond one: she honestly wants my opinions?

The hovershuttle pulled up in a blast of cold air and snow, and the security detail swept forward to verify the safety of the vehicle. Nikol surreptitiously stared at the fine lines of her mother’s face around the edges of her fur-lined hood, and a single thought drummed in her head, despite a thrum of growing excitement she tried to temper. . . .

Why?

Regulus City

Chebbin, Regulus

Regulan Fiefs

Lester Cameron-Jones finished pulling off the leather doublet and placed it haphazardly on top of the matching kilt on the overstuffed chair. Despite the room being lit only by candles, the saffron flowers woven into the reddish material were still garish. I suppose it’s a good thing these aren’t my chambers.

With only a slight strain, he pulled the purple undershirt off and then the russet pants; almost lost his balance as he pulled off his boots. Could they make this blasted outfit any more difficult to remove? That he agreed to wear the ceremonial clothing in an effort to placate conservative elements within his government only snarled his agitation more. In another moment he stood naked, his aging, trim figure a pale ghost in the candlelight. Mood lighting? More like a wake.

The idea brought him up short. Have to let that go. Can’t forget my duties, now, can I? He hated sarcasm in others and doubly so in himself.

As he stepped toward the bed, the plush emerald carpet (he could almost ignore how it clashed with the rest of the décor even more dramatically than the chairs) soothed his taut nerves as it brushed against his naked soles, pulling away the anger of another fruitless session in the Palace of Mirrors. Why will the Assembly not understand? Of course I’ve got to go.

He reached the edge of a bed almost three times the size of his own modest king-sized one and stopped as the coverlets rustled and shadows moved under the depths of a heavy canopy. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, shifting his mind to a place he traveled only once a month. Waited several long moments as he commanded his body to obey, then slipped between the sheets.

Despite the warm body that awaited him, the sheets seemed preternaturally cool to his skin, sending a shiver out to his tingling fingertips. Flesh touched flesh, the hiss of thousand-thread silk imported from Molokai the only sound beyond quickened breathing.

Lester got to work.

An hour later he lounged in the hated chair, stirring a cup of selaj tea, a cool blue robe sheathing his body in a comforting embrace. Emlia entered from her bathroom, clothed neck to foot in her own robe. As she made her way to the table recently occupied by his clothing and now containing a set of the finest Brahma River china, Lester carefully placed his cup on a saucer and poured a second cup. She gracefully sat down in the matching chair across from him, her blond, shoulder-length hair easily hiding the gray starting to come in, while her smile lit her beautiful face and her eyes shone with endless love and her gratitude for the monthly service rendered; nothing would be spoken on the subject, as usual.

God, how he loved his wife, despite the distasteful necessities.

“I assume the esteemed governor of Tiber is voicing his displeasure at your acceptance of The Republic’s invitation?” Her soft voice lilted with the edge of her deep intelligence that had won his heart so many years ago.

He chuckled. They both shared a smile at the idea of the concept “esteemed” being associated with David Eislan. Man’s more pig than human. “Sometimes I wish Duke Seren would have the balls to rein the pig in.”

“Such language, love.”

“I’m sorry. But how the duke can let the man run roughshod over him . . . just don’t understand it.”

“There’s a lot to not understand. But despite the man’s . . . abrasiveness, he’s managed to ally many to his opposition of you.”

“I know. I know.” Frustrated, he raised the cup to his lips too fast and managed to spill a small amount of tea on his bathrobe. “Blakist!”

“Dear!” Emlia’s voice rose in true outrage.

He set the cup down, grabbing a linen cloth to dab at his bathrobe as he glanced up apologetically. “Sorry, dear. Just . . . they simply don’t want to see.”

“Oh, I think you’re wrong there, dear. They see quite well. It’s what they see that differs from your view.”

“Huh?”

“What they see is one more step along a path, regardless of your intentions. They see a man attempting to solidify his dictatorship.”

He shook his head, anxious for his hands to be occupied, but he folded them in his lap instead. “This isn’t about me. This is about the Fiefs. If we’re to ever gain any respect, the rest of the Inner Sphere must recognize us. Must respect us. How many times have our trade overtures to the Confederation and Commonwealth been shot down in the last decade alone? It’s reached a point where our trade delegations practically prostrate themselves in an effort to gain an audience with the chancellor, just so that he can berate them and send them on their way. Berate me.” He clenched his fists, anger over the wording of the chancellor’s last correspondence—after sending the Fiefs’ trade delegation packing—still a fresh sting, like an hours-old gauntlet to the face.

A calming hand touched his forearm, its reassurance enhanced because the contact was through the robe, not directly on his skin. “Anger solves nothing, my dear.”

He breathed in the heady scents of candles and the soft caress of wet loam from the window he had cracked (both masking other, unpleasant aromas lingering from their earlier activities) and let his anger go. “You’re right, Emlia. I’ve got to find a way for them to see.”

“But not now.”

"Huh?"

“You don’t have time now. If you’re to make the paladin’s funeral you know you must leave tomorrow. “

A heavy sigh shook his frame. “I know.”

“I will see what I can do. The Gala of Lights is coming.” She withdrew her hand after another squeeze. “I’ll miss our dance, but I should be able to plant a few seeds here and there.”

“It won’t stave it off completely.”

“Of course not, dear. But a few well-placed words should build enough of a tangle to keep our esteemed governor from gaining any further ground while you’re gone. But, dear . . .” She paused, eyes narrowing. “You must return with something concrete. For the Fiefs.”

He nodded slowly. “I know, dear. I know.”

A companionable silence fell, the slight clink of china and sipping sounds soft counterpoints to the thickening patter of rain now washing through Regulus City. “Oh,” he said, remembering a passing conversation with his head of intelligence. “I want you to meet with Salazar.”

“Again?” she said, exasperation obvious in her voice and on her face. “The man is so tedious.”

He smiled kindly. “I know, dear, but it’s that very quality that makes him such a good intelligence director.”

She flicked her hand as she began to pour another cup and he smiled at her casual acceptance.

“Thank you, my dear.”

“And why am I meeting with our SAFE director?”

“There’s been some strange rumors out of Clipperton.”

“Bandits again? Do we really need to be worrying about bandits at a time like this?”

“Salazar feels it’s more than bandits this time. I trust his instincts, dear. Just want you to be kept informed . . . want Salazar to know that I take this situation seriously. He always works better when he feels I’m paying attention.”

She sighed with heroic martyrdom. “Of course, my dear.”

They shared a smile, and the comfort only decades of daily friendship brings settled like a shield of armor around him; he drank in the sight and scent of his wife, knowing he would be long, long months without her strength.

What would I do without you, my dear? Gods forbid I must ever find out.

3

League Central Command and Coordination

Mandoria, Marik

Marik-Stewart Commonwealth

11 March 3135

Laughter boomed in the Spartan room, concrete walls amplifying the sound.

“Ah, my lady Halas, could my esteem for you drop any lower?” Captain-General Anson Marik leaned back in the expensive chair—the only accoutrement out of the ordinary in the stark office—settling into the luxuriating sensation of electric fingers kneading his back. He held the stiff, water-marked paper up in the air, as though to verify its official status.

“Your son wishes to ski on my mountains,” he continued, as though addressing Jessica personally. His gruff voice held disbelief and condescension in equal measure, as his right hand grabbed a thick shank of his graying hair, then scratched at the muttonchops covering the sides of his face. “An official request to ski on Autumn Wind’s K20."

“We’re heading toward, dare I say, the most important meeting of leaders in this century and you not only allow your son to go pissing off on some damn fool trip, but you take the time to personally request permission for his entrance to my realm?”

He shook his head. “Thrice-damned mountain practically pierces the atmosphere and you wish your son to ski it, eh, my lady?” Another laugh boomed from his thick torso and he placed the paper back on the table as he reached for a pen. “You’ve caught me in a good mood, my lady. Big things afoot and if you want to send one of your misbegotten brats to his death, far be it from me to stop you. Hope he snaps his neck.”

With a flourish he signed the document, setting it into the Outbox for his secretary to handle.

The door opened and he glanced up as General Daniella Briggs entered, smartly snapping a salute. Anson glanced toward the clock on the wall, noting she’d arrived almost to the second for the appointment. As usual. He stood and returned the salute with equal dedication, then waved her to the waiting stool in the corner. “At ease. Please, Daniella, be seated.”

“I prefer to stand, sir,” she said, moving into a slightly more relaxed pose.

He expected nothing different from the fiery-haired woman who managed to be such a boon and a pain all in one short package. “As you will.” He sat back down and tapped the chair console to cut out the massager; too distracting. “I see you’ve read the report?” he said, waving casually toward the bright red manila folder under Daniella’s arm.

“Of course.”

“Your thoughts?”

“Very thorough. Very credible.”

He smiled. Straight to the point and blunt as ever, eh, Daniella? “Then what should we do about it?”

“Sir? What more can we do about it than what we’ve been doing for years? Particularly after Stewart? “

His big, beefy hand slapped the table. “I told you not to bring up that cluster.”

“And I told you, sir, that to ignore our failures is suicide. We’re not the Lyran Commonwealth. Hell, sir, we’re not even the Capellan Confederation.” Her words made clear the horror of that statement, a counterpoint to his clenched stomach muscles.

Lord, how we’ve fallen! We were the first Great House—and now we’ve got to fear even House Liao and their crazy chancellor!

“So, sir,” she continued, “ignoring our defeats is tantamount to putting a blade to our own throat. We erred badly on Stewart. We sent too few forces and we didn’t understand the situation enough to realize a Clan Sea Fox Aimag could be brought into the fray. We lost too many good men that day. I’ll not do it again.”

He was tempted to slap the table once more, but managed to keep his temper. Just. Lord! What an aggravating woman. But he had to concede her point, bitter as it was to swallow. He nodded, knowing that even with her eyes pegged to the back wall she knew exactly how many hairs were out of place on his mammoth sideburns. “Right as ever, Daniella.”

She simply nodded, which aggravated him further, but he directed his ire into useful energy. He opened a drawer with his thumbprint, slid out one of three folders identical to the one in Daniella’s hand and flipped it open on his desk.

“Yes, we’ve prepared for an invasion by the Lyran Commonwealth for decades. Since their last foray. But according to Snowlily, this is something altogether different. They’ve stepped up preparation. Actually begun troop movements.”

“It’s not definitive. Even Snowlily states as much. But we’ve verified some of the troop movements as best we can despite the communications blackout and it is very . . . suggestive.”

“Suggestive, Daniella? That’s the most you’re going to commit to this, isn’t it? Suggestive.”

“Sir. We’ve corroborated his information as much as we’re able to at this point. It’s all very, suggestive.”

He contemplated his top general, his fingers once more finding their way to his sideburns. Though his large frame made him almost her height when he was sitting and she was standing, her cool blue eyes still managed to burn holes into the concrete behind his head, even though she had to be seeing forehead and the jungle of his thick gray hair. He thrummed fingers thick as sausage links on the table, the hard, plain edge a constant reminder that life was filled with pain and unexpected edges that could and would cut. That thought matched the feeling in his gut. And despite its large girth (large muscles, not fat), his gut never failed to point him right.

“I understand, Daniella. But this is different. We’ve got our losses from Stewart in that failed attempt to grab the world last September. We’ve got the thrice-damned Lady Halas with her own odd troop movements. And of course, let’s never forget ol’ Lester, just waiting for me to slip up somewhere.”

“Duke Lester would never invade.”

“You’re right, he wouldn’t. Ol’ man’s too yella for that. But he could use his trade agreements with some of my enemies to force some members of Parliament to try and block some of my initiatives.”

“Parliament doesn’t have the teeth, sir. You’ve seen to that.”

He ignored the implied rebuke. “Yes, but I’ve still got a public to handle, and crying MPs wringing their hands on prime-time holovid doesn’t make my life any easier. Especially as I’m away for the next few months on this thrice-damned trip to Terra.”

She actually managed to look him in the eye briefly, before returning her eyes to something that just must be fascinating behind him, to hold her attention so. “Sir, I thought you said this trip is vital.”

“It is, damn it. It is. But it doesn’t mean I’ve got to like what’s going to happen while I’m gone.”

“How can much happen while everyone is in attendance on Terra, sir? It would seem you’ve got some protection on that front.”

“You’ve forgotten your history, Daniella. Fourth Succession War ring a bell? That’s exactly what ol’ crackpot Maxy thought. Even ol’ rod-up-his-ass Takashi got snowed by that mean son of a bitch. Sat there, right on Terra, while everyone munched on cake, and smiled, knowing a hammer blow was cutting House Liao in half. Damn, but Hanse was a warrior to admire. Crying shame he died drooling at his desk. A warrior like that should go out guns blazing.”

“Yes, sir.”

He tried to lock eyes with her, but she wouldn’t budge her gaze from the wall. I don’t think you agree with me, General. You’re competent to the hilt, Daniella, but our little conversations always shine the ol’ noggin light on why I’ve never promoted you to marshal. Need someone just a hair more under my heel as my top gunslinger.

“As I was saying,” he began, flicking on the massage chair despite its distraction, grateful as the kneading metal balls worked away his frustration. “Just because we’re all away doesn’t mean the mice won’t come out and play. And Lester’s the type to trust his subordinates all too much. Especially that wife of his.”

“What are you suggesting, sir?”

“I’m suggesting I’m surrounded by enemies. I’m suggesting that the Lyran Commonwealth is going to invade. And it’s not simply a case of them coming, because of course the thrice-damned Elsies are going to invade us again some time. My gut says sometime is a lot closer than we’d like to think. If they’ve got the balls to try and invade while I’m gone . . . I could almost see them trying to pull it off. And when they come, the hammer will be as big and heavy as their money can make it.”

She cocked her head slightly, her “I’m deep in thought” mannerism a further annoyance sucked away by his chair. His eyes began roving the walls, the digital clock seemingly slowing down as he waited for some response from his general in command of the world of Marik.

Birth world of his dynasty. And yet . . . a world right on the edge of Republic space, whether The Republic was shattered or not. A world all too close to other enemies: Lady Halas and her thrice-damned Protectorate . . . ol’ man Lester . . . the Lyrans. When the Free Worlds League shattered during the Jihad, his Marik-Stewart Commonwealth might have lucked out in nabbing the world of Marik and in getting the fortress that housed the League Central Command and Coordination, but his gut told him not even a facility designed to survive orbital bombardment would protect him from what was coming.

“Perhaps we should move the capital, sir.”

“What!” Her words hammered at his concentration, a mallet to a gong. How in the hell . . .

“I said, perhaps we should contemplate moving the capital.”

He breathed heavily through his nose, the stale scents of the room cut with his own sweat and a light dusting of some flowery smell—he assumed Daniella’s perfume. Though that didn’t seem likely. “Very good, General. As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” Point to you for catching that, Daniella.

Anson smiled as he managed to force her eyes off the wall. “Sir?”

He relished the slight confusion. Not often I catch you flat-footed, eh, General. Throw out some hare-brained idea and you actually toss the dart almost into the center. It’s why I keep you around, Daniella. When you stop hitting the bull’s-eye, though, that’s when I’ll need to think about what to do with you.

“But not how you’re thinking. Capital needs to move. I need to move. But the MPs had a field day with the disaster on Stewart. That one’s still too close. And with them sniping at my heels for heading off to Terra for the shrimp’s funeral . . . Well, suddenly announcing I’m moving the capital? Don’t think even I’ve got enough snake oil to wash off the shit-clods they’re gonna throw.”

“Then what, sir?”

“Gonna pull one of the oldest ploys in the book.”

Sudden comprehension flooded her face and she nodded once before turning her attention back to the oh-so-fascinating wall. “Your body double.”

“Bull’s-eye. In fact, I’ve already started. While I’m gone, most of the critical data and personnel for running the realm will be slowly rotated to my hunting estate on Atreus. Little by little, with the first already off-world.”

“Your body double’s good. But not that good.”

He smiled, pushing against the edge of the desk, enjoying the pleasurable snap of vertebrae aligning, while hyperaware of the edge of the table and how close he rode to splitting the palms of his hands open. The finest line. The finest line between pushing the limits and winning . . . and spilling blood. Especially my own.

“Don’t you know that I had to fire my personal physician for giving me the wrong inoculations for visiting Terra? I’ll have come down with the most terrible case of fever and flu.” He smiled wider at the wrinkle of disapproval that marred her pretty face. Changed his voice as though mimicking his press secretary: “Nothing too serious, of course. We’ve gotten a clean bill of health from Dr. Xavier. But he will need to rest and recuperate. As such, he’ll be in seclusion at his hunting lodges on the Azman Sea for the near future.”

“It won’t hold up forever. And if the MPs find out, they’ll be outraged.”

He shrugged aside her worries. “Of course it won’t. And they’ll always find something to be outraged about. Crybabies the lot of them. But it’ll last long enough. And when the Commonwealth invades”—he hit the desk sharply, the sound like a supersonic slug from a gauss rifle—”we’ll be prepared and I’ll have my vindication. Let the MPs cry all they want at that point. They’ll be standing on sand.”

“Very good, sir.”

Anson squinted at her. She sounded too smug. So she’d guessed one of his plans. Let’s see if you got this one, Daniella. He heaved up out of the chair and swept around the desk, a bull on the move. “Follow me.”

Anson stomped down one of the primary arterial hallways of the League Central Command and Coordination building, Daniella hurrying to keep up. As Anson made his way to the mammoth natural caverns abutting the complex, where a battalion’s worth of ’Mechs could be serviced and deployed, he continued. “When the Elsies come, can we stop them?”

“Isn’t that why you’ve set up the switch of the capital?”

He grimaced and yanked on a sideburn, glancing around to make sure no one was too close. Not to mention that staring the inevitable in the face for so long still managed to be bitter. “Careful where you talk of such things. And when they come, they’ll hammer us. And even without ol’ man Lester and Lady Halas to worry about, and even ignoring the thrice-damned Republic, we probably couldn’t hold.”

The silence behind him was deafening.

“So how do you fight an army with far superior numbers and resources?” Anson continued. He slammed open a door, angry at her too-long silence; glanced over his shoulder as he came to an elevator, after typing in the access code and applying his thumb for ID. “Well?”

“You expected a response? I didn’t realize we had the time to discuss the complexities of strategies surrounding the minimization of a superior force by inferior numbers.”

He stared daggers, annoyed, as ever, at her ability to so easily ignore his anger. “You build a regiment.”

She slowly met his eyes, lips thinning. “Another regiment is not likely to make a significant difference. Not when the disparity of forces is so great.”

You want to frown. Go ahead. Frown, Daniella. Would be good for you to let an emotion shown now and then. He grinned, as though to guide her to an emotion. Any emotion. “Of course not. If we could build ten regiments, that might be worthwhile. But why build a new one when we’ve got other regiments that need refitting and replacement, right?”

They entered the elevator and it swooped down as he waited for a response. Despite her reticence, humor grew in place of the usual irritation he felt at Daniella’s ability to get under his skin. You guessed the capital swap, but you’re missing this one. He mentally patted himself on the back.

With another swoon of unease in his belly from the speed of the descent, the elevator came to a halt and they exited into a giant, natural cavern. Halogen lights lit the grim interior like daylight, showing off a small city’s worth of steel girders, buildings and shacks stretching for hundreds of meters to either side of the door and nearly a thousand meters to the other end. The opening was shielded by a giant, semirigid cloth shell, similar to a rigid-shelled air-ship. Despite the overwhelming scale of the cavern, the metal giants inhabiting it still retained their awesome presence. While Anson had long ago lost most of his sense of awe at the behemoth metal BattleMechs, he still appreciated the raw power they represented.

The hustle and bustle of the cavern cleared the way for the thumping approach of an assault-class ’Mech, its metal feet pounding the rocky cavern floor with a gracefulness of movement that signaled an accomplished MechWarrior as its pilot.

At the sudden intake of breath he heard at his side, a supernova smile flashed onto his face. Gotcha!

Anson waited patiently as the BattleMaster approached to within a dozen meters—even his breathing quickening as fourteen meters of metal death cast its giant shadow over him—and powered down. The cockpit hatch popped open and a chain-link ladder fell to the ground. Bare legs emerged through the hatch first and then a fit young man in MechWarrior togs skimmed quickly down the length of the ladder and trotted the last few meters to Anson, snapping a regulation salute as he came to a halt.

Anson returned the salute. “Force Commander Cameran-Witherspoon.”

“Captain-General,” Cameran-Witherspoon responded.

“I gather you like the gift?”

Force Commander Cameran-Witherspoon glanced almost lovingly back over his shoulder at the green-and-brown-camouflaged ’Mech. A silver falcon, wings and talons outstretched, set against a large blue-black disk, featured prominently on the right leg. “Absolutely. Thank you, Captain-General.”

“You have a roster for me to review on my trip?”

“Aye, Captain-General.” The man nodded earnestly, fingers combing a rain of sweat from a tangle of unruly blond curls. “I’ll turn over all appropriate documentation within the hour.”

“Good. You’ll have my comments before I leave the system. This is going to take time, Force Commander. I don’t have a regiment of ’Mechs to toss in your direction, so it’ll be up to you to keep the ball rolling. I’d better see a unit when I return.”

The other man’s eyes showed appropriate fear before Force Commander Cameran-Witherspoon saluted and marched away.

“Why are you resurrecting the Silver Hawk Irregulars? “

The confusion in her voice affected him like tossing back a shot of whiskey, making him feel warm all the way down. “Why, indeed.”

“So many units were shattered during the Jihad— regiments with a history far more storied than the Silver Hawks. They’re a provincial regiment.” She almost managed to conceal her distaste.

“So the Silver Hawks Coalition worlds wanted a locally raised force to protect their boundaries. The Silver Hawks accounted for a number of victories, not just for those worlds but for the Free Worlds League as a whole.”

“So did a host of other regiments. What makes them unique?”

Anson turned to face Daniella, the gleam of satisfaction at completely stumping her fully apparent; her own features changed from confusion back to their usual studied neutrality. “It’s exactly because of their origins.”

“I don’t understand. The provincial regiments were always more loyal to their own worlds than to the League as a whole. Why wouldn’t you want a more federal-oriented regiment? A Legionnaire regiment? They would be far more loyal to you.”

He slowly nodded his head. “They would be. And if I could raise ten regiments, that’s exactly what I’d do. But I can’t. One regiment is all I’ll get, and even then I pray the thrice-damned Elsies will give us the time to make sure they have more than modified IndustrialMechs to fight in.”

“Then why the Silver Hawks?”

I’m not going to give it to you on a platter, Daniella. He patted his stomach, wondering if he had time for a sandwich before his final meeting of the day. But I suppose I can give you one part. You’ll figure out the rest. “You’ve seen all the sims, same as I have. Which worlds are the Commonwealth likely to hit first? Eh, Daniella, which worlds?”

Despite her mask, Anson saw her realization the moment it crystallized. “Concord. Amity. Old Coalition worlds.”

“Bull’s-eye again. Provincial units fight more fanatically for their home worlds than for any loyalty to a federal cause. Nearly all those culled from other regiments to join the ranks of the Silver Hawks will have ties to the original Coalition Worlds.”

“Several Cameran-Witherspoons have commanded the Silver Hawks over the years.”

Anson once more patted himself on the back. “Bull’s-eye. Can’t believe I managed to dig him up— and he’s actually a good commander. I would’ve taken an ugly cripple.”

“They’ll never survive.”

Anson smiled again at the too-even tone, easily able to ignore her implied rebuke this time. “Of course not. But I’ve got one regiment I can build, and this way we might just cause the most bellyaching when the Elsies try and swallow those worlds.” Of course he hoped they might do a lot more than that, but if Daniella wasn’t up for figuring that part out, then he’d leave her swinging. His generals were expected to think on their feet . . . albeit under his. He laughed out loud, loving the strained look on Daniella’s features.

“Where does that leave me, sir?”

“You?”

“Yes, sir. Where do I stand in all of this? The capital . . . issue.” She looked around, in such an open area rightly avoiding any clear comment concerning moving the capital’s most critical functions. “And a new regiment for the border. Where do I stand in all of this?”

His smile grew, until the edges seemed to disappear into his muttonchops. They locked eyes one more time and he saw she knew exactly what he was about to say.

“Regardless of what I do on the border, they’ll be coming for Marik. Daniella, you’re the bull’s-eye.”

More important, she knew exactly what he didn’t say.

And you’d better not lose.

4

Geneva, Terra

Prefecture X

The Republic of the Sphere

25 May 3135

Nikol Marik stepped lightly to the entryway, her soft slippers on the marble floor making a mere whisk of sound largely masked by the hubbub ebbing into the long hallway. Eyes darting around the room, she unconsciously wetted her dry lips as she became aware of the lack of a herald to announce her entrance. Nikol immediately knew she preferred this more intimate setting to the grand affair of the Exarch’s Ball that had transpired just over two weeks ago.

That previous event was simply too bombastic, oft-times surreal. Overwhelming architecture and ornamentation; gaudy holographic displays jouncing her nerves; the orchestra making it difficult to think, much less talk; the unsubtle display of power The Republic attempted to project, as though desperate for the attendees to forget the weakness glowing underneath like yellowed bones through decaying flesh on a body too long in the dirt; the attendance of khans and House lords from nearly every major star empire spanning the thousand light-years of the Inner Sphere (an evening without a political agenda— ha!) . . . The mental and physical fatigue of that evening, especially trading barbed words with Caleb Davion, had exhausted her more than she cared to admit.

A smile nevertheless found its way to her face. But I got in more zings, Caleb. The smile slipped away at the memory of those haunted eyes and his anger focused on her. Nikol almost shivered. That man is creepy !

She breathed in, drawing the aromas of the room into her nostrils as though tasting the air, sensing for danger. Despite the elegant jade-green gown that fit her from ankle to wrist to throat like water woven into thread—causing some in the crowd to turn, eyes probing for secrets she kept hidden—her stance spoke volumes to those who knew what to look for: here is beauty and confidence.

At least that’s what you want them to believe, right, Nikol? A dangerous warrior. She almost giggled, and then her lips thinned into taut lines of determination as she tried to ignore the voice asking if she wasn’t spending too much trying to emulate Danai Liao-Centrella and that woman’s natural strength.

Her eyes continued to rove the room. I thought Mother would be here.

A mere twenty meters on a side, four human-scale baroque-style windows ( only three meters high) looked out on the greensward and a private section of Magnum Park, almost directly across from the three-story-tall ferroglass wall of the hall that had hosted the Exarch’s Ball. This hall seemed full with only several dozen people in attendance; she had noted that each ball attracted fewer and fewer people. The Clan khans were the first to stop coming; even if the events were only once a week, she couldn’t help but sympathize that their warrior society didn’t exactly prepare them for this type of . . . engagement. She did note that some of the youngblood Clansmen were still in attendance; the giant frame of Lars Magnusson rose above the crowd in his usual fine form.

Now, why did I think that? She glanced quickly away from the broad-shouldered warrior, then chuckled softly. I’m likely one of the few to attend of my own free will. Might as well enjoy, right?

Having spotted someone she might speak to without lapsing into mindless pleasantries, she flowed down the stairs with the natural grace of a gymnast.

Before she could reach her destination, however, two men crossed her path. Her breathing quickened, despite her resolve to show strength.

“Ah, I believe this would be Nikol, eh, Lester?” Duke Anson Marik said, his voice seeming too loud even for his generous size.

Anson’s companion glanced in her direction, hawk eyes looking past a hawk beak at something he spotted in the middle of a field. And Lester appeared very, very hungry. “Why, yes, Duke Marik. My lady Nikol,” he said with a slight tilt of his head.

“Lady?” Anson actually glanced around a moment, before sizing up Nikol as though inspecting a hunk of meat. “Oh. I see. Sorry about that, Lester. Misunderstood what you meant.” Despite his words, Anson’s eyes conveyed about as much sorrow as twin PPC blasts to the chest.

You don’t scare me, Anson. She managed to keep her skin clear of a blush, and once more ignored the little voice that warned her she needed to stop lying to herself. She had strength; knew she had strength. Had met with world leaders before, walked in the parades, shaken the hands. She might be fifth from the throne, but that didn’t absolve her of the duties of royalty. Her mother would always find a way to use a child of royal blood, whether she had five or fifty. But this was different. These were captains-general. These men stood above her, both literally and figuratively. More to the point, and despite words to the contrary, they were effectively her enemies.

She tipped her head down slightly, as though she were actually taller than them and looking down her nose at some insect. “I accept your apology, Duke Marik.” There was no quaver in my voice.

Duke Marik squinted as his hand, twice the size of her own, seized a clump of hair on his face that reminded her of nothing so much as the dingy tabby cat that occupied the lower floors of their summer palace.

“I’m sure he meant no offense, my lady,” Lester replied.

While she found as much hostility and as little sincerity in Lester’s words as Anson’s, she caught the ever-so-quick flick of the man’s eyes toward Duke Marik. A slight tremble of his lips seemed like an effort to hide a smile.

Duke Marik flushed, eyes blazing, the heat of his hatred almost scorching Nikol’s face, before he looked away and let out a belly laugh. “Good for you. Stick up for yourself. I admire that, my lady.”

“Lady Marik,” she said before she could stop herself. She managed to keep her poise, despite her shock at her own temerity. She had resolved to show strength, but these still were dangerous men. Rulers of realms that bordered her own with no love lost for her or her family. Enemies.

But Janos or Julietta would never have made such a comment. Observing the niceties and all. No, they’d find a more oblique way to remind one of their status, without giving offense. They are experts in the endless dance of tongues. Her tension eased slightly as she labeled this encounter with the nickname she and Christo had given to politics. Then again, fifth from the throne . . . Perhaps I can get away with what they cannot. I usually do . . . perhaps this is no different. She hoped so.

Duke Marik managed to not look at her directly as he answered, as though he saw someone in the distance. “Of course. Of course.”

She glanced at Lester to see a mild look of distaste, but it was smoothed away so quickly she wondered if she saw anything at all.

They dislike me. No, they hate me. But they’ve no love for each other. How can I use that? She glanced back at Anson, ready to try to dig through his thick layers of skin, only to be thoroughly startled by the next conversational tack.

“So, my lady, what do you think of the political situation here on Terra?” Lester asked politely.

After several heartbeats she realized she was gaping at being asked such a politically charged question, her mouth hanging open like that of a country bumpkin come to see the sights of Geneva. She snapped it shut with an audible click and could feel a blush heating her skin at the knowing look in Lester’s eyes and the broad smile pasted on Anson’s face.

She took a deep breath—her dress suddenly constricting—and marshaled her defenses. Snagged a drink from a passing waiter in his ubiquitous white uniform (how does he keep it so white?) and took a long pull from the glass before realizing it was not champagne but white wine. She never did well with white wine. And in front of these two men? She swallowed past the fruity taste. A different tactic. And show strength.

“The fighting will spill here.”

Lester slowly clasped his hands as though in meditation and eyed her silently before responding. “You believe it will?”

“Yes. The renegade senators and their pocket ex-knight will make it to Geneva.”

“Before Victor’s funeral?”

“I can’t say. But they’ll come.”

“The Republic will stop them,” Lester said, but his eyes told the truth of his own thinking.

“Perhaps. But at what cost?” Despite sitting fifth from the throne, she’d received the same exacting education as her siblings and had excelled in military theory and tactics. Despite what others obviously thought of her, she was smart enough to gather as much information as possible on current events. Smart enough to think things through and wonder if our own necks just might be on a chopping block. “It’ll be a Pyrrhic victory at best. Geneva will be smashed.”

Lester’s eyes seemed to pierce and prod. “So you are saying that Exarch Levin will sow what he has wrought with the disbanding of the senate?”

She shook her head, glancing down as she swirled the wine in the glass, choosing her words carefully. Never know who might be listening. “I didn’t say that. The senators were corrupt, seeking the downfall of his office. Regardless of what lies are spread, that is truth. What choice did he have?”

“Corruption?” Anson said, pulling both their eyes to him. He sucked on his bottom lip as though tasting some new cuisine on his tongue, while he ran a hand down his considerable paunch. “Truth? These words are too subjective. Results are all that matter to the masses, and that golden rule has determined the rise and fall of far more empires than any real truth: victory is its own success and the victors write history, making truth.”

Nikol managed to hide a grimace. That sounded all too much like Mother.

“What happens if we are all drawn into this coming fight?” Lester responded with aplomb, his face and voice betraying not a hint of emotion.

“I don’t believe even the renegade senators would be so stupid,” a new voice cut in. “Besides, as soon as Victor is in the ground, we’ll all be burning to jump points, putting ourselves out of harm’s way. The senators have to know that, and will want us out of the way as badly as they want to take Geneva.”

Nikol let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, glancing to her right as Jessica glided into their conversation. The brilliant mauve of her gown was echoed in her rouge, eyeliner and lipstick, as well as a heavy double knot of amethysts around her neck. Absolutely radiant.

“Mother,” Nikol breathed with a warm courtesy. Resolve or not, tension along her shoulders eased at sharing the confrontation.

“My dearest.” She smiled at Nikol, before a more serious look took in the two older gentlemen. “Duke Marik, Duke Cameron-Jones.”

“My lady,” both said almost in unison, voices frigid.

Nikol managed to not gape again, but barely. The hatred these two felt for Nikol was a matchstick flame next to the DropShip’s burning-fusion plume of vitriol directed toward Jessica. She marveled that such cool language could walk hand in hand with such hot hostility. Marveled more at her mother’s composure under assault.

You always told me the hatred these two men held for you, Mother, but I never grasped it. I never imagined.

“An interesting assessment, my lady.” Lester finally spoke, the first to master his emotions.

“Yes, my lady, interesting,” Anson said, unable or simply not caring to curb the emotions that twisted his features grotesquely, despite an attempt at a civil voice. “But it doesn’t change what I say, eh? Victors write history. If the senators think they have what it takes, then they’ll take Geneva, smashed or not. Sometimes it’s the holding of the prize that matters. Even if the prize is smashed all to hell and back.”

Her mother waved her hand dismissively. “Only the Davions and Steiners have the luxury of large realms and overbudgeted militaries, allowing them to bask in justifications and half-truths. Small realms that border such . . . immense enemies . . . do not have such luxuries. Such realms are drenched in the harshest of realities. Not ‘real truths,’ but the truths as discovered by soldiers dying in lost battles, and displaced commoners eating their shoes and having to decide between keeping a wife and a daughter alive. Those are the only truths that matter. It is time others, including The Republic, faced their own harsh realities. They will soon enough.”

If Nikol imagined their hatred before, it couldn’t compare to the detonation of loathing that should’ve swept her mother out of existence. Her mother stood against the blast furnaces of their abhorrence, an island of calm, uncaring. She slaps them with an analogy that points directly at their realms and ours. The dance of tongues . . . there was no better practitioner of the art than her mother. Awe, and a strange reluctance to accept that emotion in relation to her mother, warred within her.

“It has been so nice exchanging pleasantries with you, Anson and Lester, but it is getting late and I need to speak with my daughter.” Without a further word, she casually placed a hand on Nikol’s forearm and began to guide her away, leaving the two men flat-footed.

Despite the obvious danger of the situation, Nikol couldn’t help the admiration that blossomed, despite her conflicting emotions. “That was magnificent, Mother,” she said as they wended their way through a small throng of people, heading to a far corner.

Her mother smiled.

“But dangerous. You mocked Duke Marik’s bravado.”

“Sometimes I fear the man believes his realm is as large as he is. All three of us are in the same boat, whether he admits it or not.”

They shared a laugh, and then Nikol became serious again. “Still, it was dangerous to confront him like that, right? They hate you so. They won’t even call you a Marik.”

“Of course they hate me. They blame my father for destroying House Marik and shattering the League.”

Nikol opened her mouth to respond and managed to quickly click it shut, for once curbing her tongue before it got her into hot water.

They reached the corner and Jessica turned to face the room, as though to keep an eye out for anyone straying too near. “Say it.”

“Say what, Mother?”

“Say what you were going to say.”

Nikol took in the kind yet steely gaze of her mother and responded. “But he did shatter it.” After all the years of always avoiding this topic, she couldn’t believe that here, now, among so many strangers and enemies, her mother finally seemed ready to talk about it.

“No, he didn’t. Yes, he was an imposter. Yes, he had no right to the Marik name; hence why our esteemed dukes refuse to acknowledge the name in connection with my own.”

Nikol shook her head. “Then I don’t understand.”

“Yes, he was an imposter. But he was not the reason the League shattered. He certainly contributed, but they lay the blame squarely on his shoulders. They refuse to see that until the Jihad, until Thomas’ unmasking and all the woes that have come to us since then, he was perhaps the finest captain-general to ever sit in Parliament.”

Nikol saw a look in her mother’s eye as she spoke, a look that reminded her a little too much of the look on the face of dukes Marik and Cameron-Jones; her previous thought that Anson’s words mirrored her mother’s tickled uncomfortably.

“My father. Your grandfather. Remember that, dearest,” she continued, looking Nikol directly in the eye. “The hate they spew springs from jealousy. Ours is the better legacy, Nikol.”

Despite her sudden queasiness at the comparison between her mother and the other captains-general, Nikol felt giddy. She’d faced down two powerful enemies of her realm, and for the first time in her life Mother appeared to be treating her as an equal. Not handing her an opinion. Not constantly testing her as she’d done on the trip here, but honestly taking her into her confidence.

“Mother,” she finally managed, “why are you telling me this?”

“You need to discover the answer to that question, Nikol.”

Only ten minutes before, such a response would have pushed Nikol back into her familiar frustrations. But at this moment the euphoria of standing up to the dukes and her mother’s new openness sparked a need in her to stop asking questions and instead provide answers. A need that demanded action.

She looked into her mother’s eyes, then gazed out across the gala, eyes going unfocused. Why would Mother be revealing this now, of all times? What’s so special about tonight? Terra? The Republic? The dukes? Her mind snagged. The dukes. That must be what’s important, but why? What’s different now? She swirled the now-warm wine in its glass, completely unaware that she still held it. I’ve never met them before. Right. Her own words floated to her ears on the soft strains of violins beginning the opening phrases of some music she didn’t recognize.

She looked back at her mother. “I needed context. I needed to meet both dukes. To feel their hatred of you. Of us. Only then could I understand what our own blood means.”

Her mother’s brilliant smile in response made Nikol feel closer to her than ever before. There were still so many questions left to be answered, and she knew her mother would continue to test her. As they shared a long, companionable silence, Nikol finally began to believe that she would find those answers.

Not because her mother handed them to her, but because she discovered them.

5

K20

Maplon, Autumn Wind

Marik-Stewart Commonwealth

25 May 3135

The wind hacked at Christopher’s skin like a serrated saw.

The blisteringly bright red-orange sun turned the endless field of white on the slopes of K20—broken only now and then by harsh pinnacles of the blackest ballast thrust up like a giant’s fingers reaching for the sun—into a glaring canvas of flame that ate at his vision and his brain’s ability to cope.

Gotta get out of this, or no amount of antiglare is gonna keep me from going blind.

Squinting, Christopher Marik hunched precariously forward, desperate to keep control of the hoverboard. He screamed, a cry of fear and pure animal joy as the hoverboard shot out into an abyss and his stomach clawed into his throat; the rebreather’s vibrations on his back spiked up a notch as it worked for more airflow.

For what seemed an eternity Christopher danced above a flame-washed winter wonderland, screaming with exultation before gravity finally tugged hard enough to pull the board down the almost thirty-meter vertical drop-off. Windmilling his arms helped him keep his balance and the small cushion of air under the board managed to soften the blow as he reconnected to the sheer face, but a sheet of powder sprayed around him like a wave thrashing a rock during a surging tide. The force of the impact almost drove his chin into his knees, and pain spiked along his entire body, accentuated by the subzero weather.

“Hot damn!” Course, another impact like that and not even this Gienah Mark III board is gonna survive, no matter what their ads claim.

Despite the conditions and the numbing cold working its way through the layers of insulated clothing, another shout slipped out as he expertly raced ahead of the avalanche started by his impact. Slaloming in a short s-track, he began a mad dash down into a large defile, careening through flashing patches of stark white and darkest night: a mad blur of sight and adrenaline that pummeled his senses until he cackled.

He snatched a desperate look at the lower portion of the heads-up display on his helmet visor, which showed a compacted 180-degree window of what lay behind: a sluicing tide of white, climbing ever higher as the defile compressed the snow wave, rushing forward with increasing speed; an albino monster, ravenous with hunger and seeking its prey. Bright green eyes sought the speedometer in the upper-right corner of the heads-up display and another scream of triumph ripped free as he saw the digital readout climb past two hundred kilometers an hour.

Crouched low, head almost between his knees, Christopher finally pegged the bright outline of the end of the defile shooting toward him as the wall of snow nearly engulfed him. With all the skill he could muster, Christopher pushed the hoverboard forward, as though increasing its speed by will alone, launching out of the defile as the avalanche detonated around him. The sharp decline following the slight rise at the defile’s end—along with his speed and the concussive blast of snow swirling under him—sent the board into a dangerous canted-edge slew. Christopher bent almost lateral to the left, as far as his binding-encased boots would allow, but he knew he’d lost this fight.

“Gamma Release,” he shouted, and the outer casing on his bindings exploded away from his boots, kicking his feet off as he thrust farther to the left, toppling him in the opposite direction from the hundred-kilogram hoverboard as it hammered on its side into the snow and began a series of flips that would have shattered his ankles. In an instant, the smooth-as-silk hoverboard would have become a cumbersome death trap.

While his mind chewed on that curiosity, he slammed into the ground, the wind knocked from him in a painful creaking of ribs. He felt ligaments tear in spasms of pain across his body.

As quick as that the avalanche was on him, the rebreather in overdrive to fill his battered lungs. He ignored the pain and kicked hard to the surface, stroking through the snow like he was swimming. He’d felt the impact tear away his communication antenna, so screaming into his communicator wouldn’t bring anyone . . . yet he screamed anyway, anger that he’d managed to traverse nearly the entire Kallfield ice slope of K20 only to be dumped by a little decline sloshing away his fear.

A small part of his mind wondered if the avalanche could have expended most of its energy coming out of the defile. Yet that thought hardly sparked on a conscious level as he concentrated on trying to keep above the cresting waves of white. Knew it to be hopeless when darkness brought cool relief to his ravaged eyes and he sank into the bowels of the frosty beast.

K-City

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The exasperated voice caused Christopher to wince. He couldn’t see Charlie through the cool packs secured over his eyes with gauze, but from experience knew a dark frown pushed the man’s petulant lips into a pout that would do a five-year-old proud.

“Thought it was a good idea at the time,” Christopher said, careful to not move any muscles beyond his lips. About the only part of me that doesn’t hurt. At least not too much.

“You thought it was a good idea.”

He swallowed and winced as he discovered that even his throat muscles were sore (not to mention the foul taste of multiple medications coating his tongue); he was already growing tired of Charlie’s presence. You need a better name than Charlie. Charlie’s a good buddy to hang out with. Grab some air with. You? You’re a Reginald. Or a Dwight. Officious bastard your mom sticks on your coattails. That still stung— handing him the sports tour with one hand and saddling him with a chaperone with the other.

“You wouldn’t understand, Charlie.”

The slap of Charlie’s hand on a counter sounded like a shot in the small hospital room. “You keep saying that. And while you repeat that mantra, I have my own litany. You were specifically told about the Kallfield ice slope. You were told it’s a protected region of K20. They’ve opened up the entire mountain, except for one small section, to men and women stupid enough to strap on a board and try skiing down a natural formation that pierces the atmosphere. That one small section protects an endangered species. But no. You can’t stop yourself. You’re right in the middle of a marathon competition and you simply can’t resist pulling out and going down the most dangerous part of the mountain. By yourself.”

Christopher thought he heard the splatter of Charlie’s sarcasm against the walls.

“Not just because it’s the most dangerous part of the mountain, but because they told you no,” Charlie forged on, voice growing ever more strident. “Her Grace specifically asked permission for you to enter the Commonwealth. She didn’t need to ask, but she felt it to be a courteous gesture before one of her blood entered another former League realm. Particularly a realm where we aren’t exactly welcome. And now you go gallivanting around without a care for how this affects your mother or our diplomatic relations. . . .”

Behind the blackness of his gauze compress Christopher didn’t try to hide his sigh as his mind wandered. Not even a “glad to see you alive.” The second they wheel me in here after digging me out of the snow and he’s all over me with the same tired crap. Sure, Mom was all about being courteous . That’s exactly it. Had nothing to do with taking my ultimate extreme trip and turning it into her own tool of state. And I don’t evenunderstand the point. Do what I want to do; I’ll get instructions from her later. And then she slaps Courteous Charlie on me like a deadweight shackled to my board.

“I said, what do you have to say for yourself?”

Charlie’s sharp tone dragged Christopher from his own bitter thoughts. He resisted the urge to scratch his nose, unwilling to subject his tired muscles to the pain; he knew Charlie wouldn’t help, nor would he ask. “Boarding.”

“What?”

“You said skiing. I was boarding. And I almost made the whole slope. The whole damn ice field . . . almost made it.”

Another slap on the counter, and . . . was he stamping his foot? Christopher bore the pain long enough to smile. Five-year-old, indeed.

“It’s all over the local news. They’re calling you ‘Hellion Hughes.’ A slap in Our Grace’s face and smear on her rightful use of the Marik name and you’re laughing? You’ll be kicked off-world. Perhaps even out of the Commonwealth.”

He shrugged and then hissed as his muscles protested. “Damn it. Leave me alone now, eh, Charlie? So they’re going to kick me off the world. Been there, done that. Plenty of other worlds to conquer. Plenty of other mountains. My mother, Your Grace, gave me permission to go on this trip . . . so I’m gonna take it.”

Despite all the strings attached.

Amur, Oriente

Oriente Protectorate

Janos Marik carefully placed the page on the desk in front of him, making sure the edges aligned with the stack beneath, as Force Commander Casson entered the room.

“Force Commander,” Janos said before the outer guard even finished shutting the heavy door.

“Sire,” Casson responded with a sharp salute.

Janos looked at the man gravely after returning the salute. He had never cared for Ivan Casson, and knew that the force commander was aware of his feelings. He didn’t know or care how the man felt about him. Despite the fact that you enjoy Mother’s patronage, I don’t like loose cannons, and you and your Eagle’s Talons are powder kegs.

“Have you made a decision regarding my request, sire?” Casson said.

Janos’ hand carefully straightened the pen on the desk until it sat perfectly parallel to the stack of papers and flicked away an imagined mote of dirt. Always impatient, Force Commander. It’s what cost you your raid on Wyatt. It’s why you’re still stuck here, even if Mother has given you a new rank. He let the silence lengthen until the other man betrayed his nervousness by running his hand over his salt-and-pepper flattop.

“I have, Commander. You want me to approve funding for, what did you call it, ‘orbital insertion training’?”

“Yes, sire.”

“I have to ask, Force Commander, why have you come to me with this request? It seems to me such a request should go directly through your own chain of command. Is that not so, Commander?” Janos settled more firmly into the high-backed chair in the well-appointed office, as though settling in for a long philosophical conversation to while away the evening hours.

The other man once more ran his hand over his hair.

Annoying, actually.

“Yes, sire. But I have been directed to . . . develop . . . some new training protocols.”

Janos raised an eyebrow.

The other man’s eyes shifted away, as if he’d rather be anywhere but here.

And so I wish you were as well, Commander.

“Sire,” the other man finally responded, looking him full in the face, “this training has been ongoing under the direction of Her Grace. It was initiated under her signature and continues at her will.”

“Even though it is outside the chain of command.”

“Yes, sire.”

Janos frowned, reached forward and lifted the paper he had been examining when the force commander arrived; a report detailing how Ambassador Rikkard from the Magistracy of Canopus had spent almost twice the usual length of time—in twice the usual number of visits—with Duke Ari Humphreys of the Duchy of Andurien in a month’s time. He certainly didn’t need to review the report again; he’d already decided that the ambassador likely was lobbying for a renewal of the contracts for a Pleasure Circus to cycle through Andurien space. He had jotted a note to himself in the margin to check when their own contracts expired. The Canopians were notorious for getting the upper hand in such negotiations, and Janos meant for the Protectorate to be on top for once. Something to show Mother when she returned. No, he was reviewing it now just to put Casson in his place.

Mother. There is a chain of command for a reason, and it should be followed. Why will you not see that? Such loose cannons as Casson can only go off in yourhand. After reading the page several times and not remembering a word of it, he finally placed the paper back on the table. Took a moment to realign it on the stack.

“I am only a regent in my mother’s absence. I’m well aware of my mother’s actions concerning your Eagles, and I’ve already countersigned the approval for the additional funding.”

“Damn it,” the other man said hotly, eyes flashing. “Then why’d you run me through this?”

“Force Commander,” Janos responded coolly.

The other man flushed, then broke eye contact, pegged his eyes to the back wall and snapped a sharp salute. “I apologize, sire. I was out of order.”

“That is all, Commander.”

“Yes, sire.” Casson came to attention, about-faced sharply and left.

That’s better. My mother gives you too much slack. But I’m willing to smooth off your rough edges.

He firmly placed Casson into a mental stack of finished business and picked up the next report. He read the page several times—something about a request from a border world for a formal reception with his mother—but his mind was distracted and he couldn’t make sense of it.

You think as little of me as I do of Casson, Mother. Even Father doubts. That painful realization came years ago, creating a wound that refused to scab over for a long time. Now it was simply a scar that he rubbed now and then, that ached when the weather of politics darkened and he discovered anew that his mother no longer believed him fit to rule. Their mother felt the same about Julietta, and that made him angry; how dare she think so little of his best friend?

I’ve given you everything, Mother. I have been a perfect son. Someday, when you see that the wild sides of Christopher and Nikol cannot be tamed, you will find that the son who has stood by your side is the one right for the Protectorate.

He sat and stared at the page for a long time.

6

Geneva, Terra

Prefecture X

The Republic of the Sphere

2 June 3135

Jessica Marik tried to suppress the smirk threatening to edge onto her lips, knowing that it masked her grudging admiration. You do know how to put on a show, don’t you? Even dressed in rags you would come off looking better than other rulers backed by a regiment of ’Mechs.

She and Nikol stood mere steps inside the main hall of the Capellan Cultural Center in Geneva. A literal host of tradesmen worked like busy beavers, their efforts covering almost every inch of the large room’s walls. More like busy bees, and all answering to the queen. The joke fell flat against her admiration.

“We welcome our honored guest to the Hall of Celestial Purity,” Chancellor Daoshen Liao intoned in the formal drone he always used. She looked around, and then slowly inclined her head, one ruler to another. Acoustics are magnificent. Hardly speaks above his normal insufferable tone and despite this ruckus, it’s like we’re sharing tea on a quiet morning.

While it was hard to see what the current austere lines of the room would become along the walls, the back of the hall already sported most of its more . . . imperial design. The thronelike chair in which Daoshen sat ensconced, like a spider beckoning to its dinner, stretched a full meter higher than Daoshen’s head—an accomplishment, because at two meters- plus, the chancellor generally towered over anyone in his presence.

You must enjoy that, Daoshen.

She considered the rest of the gaudy setup as she began walking sedately down the newly laid black carpet strip; one of the only clean places at the moment. Above the chair hung the seal of the Capellan Confederation, etched in glossy green and black and a full two meters in diameter. Well-placed wall sconces angled light around the chair-throne, turning the burnished metal into a halo highlighting the chancellor. While the effect tended to turn Daoshen into a creature of shadows, Jessica knew the man’s features well: dusky complexion, dark hair worn loose around his shoulders—often falling over his face like a shield— and his eyes . . . eyes like polished jade.

Stone eyes. Beautiful and beguiling but dead. Dead. Dead.

“Chancellor Liao.” She inclined her head once more upon coming to a stop a handful of steps from the chair-throne, confident Nikol followed in proper form.

“We are most intrigued by your request for an audience, “ he responded.

This close, Jessica couldn’t make out Daoshen’s eyes at all and was left looking elsewhere for nuances. Then again, even if I could see his eyes, I’m not sure I’d find what I need. Not just dead, but mad. Mad. Mad. Madder than old Max after the Fourth Succession War, and that’s saying something. Your great-grandfather, Daoshen. Must run in the family.

“When I requested an audience, Chancellor, I expected something a little more . . . intimate.”

“If intimate is what you desire . . .”

“Intimate is what we desire, Chancellor.”

From his shadows Daoshen seemed to contemplate her for several breaths before he casually raised his right hand.

She just managed to keep a startled expression from sweeping her features (simultaneously trying not to frown at the small squeak of surprise from behind) as two guards stepped away from the deep shadows behind the chair-throne, both raising their wrists to their mouths and speaking softly. The abrupt halt to all activity in the room created a deafening silence, before the shuffling of feet scraping heavily dusted flooring announced that every worker was making his way out of the hall. In less than twenty seconds the industrious room was a sepulcher of floating dust and empty echoes of breathing as the guards walked out the door and closed it softly.

“We appreciate intimacy.”

Show-off. She inclined her head once more. “I thank you, Chancellor.” She caught herself looking around for a place to sit, before chiding herself. Not in his presence, Jessica. This is as intimate as it gets with a god . . . . She smiled sweetly.

“I received a missive from you several months ago thanking the Protectorate for services rendered.”

Silence.

“In that missive you expressed a desire for our two realms to seek a mutually beneficial future arrangement. “

Silence.

You’re going to make me come right out and say it, aren’t you, Daoshen? Going to make me look like a supplicant. She inhaled a slow, deep breath, feeling the mauve dress pull tight against her breasts, before letting it out along with her anger; it would make no impression against his façade. For the good of the Protectorate. “I have come to ask whether such a mutually beneficial relationship is worth either of our efforts at this time.” Chew on that.

Silence.

Jessica refused to respond again without some verbal concession from Daoshen. Emasculated The Republic may be, but we are on Terra. I’m not about to stick my neck out and admit we’re on their doorstep discussing carving up their house. She gazed demurely at her folded hands, keeping her attention focused on waiting for a reply even as the rustling of heavy fabric behind her told her Nikol was losing her fight with patience. You’re coming along so well, yet you have so far to go.

“Our last endeavor was mutually beneficial,” Daoshen finally responded.

Are you capable of another tone, Daoshen? Or do you practice?

“And I am confident we will find another mutually beneficial circumstance. Hopefully one that we will be as successful as the last.”

“Of course, Chancellor. Is it possible that you have something in mind?”

“We have heard wonderful things about the bazaars on one of your traditional worlds, set against a giant mountain range. There is beauty in such industriousness, would you not say?”

Jessica’s mind raced. As though on cue, her long hours of studying The Republic/Protectorate/Confederation border brought up a crystal-clear mental image. The purple of the Oriente Protectorate in the anti-spinward/rimward region, the green of the Confederation spinward of the Protectorate and the brown of The Republic nestled at the top of both borders. Except those borders were fraying like a hem snagged on a thorny bush, the wearer blissfully unaware of what transpired. Yet in this case, The Republic is all too aware . . . and there’s nothing they can do about it.

She poked and prodded at the mental image, hoping to quickly decipher Daoshen’s enigmatic message. I’m not the only one unwilling to stick his neck out, chair-throne or no chair-throne.

The Confederation had invaded The Republic late last year and netted numerous worlds, including five worlds past the previous Confederation/Republic border to the jewel of Liao, the birth world of the Liao dynasty. Also last year, while Liao ate into Prefecture V, as part of a verbal agreement reached with the Confederation Jessica allowed her troops to lunge at the world of Elnath, just across the border into The Republic’s Prefecture VI. In reality, they moved anti-spinward and grabbed the world of Ohrensen, almost without a shot being fired. This move helped to keep Prefecture VI stymied, unsure of how to respond to the Liao incursion: this was the “mutually beneficial” circumstance.

But this? This would be bigger. The chancellor already holds Liao. He’ll now be thinking bigger fish. Nanking and its production facilities? No . . . Tikonov. Production facilities to dwarf Nanking, and an ancientLiao stronghold. But that would be pushing it even for Daoshen, reaching clear into Prefecture IV. He’ll want continued pressure into Prefecture VI. Keep Prefecture troops on New Canton from launching a strike on Liao while his back is turned.

She made minute, unnecessary adjustments to the smooth-as-water silk of her dress to buy more time to think, as if she were rearranging some unseen, out-of-place pleat.

Then the light flashed on and she allowed a warm smile to light her face. Zion. That bazaar is on Zion. An old League world, and it would put us one jump from New Canton . . . more than enough pressure to keep them off Liao.

She cleared her throat, the sound overly loud in the large hall. “I’ve heard similar things, Chancellor. I would very much like to show you such splendor.”

“We appreciate the invitation. Before the end of the year, perhaps?”

She sucked in a breath, the pungent incense hidden somewhere in the room prompting a light coughing fit she could not stifle. The end of the year! Ambitious, Chancellor, very ambitious.

She smiled sweetly once more. “I’m so sorry, Chancellor. I think I may be coming down with something. I request your permission to depart.”

Silence.

“But before I go, I would be happy to accept your invitation to show you an ancient bazaar before the year is out.”

“We are pleased. You may depart.”

“Thank you, Chancellor,” she said, inclining her head before turning gracefully to retrace her steps, barely conscious of her daughter at her heels.

There are many bazaars, Chancellor. You put far toomuch trust in your ability to intimidate. And far too much trust in the purity of my ambitions, Chancellor. Watch yourself.

She swept from the room, her smile never wavering.

Near Orbit, Irian

Prefecture VII

The blue ball slowly spun in the void, its four land-masses unrolling into view and then slowly spinning away again.

“Does this place call to you?”

Pulled from his reverie by words that so closely echoed his last meeting with Galaxy Commander Kev Rosse, Rikkard glanced away from the ferroglass porthole and the view of the world of Irian. Found the bald head of Janis Nova Cat in the darkened room by looking for the reflection. The harsh, actinic light of the G5III-class star in the system—uncut by any atmosphere—created harsh shadows, making her appear almost skeletal. Except for her eyes, which fought the sun for brightness. For glare. Must we always contend . . . ?

“No, this place does not call.”

“Then why are we still in orbit?”

“Because I wish it.”

“You wish it?”

“And I still seek.”

“Still!”

He looked away from the eyes that tried to flay him and found the emptiness of space soothing. The world, in its own way, conveyed strength. Strength of purpose and dedication. The size of the universe dwarfed the planet, regardless of the planet’s size in human scale. And yet it never wavered from its course. Revolved on its axis; revolved around its sun; revolved with the entire galaxy around the core; revolved as the entire galaxy roamed the universe.

Strength.

“This world does call to you, quiaff? If it does, let us take it. Now. Why do we hide in orbit?”

She does not take silence well. He continued his contemplation, easily maintaining equilibrium in the microgravity aboard the Starbinder Overlord-C-class DropShip as the craft continued its silent orbit of the planet; let the silence stretch further.

“Clansmen never shy away from combat.”

Her sarcasm slid off his skin like oil and water. It is true. “Yet Clansmen never waste. This world does not call to me. And so a fight would be a waste, quiaff?”

“Neg,” she shot back. “We have been far too long without combat.”

“And what would we call this combat, this Trial, if not one of possession for the world?”

“A Trial of Grievance.”

“Grievance?”

“Aff. Grievance for the very fact they are spheroids.”

He ran both hands across his face, carefully to not upset his balance, rubbing gently at tense muscles and too-tired skin. Late afternoon stubble pricked his flesh. He was not going to get into a semantic debate over what constituted a spheroid. Not after last time. Will you never learn? Will you always buck against my leadership, Janis? Are your Purifier beliefs so absolute they cannot accept a different kind of leadership?

“There will be no combat this day.”

“It is The Republic, quiaff? Kev Rosse remembers serving The Republic, and his cowardice has rubbed off on you.”

Rikkard slowly lowered his hands, extending his right foot toward the deck plating where his magslip adhered, allowing him to easily attach the other foot before he turned to face her. “If you have a grievance with Galaxy Commander Rosse, you may bring it before him in a trial when next we meet,” he said, his voice low, but pitched with the authority earned in blood. “Until that time, I will not hear his name derided. If you need to bring a grievance before me this day, then this day we shall fight and I will defeat you again.”

Despite her diminutive size, Janis seemed to loom in the shadows, almost vibrating with the energy of her disgust for Rikkard. “We are Clansmen, Rikkard, born to fight. Even you must remember this. And we have not fought in too long. Other Spirit Cats are conquering worlds and yet we roam restlessly, doing nothing, accomplishing nothing. We might as well travel outside The Republic and see what worlds are for the taking. We might accomplish more.”

As her tirade washed over him, Rikkard seemed to see through her and beyond her, past the metal walls of the DropShip, as though her words rent the universe and he saw somewhere else. Saw a world of dry, hot landscapes, and a predatory bird astride a tornado. Her words, as though a catalyst, spun visions before his eyes, until he physically bent under the onslaught.

Beyond, beyond, beyond.

“Star Colonel?”

Janis’ words roped him back to reality with a shuddering pop that seemed like a hammer-blow against his human shell, the long peal of the tone attenuating into the stillness of space.

“Star Colonel?”

His eyes found hers, finally focusing on the here and now as he seemed to have the first solid set of answers in far too long. She seemed to shrink as his banked passions sparked and enveloped him in energy. “Beyond.”

“What?”

“Beyond.” He smiled, a cat thanking lunch for entering its trap. “You said it right, Janis.”

“What?”

“We have hunted for sanctuary across dozens of worlds, all to no avail. It is time to move beyond The Republic. Beyond the borders trapping and obscuring our visions. We will search beyond the old Republic borders.”

She stood dumbstruck, the hate in her eyes dimming with confusion, and then slowly realigning with avarice at the scope of what he proposed. He knew he had her then.

The Spirit Cats were on the prowl.

7

Botanical Gardens, Jojoken

Altay, Andurien

Duchy of Andurien

8 July 3135

Julietta Marik tilted her head slightly and shook her hair to resettle the dark mass that cascaded halfway down her back. Her jasmine-colored dress, so dark that even in the sun it might be confused for black, reached to her neck, wrists and ankles and had begun to feel stifling as the afternoon wore on.

Perhaps I should have worn something a little lighter.

She reached for the dark glass on the small table, marveling at its weight despite its look of fragility, and took a small sip of the honey-lemon tea.

“While my business may not seem glamorous, my lady, I do own the single largest safari on Zahle,” Charles Cunin IV said. His voice managed to come across as clipped and trim as the man himself.

Not bad-looking, really. She took another sip, marveling at how the drink tasted as if she were biting directly into a honeycomb. Janos would appreciate this.

“Even in the current . . . unpleasantness, my holdings continue to flourish while others have fallen on hard times.”

She smiled as though interested and raised her cup as a signal for him to continue. She hoped for another breath of fresh air in the botanical garden to ease the heat of the sun, which seemed to cut right through the giant parasol protecting her from its direct rays. Would the man continue on about his wealth for the whole afternoon? Their third visit, and each discussion seemed to pick up where he left off; talking about what he would bring to the marriage. Compensating for the loss of his family’s world during the Jihad? If Mother actually pursues this course of action, I pray the man finds attractions elsewhere to stop up his

mouth. She managed to not quite shudder at the thought of the other attentions the man might bring to the marriage.

He paused long enough to raise his own glass in a similar gesture, took a sip and continued. “In fact, if my lady wishes, I would be most delighted to take you on a tour of our holdings on the southern continent.”

“You are too kind, Cunin.”

He smiled, and despite his ridiculous handlebar mustache, it came across as genuine. “Please, my lady. Call me Charles.”

She waved her other hand kindly. “Perhaps another day, Cunin. But not today.”

“As my lady wishes. And my invitation?”

You would do nothing but talk for the entire trip. I would be bored to tears. She searched desperately for a way to deflect the question, and her eyes lighted on a section of the botanical garden that was taped off, with a full dozen workers toiling in the hot sun planting a cornucopia of florae taken from three dozen long, flat potting trays. “How often do they change the flower arrangements?”

The other man appeared flustered for a moment, then regained his equilibrium and carefully glanced over his shoulder, past the cordon of security guards that kept other pedestrians from intruding on them, to the area being worked on. He turned back around, an almost comical look of grief etching his features.

“My lady, generally speaking the gardens are left to their own devices. Yes, we import a wide variety of species from around the Inner Sphere, planting them in landscaped regions best suited to their locale of origin. But within that regime, we believe in allowing the species to find their own freedoms. As such, we almost never impose such drastic modifications.”

She raised an eyebrow, pointing with the glass. A not-so-subtle hint of Andurien beliefs, Cunin? “Then, what has happened?”

“Vandalism, my lady.”

“Vandalism?”

“Yes. That region of the garden plays host to a wide variety of flora from the Marik-Stewart Commonwealth. And unfortunately, for many decades now, there have been those who call themselves ‘patriots,’ who vandalize the area. I’m sorry you had to see it, but you wished to visit the garden today and this is the finest spot from which to view its splendor.”

And the safest, I’m sure. She took another sip, savoring the delicious drink, before responding, her dull-looking eyes observing him carefully. “How petty.”

She caught the subtle tightening of flesh around the eyes, before he responded with a smile.

Elis would be shocked at such a rude statement fromher older sister. Or perhaps more shocked I tweezed out some of what the man hides? She sighed deeply, for a moment lost in fond memory of the little girl who had looked up to her older sister; now she had transformed into a grown woman who seemed all secrets and darkness and rudeness toward the woman who practically raised her.

“My lady?”

Startled out of her reverie, she jerked her hand and snapped the stem of the glass, tea splashing onto her dress and the table as the two pieces fell into her lap. “Oh!” she exclaimed, standing too quickly and sending her chair falling backward.

“My lady, are you all right?” Cunin asked as he sprang to her side to snatch the falling glass from her dress.

“Yes, of course. I’m so sorry.” She was glad her dark complexion hid the flush heating her face. She blushed again when she saw Cunin wave off a trio of guards who had rushed forward.

“No worries, my lady. Despite its weight, the Lopez crystal is very delicate.”

“Lopez?” she said, pausing in her effort to soak up the tea on her bodice with his handkerchief. “I thought Lopez was rendered uninhabitable during the Jihad.”

“It was.”

“Then how?”

“A family heirloom.”

She began fanning herself as the heat from the day combined with her blazing face to make her feel faint. “Sir, I am truly sorry. I have acted the fool and destroyed a precious treasure you chose to share with me. I must make amends.”

The other man smiled as he righted her chair, the warmth of it sliding past her defenses. “Call me Charles.”

She sat, swallowed slowly and tried the more intimate name. “Charles.” Not so bad.

“And you must accept my invitation to the safari preserves. You’ll find it well worth the time, my lady.”

Caught in a trap of her own making, she knew there was no way out. Elis would have the man wrapped around her finger, in complete control of the situation. Her emotions torn between anger and self-pity, she tried to quash her reaction, but nearly lost control altogether.

Mother, you can’t really mean this. I’m a grown woman. Almost fifty, for heaven’s sake. She managed to put a smile back onto lips that just avoided a quiver. “Of course, Cunin.”

He smiled even wider, his eyes alight with charm, but a knowing humor as well.

He allowed Julietta the small step back away from his first name, but he’d conquered the larger battle-ground for now.

“What do you think, Charles?” Duke Ari Humphreys asked. He was surveying the acres of gardens from twenty-three stories up; even the lush vegetation appeared wilted in the heavy heat, and he luxuriated in the cool air circulating through his office. Central air. One of life’s great indulgences.

“A trollop, my liege.”

Ari smiled, glad he was facing away from Charles. Close confidant Charles might be, but Ari found the other man’s archaic language amusing. But if he got the job done . . . “A trollop? If you’re going to use a name, Charles, call a spade a spade.”

“The wench broke an irreplaceable family heirloom! “

Ari pulled his smile under control and waited for his small, thin nose to finish twitching with the telltale of hidden laughter, then turned away from the magnificent view. “But what did you find out, Charles? Is this serious?”

Charles thumped his favorite cane on the floor, as though his tone were not emphasis enough. “I would as soon marry a matron of a Canopian Pleasure Circus.”

“Bloody hell, Charles,” Ari began, exasperated now. “Not again. I understand you don’t want to marry her. I understand you didn’t even want to send the proposal in the first place. But we agreed it would be worth testing the waters.”

Charles’ mustache practically quivered with indignation. “I never expected a return of interest, much less to be drinking tea with Julietta Marik and contemplating a real marriage proposal.”

Ari moved around the desk and dropped his squat body into the tall, leather chair that dwarfed him; made others think less of him. Keeps them off their guard. “You think I imagined they would respond? Jessica Marik actually responding to a communiqué from me? First time in years.

“Well, there was that incident—”

Ari raised his hand, cutting the words off midflow. “Don’t want to hear it. We’ve had our differences, but I don’t hate her like Anson or Lester. Still doesn’t mean I expected a response. And it still doesn’t answer my question, Charles. What do you think? Is it real?”

The other man blew out against his mustache several times and Ari tamped down his irritation. Wondered when his longtime companion’s personal habits had begun to wear at him so.

“Sire, I cannot yet tell. She is as prudish as virgin ’02 Villanueva plum wine, making our conversations as banal as her looks. It has proven much more difficult than I imagined.”

Prudish. You , calling her a prude. That’s rich. “But is she a spy? The woman’s practically in the grave and yet she’s never been married. Has her mother grown so desperate? Or is it a great subterfuge? If it’s a ploy, it’s a great one. I’ve watched a dozen holovids of each of your meetings and I’m catching nothing. Course, my branth has more animation in her eyes than that bloody woman.”

“Yes, my liege.” The man thumped the ground again, then spoke in a querulous tone. “What shall I do?”

“You offered to take her on a safari to your southern holdings?”

“Yes, my liege.”

“Then take her. See what happens.”

“Sir, I have no qualms about your plan. But this seems intentionally cruel.”

Ari slapped his hand on the table, allowing anger to wrinkle his face and spike his voice. “I’m not talking about going through with anything, Charles. But we have yet to unsettle her, and we need to unsettle her if we’re going to find out what’s going on.”

“This could backfire, my liege. If we insult her, she might carry that insult back to her mother. Do we need another incident to set back our relations?”

“I’ll deal with that if it happens. My ass, Charles. Stop debating and just do it. Take her on the trip and see what you can knock loose. If she’s as prim and proper as you say, then she’ll never discuss with her mother anything untoward that might happen on your trip. If she proves less prudish than she appears, then we might just find the crack we need to wedge open the spy angle, and then I won’t care what Jessica has to say on the matter.”

The other man bowed formally, his face showing his mortification at prompting such anger in his ruler. “I apologize, sire. I will depart immediately.”

As the other man left, Ari dropped the anger as smoothly as a curtain, opening up a small drawer and reaching under a false bottom to pull out a rare bottle of Glengarry Black Label. He poured a measured half finger and hid the bottle before tossing it back, the warm glow burning the length of his throat.

The man had his faults, but he usually got the job done. Let’s see what you’re up to, lady Jessica.

8

Jade Starfarer, Merchant -class JumpShip

Zenith Jump Point

Marik-Stewart Commonwealth

29 August 3135

I hate JumpShip travel.

Nikol sat forlornly in the main passenger berth of the Jade Starfarer JumpShip, hating that her mother preferred the giant ferroglass porthole and its view of the beyond to the minimal humanity of a grav deck. She wasn’t afraid of falling, per se; latched into her chair, which in turn was bolted to the deck, she had no fear of bouncing around from deck to wall to ceiling. Yet her stomach told her otherwise, and she was afraid of spewing; she managed to keep her lunch down through sheer tenacity.

Mother will not see me vomit.

“Isn’t that a beautiful world, dear?”

Nikol glanced at the porthole and grew even queasier for a moment as the view of Marik abruptly replaced the depths of space, remembering that the porthole acted as a viewscreen as well, the world amplified thousands of times. She felt sorry for herself. “It’s over a half million kilometers away, Mother. What do you care what it looks like?”

Her mother’s eyes turned to her—cool eyes that so nearly matched the ones she saw in the mirror every day—and she could practically feel her petulance and general sickness being squeezed by her mother’s will.

“ That world, as you so quaintly put it, my dearest, is not just any world.”

“ Please, Mother.” She swallowed, her parched throat aching at the motion, and wondered if she could stomach another shot of HydratJuice from the squeeze bulb. “I know, it’s Marik. Birth world of House Marik. It’s important.”

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Why is it important?”

“I thought we were done with questions.”

Her mother’s laugh pealed cool and clear, surprisingly free of rancor or sarcasm. “Oh, my dear, the questions never end. A lifetime is simply a series of endless questions to be answered.”

Nikol slumped forward, pressing her forehead against the cool table between the two of them. “That is so depressing, Mother.”

“You could also look at it as a challenge.”

Please. The months with her mother had been illuminating. With crystal clarity she still remembered the moment they had shared at the gala; an almost intimate moment between mother and daughter to celebrate Nikol’s growing understanding. Nevertheless, she often felt as if she were taking two steps backward for every one forward.

Yet unlike before, she’d begun to learn when it was time to speak up; the sickness just made the words a little more harsh. “I’m not Elis, Mother. You’re not going to get a rise out of me like that. Give me something and you’ll get something useful in return, or just leave me be.” Though she tensed for a moment, her stomach chose that moment to lurch—in fear or sickness?—and she let it go.

“Marik is a symbol, Nikol. A symbol we cannot escape. Antonin Marik founded the first colony on the world over a thousand years ago. And from this world the Marik Commonwealth bloomed, to eventually find its full fruition in the Free Worlds League. Despite our fractious nature, Nikol, we, all of us, are a people ruled by symbols. Mariks, Davions, even Liaos. And this world, the Marik name; it holds a power that cannot be denied.”

Nikol quickly forgot all about her maladies, slowly raising her head to find her mother once more gazing at the view out the porthole. Surprise warred with her roiling stomach for top consideration, before her travel sickness-addled brain perceived a possible answer. You still push, but when I push back, you give it to me straight. Yet all too often since departing Terra she’d pushed back, and more often than not received no answers. So, why is this important? She thought back to that night. Context. You want me to see Marik. See Marik and understand what you see.

As she contemplated the nuances of the relationship between the planet Marik and all those who felt loyalty toward it she took a quick shot from the squeeze bulb, working the foul concoction of concentrated nutrients around her mouth. The time allowed her to choose between several responses before speaking. “It’s a symbol you mean to harness.”

Jade eyes found jade eyes and her mother’s features echoed the predatory look they had worn that gala night. “Yes.”

“You mean to try to expand the influence of the Protectorate.”

“Of course, dear.”

“Anson and Lester will try and stop you.”

“I do not doubt that.”

“And yet the world of Marik is a symbol you must use.”

“Yes, dear.”

She took another pull from the squeeze bulb, this time completely unaware of its taste as she mulled over several responses and finally came to the only logical conclusion. Yet she didn’t speak it immediately, as it felt too simple. Too easy an answer. Not that it would be easy. No, if anything, it would prove very difficult. But the answer itself seemed too easy to reach.

Her mother’s eyes, so often fierce but now shadowed with that something else, finally pulled the answer out.

“You mean to try to take Marik.”

Her mother’s brilliant smile let the hidden emotion peek through a little more, sending Nikol’s pulse pounding.

“Of course.”

Nikol continued searching. “But that seems too easy. Who wouldn’t want the world? Lester I’m sure does, despite how much he protests otherwise. He has no Marik blood, but that just makes it all the more important that he at least hold the world. Even Duke Humphreys would likely take a stab at it, if it wasn’t several hundred light-years beyond his borders.”

“I’m sure of it as well, dear.”

“Then I don’t get it. Why did Anson allow us to travel through his realm to and from Paladin Davion’s funeral? Why allow us to be here at the jump point if it is so obvious? I mean, couldn’t we be spying, or something? Won’t he have marshaled forces here? Or something? What am I missing?”

“All of that is true, my daughter. But it is the very simplicity of it that is its own surprise. Of course Anson will know that I want Marik. However, he’ll never believe that I have the resources to take it.”

“Do you?”

Her mother reached across the table and gently patted her hand. A part of Nikol winced at the memories the action dredged up; her mother comforting her as a ten-year-old. But she chose to focus instead on the fact that they were having another of those frank discussions that still amazed her.

“That is a conversation for another day, dear. But let’s just say that with Lester and Anson breathing down my neck, they simply will not believe I’m able, much less willing, to commit to such a course of action.”

They held each other’s eyes for a moment before Nikol responded. “And you are, aren’t you? You’re committed to such a course.”

“Yes, dear. I am. And when the time is right, I’ll explain more.”

Though a thousand additional questions pushed to be spoken, Nikol kept her silence as her mother turned her gaze back out to the void of space beyond the metal skin of the ship. Instead, she settled back, sickness almost forgotten for the moment, as she basked in the glow of what she’d seen slowly growing in her mother’s eyes . . . growing since that night at the gala and becoming clearer each day.

Pride.

Korituk Bastille

Padaron City, Tamarind

Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey

A breeze off the Parnos River caressed the glass-fluted, sharp angles of the Musée National des Beaux-arts du Tamarind, wending leisurely through the thrumming streets of Padaron City, making its way to the foot of the buttressed walls of Korituk Bastille, up to the parapets and finally bringing the stink of the city to Duke Fontaine Marik.

Left hand resting on the stone crenellation of the parapet, he inhaled the scents of his beloved city like a man luxuriating in the perfume of a beloved paramour. He glanced toward the main part of the keep, where banners bearing the heraldry of the Marik eagle, along with the tri-leaf symbol of Tamarind, fluttered in the momentary breeze before going limp again. On the central building’s parapets, two guards in burnished armor stood in silent watch, their three-meter lances vertical and rock-steady.

“How Otho would laugh.” Fontaine spoke softly.

“To have built such travesty and tradition, only to find it entrenched a century after he was toppled from power by this very thing.”

“Your Grace?” A page spoke up from behind.

“Nothing,” he said gruffly, as a piercing cry split the air.

The cry, soul-soothing to a man seeking refuge, echoed again as a speck in the far distance quickly resolved into a bird rapidly gaining on his position. With joy, he lifted his right hand, encased in a heavy leather gauntlet, then paused and chuckled at the absurdity of deriding “Otho the Cold” only to draw such pleasure from some of the same traditions the deluded man espoused.

With a last cry of defiance the bird landed amid a whirl of flapping feathers and unique bird scents, mingling with the smell of blood from a recent kill. “You’ve had a fine feast, I see, Jodik. A fine feast.” While they were longtime companions, he was nevertheless careful as usual of Jodik’s razor-sharp, hooked beak as he held out his left hand and immediately felt the hood deposited there by a waiting page. With practiced ease he pulled on the hawk’s hood. “Good for you. Would that I might have such freedom someday. To roam and kill at will.” He chuckled at the indrawn breath of the page. “But such is not my lot in life, Jodik.”

He turned around, ready to hand off the bird to a second page waiting with a similarly gloved hand, but leaned in to whisper a last good-bye to the hawk. “But thank you for the momentary dream.”

Fontaine walked along the parapet to a heavy steel door, which he entered, immersing himself immediately in the all-too-familiar sights and sounds of his office. Since his wife passed away last year, he found comfort here more than in any other room. “Fallen asleep too many times to count,” he said, patting the back of his oversized chair near the fireplace. Winter or summer, it simply seemed appropriate to end the day next to the fire with a glass of brandy. He couldn’t even remember when he and his precious Karli started the tradition, but after all these years—not to mention in her memory—he wasn’t about to stop now.

With the sun close to setting, he glanced at the fireplace and annoyance wrinkled his brow. Wood should already be ready. On the verge of calling the page, he abruptly changed his mind and made his way to the fireplace. With creaking knees, he began pulling the slime logs from the metal tray to the right of the opening, laying each in carefully and then making sure the flue was properly opened.

No fire like last year, thank you very much.

A handful of minutes later, he gave up his effort to find something else to do and made his way to his desk. “How is it this pile of paperwork never seems to go away?” His throat tightened when no soft voice chided his querulous words, and his hand shook as he quickly poured himself a large draft of liquid into a brandy snifter, ignoring the echoes of dark looks that seemed to haunt such moments. “Just a little before the fireplace, my dear,” he managed in a hoarse whisper before tossing back the entire glass without so much as a single swirl or whiff.

He fell more than sat down into the chair at the desk, and stared blankly at the paperwork for what seemed hours before long years of habit reasserted dominance and he found himself looking at a request for Christopher Marik to enter Tamarind-Abbey. His eyes suddenly focused as he realized this could only be the Hughes boy, and his nose wrinkled at the holovid news he’d watched the other night during one of his frequent bouts of insomnia. Recently brought by a tramp merchant JumpShip, it included several incendiary articles and holocasts describing the travesty known as “Hellion Hughes.”

“And you wish to continue to accost the good public and nature with your games, boy.” His fingers twitched, vibrating the page, and he purposefully didn’t look toward the cigar box aligned at the edge of the table. Not like it’s filled with Niihau’s finest export, anyway. Closed his eyes, then dropped the paper and reached for the brandy and snifter again. “You only wished for me to quit smoking, my dear. One wish and I’ll keep it, by heaven.”

Her voice softly remonstrated that he was keeping the letter of the law while breaking the spirit of it, trading smoke for drink.

“I’ve not neglected my realm, my love.”

Not yet.

This time the glass shook so much he couldn’t bring it to his lips, and he finally set it back down, eyes finding the sheet he’d allowed to drop to the desktop. “What a waste, boy. A life to serve your realm and you waste it. Waste it all!” He coughed thickly, reaching for a pen to scrawl a dismissal, only to hear Karli’s voice chiding him once more; he was being too harsh, and boys will be boys.

He closed his eyes. “If the braggart Anson allowed the boy into his realm, then I’ll not do different. If you want to kill yourself so far from your home, so be it, boy.”

He signed the paper, managed to take another long drink, then reached for the next report, habit and inertia more than anything driving him forward.

9

Orbital Insertion

Park Place

Former Prefecture VI

15 December 3135

Force Commander Casson massaged the controls of his Sun Cobra. Feathered the jump jets to bring the yaw under control as he plummeted through the lower atmosphere, having jettisoned the ablative cocoon. Fell toward a plateau on the world of Park Place; hurtled toward it at terminal velocity.

“We’ve got bogeys angling in for another pass, Commander,” the voice of Senior Grade Lieutenant Jacobs spoke into his neurohelmet.

His eyes found his secondary screen and toggled to the radar map, which brought up the familiar fluorescent green line and its endless circling, along with the blips showing incoming with relative speed and location. Incoming, fast. He clenched his jaw to open a general commline.

“Okay, people, they got one free shot at us, let’s not give them another. They want to take some armor off us? Make ’em pay.”

A chorus of enthusiastic responses clogged the line momentarily as he checked his own damage schematic. While the pair of Stingray medium aerospace fighters had splashed only a half ton of armor off his center torso on their first pass, he knew not to take the fighters lightly, especially because he was a sitting duck while he fell. With his attention split between trying to hit a target moving at extreme angles of deflection— something a snot-nosed flier could do without blinking an eye, but it required a little more work from the gray matter of a MechWarrior—and making sure he didn’t pass the point of no return on his downward plunge and forget to kick-on full thrust from the detachable jump jets mounted to the back and legs of his ’Mech before he hammered into the ground with enough force to crack—

“Whoa, there, Casson,” he chided himself, softly enough to keep the commline from opening. He pulled in a deep breath filled with the funk of sweat, fear and exhilaration permeating the cockpit in an effort to calm his racing nerves. His eyes tracked the bogeys again, then slid to a third monitor displaying the schematic that showed both his Johnston highspeed extended-range particle projector cannons were fully charged and operational. “Let’s make this work.”

It wasn’t just a case of this being his first combat since the debacle on Wyatt. No, he also carried the weight of history on his shoulders. He just had to go digging into some history books while studying the geography of Park Place. Just had to discover that the Free Worlds Guards had an entire battalion captured by the Fifteenth Dracons mercenary unit in 2940. It shouldn’t have made a difference. No difference at all.

Yet it did. For him, this moment now seemed a stepping stone in the path of his life. His unit was attacking a world on which the Free Worlds League had suffered an ignominious defeat. And here he was, almost two centuries later, ready to make it right. To erase the black mark from history and raise the flag of Marik high once more.

Warning Klaxons blared as the Stingrays angled near. Grabbing his right-hand joystick—eyes flicking continually back to the altitude readout—he centered the targeting reticule on the forward viewscreen on the fast-approaching fighters. His brain screaming through math he was never very good at, he made a last-ditch decision, brought the reticule forward to lead the fighters by several centimeters on the HUD and flexed his index finger.

Twin beams of coruscating energy ate the space between his Sun Cobra and the passing fighters in an instant, as a return swipe of azure and ruby energy slashed from the nose and leading wing edges of the Stingrays. Heat eddies spiked, the heavy hair on his legs moving with the flow of the thick air.

“Damn it!” Both beams missed. The enemy pilots had better luck, as two large lasers slashed across his ’Mech’s torso, vaporizing armor; almost a ton of metal sublimated away in the hellish wind. The Sun Cobra rocked under the assault, the keening whine of the mammoth gyroscope in the bowels of the ’Mech announcing that the machine was tapping his internal sense of balance through the neurohelmet to keep itself upright and in position, to not pulverize itself into the ground.

A wicked grin spread over his face as an eyeblink later a veritable latticework of energy darts and streams of autocannon rounds crisscrossed the sky from a company of dropping ’Mechs. Enough found their mark to completely tear away the right wing of one Stingray, sending it spiraling down to its doom; the other, whether intimidated or low on fuel, quickly fled.

His altitude reached the appropriate level and he braced for another spike of heat in the cockpit; stomping down with both feet on the pedals, he began blasting short bursts from his jump jets to bleed off velocity.

“Looks like some ground bogeys have replaced the flyboys,” Jacobs said.

Casson nodded, already zeroing in on the mixed light company of vehicles, ’Mechs and what appeared to be battle-armored troops at about ten klicks. Even at this distance the tail of dust behind the small armored column spoke volumes. “Heading our way. It appears they’ve brought out the welcome wagon, people.”

“Would appear that way, sir,” Jacobs said.

He increased the tempo of bursts of waste plasma through the magnetic baffles of the jump jet ports, each one pushing him harder and harder into the command couch, the five-point harness pressing uncomfortably on his crotch. “Well, we’d hate to disappoint them. Right, people?”

Laughs echoed loudly, with plenty of “hell yeah” and “Lord, right” and “Unity!” thrown in the mix. He smiled, the frustration of the fighters taking free shots at his Cobra passing as he gauged what lay below. He ratcheted up the jump jets until their full thrust fought against gravity’s pull, and grunted at the fist of pressure momentarily crushing his body.

With a final blast of spent energy, the Sun Cobra hammered into the ground. He flexed the Cobra’s knees to take up the excess energy, but Casson knew he’d have bruises to show for the landing.

Explosive bolts detonated, the sound echoing triumphantly through the cockpit, as he detached the now-useless detachable jump jets. A quick check of his telemetry showed that his ’Mech was fully operational—minus some armor—and he toggled through several preloaded maps to verify the most accurate coordinates with his current location while waiting for the last of First Company to ground.

He toggled open a new frequency. “ Deathclaw, do you read?”

“Force Commander Casson,” the voice of newly appointed Captain Tullins answered promptly. “I believe I’ve a package for you.”

“Two packages, Captain?”

“Right, of course. Two packages. I’m reading you grounded?”

“Right. Grounded and heading toward known Park Place defenders. About seventy klicks outside Park City.”

“Then it would appear I’m set to drop both packages in line between the defenders and Park City?”

“Confirmed, Captain.”

“Confirmed, Force Commander. Good hunting.”

“Of course, Captain. Always is.”

He signed off the channel while moving the lefthand throttle forward, setting the Sun Cobra into a fast-paced lope to eat up the ground between him and the enemy forces.

It was playing out exactly as the battle plans had dictated. The on-ground defenders mustered less than two companies, almost all older materiel. And with one company of troops on the ground and the Death-claw about to drop two more companies between those forces and their capital . . . Park Place would fall before the sun set.

Amur, Oriente

Oriente Protectorate

Torrian Dolcat sucked on his teeth as he finished watching the holomessage he’d just composed in his small office buried deep underground.

With sharp, concise movements, he ejected the message cube, stood and moved over to a wall-mounted counter. A large monitor took up most of the wall above it. Setting the player off to the side, he pulled a cord attached to the wall away from its moorings and snapped it into the back of the small machine. He then tapped on the keyboard inlaid on the countertop, bringing up several programs. The first almost made him laugh; a standard clean sweep. Might as well use an IndustrialMech to open a can of beans.

Almost before he finished initiating the function, the mammoth computer beeped its readiness and Torrian cycled open the window for the program that required the processing power of the machine into which he tapped. Located several hundred meters from his current position, the stacked mainframes usually slogged through military hologram environments, created by a covert division of Kensai Holographiks, for secret military training operations.

A smile revealed his perfect white teeth as he slotted the data cube and executed his program. While he might have sat back down to wait, as this operation would take a while, he always enjoyed standing and waiting, peering into the depths of the monitor as though he could see the genius of his work unfolding in endless warps and woofs of threading ones and zeros: contemplating his encryption code at work.

A standard encryption system used a single complex function applied to the data and key to generate the cipher text. While this was fine for low-level security, it was often all too easy for a would-be code breaker to determine the type of algorithmic function used in the encryption, and a sufficient number of hours with the right computer software would yield a result.

For top security, a variable encryption system was used. In place of a single encryption function, an exceedingly large family of functions were used, with a randomly determined function applied to the data and key each time, ensuring a duel variable, exponentially increasing the difficulty of breaking an encryption.

However, for some things in Torrian’s line of work, an even greater level of security was needed—and hence his genius: the integration of a third encryption template across both the data and the key once the cipher text was generated.

Tapping into a thousand years of astral navigation and the literally millions of cataloged star systems and their unique astral signatures, his algorithmic coding randomly assigned a third template, based on a random astral signature. This third key acted as an overlaid template, effectively locking both in place. Any attempt to break the code and use an encryption not specifically encoded with the astral signature key would immediately render the material useless, eaten away as the astral signature code overwrote the material with a million-plus astral signatures, leaving nothing but galactic noise for a would-be code breaker to view.

This type of encryption carried baggage, however.

The cubes required to carry the data were excessively expensive and difficult to produce, and the processing power needed to generate the astral template encoding required mainframes to which only governments and the largest interstellar corporations had access. It also meant that intercepted information always was destroyed and unrecoverable—as far as he was aware, his encryption had never been compromised—meaning an extra level of potential security compromises at the user end, as multiple copies of such information needed to be transferred through several channels to ensure that it arrived at the target.

“But some things require such resource allocation,” he whispered as the computer finished its task. He picked up the cube, moved to the other side of the room and placed it in an internal-office pouch, tagging it for shipment on the next outbound DropShip.

It was time for Operation Stormdrain to move into its secondary active phase.

10

Mountain Retreat

Paltos, Atreus

Marik-Stewart Commonwealth

20 December 3135

Anson Marik strode down the corridor as though marching to war, his bulk hammering his boots onto the flagstone flooring with enough force to shatter an entire stone if he stepped on a defective one.

Thrice-damned hiding.

He’d practically been barricaded inside his DropShip following the transfer within The Republic. For long months he’d been stuck in his berth with only his thoughts to keep him company—his thoughts, and the seemingly endless reports that clogged his data-pads.

Even upon landing on Atreus he was forced to wait until the darkest part of night had descended to make his escape, hopping a small propeller-driven death trap from Atreus City. He then had to endure an uncomfortable water landing on a deserted section of the Paltos continent; the only landing strip on the entire continent was potentially too hazardous, as someone might recognize him.

"Never mind that the crew of my DropShip has a higher population than this continent.” He knew the growled boast was an exaggeration, but not much of one.

He paced down the long hallway of the mountain retreat that had been in Marik hands for centuries. Of course, oftentimes entire generations died without ever setting foot in this place. He turned right, submitted to a handprint and retinal verification, passed through the door that opened in response to his identity and descended into the rock through a tight spiral staircase, trying to keep his shoulders from brushing against the cold, unfinished walls. “A damn sight smaller than I remember.” A wolfish smile lit his face as he recalled the last time he had been this way: forty years ago, a child following his parent to learn a secret.

Arriving at one final door, he impatiently waited for another retinal scan and handprint reading to verify his identity, then barged through the metal door like a mastiff angrily announcing its surly mood to anyone inside. When all that greeted him was the bald head and unfocused gaze of Jacoby, he growled his disappointment.

“My lord,” the aging man said without rising from his computer terminal.

“I see you already found my grandfather’s safe room.”

“Indeed, my lord. Indeed. Fascinating how the minerals and strata structure of the rock surrounding this region of the palace’s foundation defeated nearly every acoustic test we used in an attempt to locate the room.”

“You knew about this room?” Anson said, coming up short, forehead knotting dangerously.

Oblivious of Anson’s anger, the other man continued speaking, eyes pegged to his screen, sallow features washed into a pastelike hue by the electronic glow. “Indeed, my lord. I’m head of SAFE. Very little happens within the Commonwealth that I am not aware of, my lord. But I’ve never had the opportunity to actually be in this room, and it proved very difficult to find—and I knew what to look for. It is not simply that most of the room is built of natural materials, but the very strata of the rock bounces penetrating signals in a way that makes the room invisible to nearly all the usual means of locating such a safe room. Whichever of your ancestors built this place, they did so without leaving a trace. Superb. Simply superb.”

“They obviously left a trace,” Anson replied, the frustration of the past months finally finding an outlet at Jacoby’s apparent diffidence; not to mention that the man’s singular inability to recognize his liege’s mood spun Anson’s anger to a boiling point.

“Yes, indeed, but only to an eye trained to observe the inconsistencies.”

“Then have we not just handed our enemies the means to find me?”

“No, my lord,” the man responded. “It is not simply a matter of training, my lord. It requires intimate understanding and knowledge of our culture. It requires growing up in the Marik-Stewart Commonwealth, immersion in what it means to be a Marik and the Marik history and dynasty. All of that is also required to find this place.” The man finally glanced up from his screen, his apparently vacant eyes a little too knowing at that moment, effectively deflating Anson’s anger.

With an almost petulant stomp, Anson strode over to the room’s one large table, yanked out an absurdly small chair and heaved his tired frame onto the metal; the creaking strain sounded loud in the room, practically echoing from the plain rock walls. “What have we got?”

“I assume your trip went well, my lord.”

Anson waved a huge hand through the air. “No chitchat, Jacoby. I’m here, aren’t I? They dug a hole, lobbed in his body and we came home. I want to know the lowdown on the Elsies.”

The other man nodded perfunctorily, as though he were content with being released from the niceties of small talk. He began speaking in earnest as his eyes were drawn back to the screen. “Very good, my lord. We have additional troop movements. This time from Duke Vedet. He’s actually moved troops off Hesperus. “

“Duke Vedet!” Anson practically bellowed, still trying to find a vent for his remaining frustration. “Thrice-damned peasant. The man thinks he’s worthy of a throne, and Melissa seems to be giving him all the leash he needs to take it from her.”

“But will he hang himself, or turn on the handler?” He slapped the desk, the cool top soothing despite the sting. “Damn right. The Steiner wench may think she’s got the duke under control, but he’s likely to find a way around whatever trap she may set for him and dump her pretty ass at the foot of her precious Griffins, guarding a throne she’ll no longer control. He’s a peasant, but he’s crafty, eh, Jacoby?”

“Indeed, my lord.”

“We need to get a message to Snowlily. Looks like the time might be sooner rather than later. Nothing too direct, of course. Can’t go tipping my hand after all the thrice-damned effort I’ve gone through. But he needs to know.”

“Indeed, my lord.”

“What else we got?”

“It would seem that the Protectorate has taken the world of Park Place.”

“What!”

“Indeed, my liege. I have been unable to verify the information as yet, but a tramp freighter out of Park Place made specific mention of Protectorate troops landing on Park Place.”

Anson breathed deeply, the cool moisture of the room doing nothing to reduce his spiking anger. “And they’ve got four old men and a three-legged dog for defenders.”

“Indeed, my lord. If the Protectorate did invade, Lady Halas would not make the mistake of sending too few forces.”

Anson tried to burn holes through Jacoby’s façade for the obvious veiled reference to last year’s debacle on Stewart, but once more failed to penetrate the old man’s aplomb. “Bitch.”

“Indeed, my lord. Finally, I’ve a report that Lady Halas made an unscheduled stop on the way to Terra.”

“What?” He hated using that word repeatedly around Jacoby, but he was so out of touch after the long trek back in hiding.

“It would seem that Lady Halas made a one-day stop at Asellus Australis.”

Anson tried to dredge up a mental star map. “Where?”

“Between our two borders, my lord.”

Anson closed his eyes momentarily, before a memory sparked. “Why is Lady Halas stopping off in the back end of nowhere?”

“I’m not sure, my lord, but it can’t be good.”

“Really?” Even as Anson once again tried to get a rise out of Jacoby, he recognized that his heavy sarcasm might not even be noticed—and surely would not be acknowledged. Damn it, Jacoby. You’re a hard man to work with, and impossible to retire if you become too much of a risk. You know too much . . . too many secrets. And of all those around me with secrets, you’ll have the means to reach from beyond any grave I might drop you in and destroy me.

“Indeed, my lord.”

Anson sighed, then leaned back in the chair until his vertebrae cracked, ignoring the ominous creaking of metal. What are you up to, Lady Halas? Several likely scenarios unfolded behind his closed eyelids, none of them particularly appealing. Especially with the imminent Elsie conflict. Another sigh shook his frame as he came to the only conclusion he could. Thrice-damned ol’ man. Gonna make me beg for this

one. He opened his eyes, tasting the sweat of anger on his upper lip as he spoke.

“I need to draft a holomessage for Lester.”

Near Zletovo, Lesnovo

Rim Commonality

The setting sun sliced through the thick air. A haze as light as Salur silk smelled of too-sweet fruit, freshly mowed grass and the damp flanks of a well-bred horse put through a solid fifteen-minute gallop across the lazy fields outside Zletovo.

Finally slowing her horse from the canter of the last five minutes to a walk, Elis Marik pulled off her hat, wiped away the sweat from her forehead using the back of her forearm, then plopped the hat back onto her mass of tangled hair.

“You really shouldn’t do that, Elis.”

Elis looked over to see Genevieve—wearing three times as much clothing as she was (including a corset!)—daintily sponging her brow with a silken handkerchief. Despite multiple uses during the nearly four hours on the horses that afternoon, the handkerchief managed to still be pristine white. How in the world . . . “You’ve got multiples of those hidden away, don’t you, Gen?”

“Genevieve. I’ve not been called Gen for a decade, cousin.”

Elis wrinkled her nose as though the horses were urinating again. “I told you, cousin, I’m not calling you that. That’s for a pampered princess waited on hand and foot. Not someone who can keep up with me during a fifteen-minute gallop.”

Gen wrinkled her own nose, her pale blue eyes set slightly too wide in a flattened face that commonly invoked words such as homely. “I believe I was allowing you to keep up.”

“Oh, really? I believe you almost got unseated.” Gen delicately sponged the rest of her face before tucking the cloth into a hidden fold of her riding dress, while she pulled herself up into an imperious position. “I blame Patina. She should’ve seen that rabbit.” She almost immediately broke character by leaning down and patting her horse’s flanks. “Ignore what I just said, Patina. It was really Elis’ fault,” she said in an exaggerated whisper.

They both shared a huge laugh as the sun dipped below the horizon and the world’s lapis-lazuli triple rings shone brilliantly in the darkening sky. As they both gazed upward to take in the sight, Elis couldn’t help surreptitiously taking in her cousin’s profile. I’m not sure how I can possibly have anything in common with you, Gen. But even after all these years and differences, you make me forget who I am . . . despite all your attempts to remind me of just that.

They shared a smile as they urged their horses forward once more at a walk. As they passed through a small screen of trees, Elis spied a stunning vista, a landscaped park stretching as far as the eye could see. The scents of the night-blooming plants mixed with the heady smells lingering from the warmth of the day created an olfactory feast almost too powerful to digest. Elis minutely shook her head at her own folly. She almost makes me forget . . . . Almost.

“Isn’t that the Royal Park?” Elis asked in an innocent tone of voice.

“Of course. Isn’t it magnificent?”

“It is. I’d love to go there.”

“Of course. We’ll go there next week, if you’d like—you can’t just stop by unannounced, you know. And now I believe Mother will have both our heads if we do not get back. We’ll already be close to an hour past full dark by the time we return. Brace yourself, Elis. Mother can be quite overbearing when I return late.”

They shared a smile before turning the horses around and trotting back toward their waiting trailer.

Time to remember who I am, Mother. Time to seize the initiative for myself.

11

Amur, Oriente

Oriente Protectorate

1 March 3136

The liquid flowed hot and smooth down Jessica’s throat, the resulting glow of warmth swimming from her stomach all the way to her extremities. “What a wonderful drink, my dear.”

“A Bautisiki,” Phillip responded from the other side of the veranda as he finished mixing a scotch on the rocks for Janos and a martini for Nikol.

“Whatever you call it, I’ll need to have another someday.”

“Not today?” Phillip asked, pulling a metal chair over to the round stone table. His eyes twinkled as they shared a moment.

“You know how I get, dearest.”

“Of course, of course.” He waved a placating hand.

“Mother.” Janos spoke up politely, his obvious discomfort at his parents’ playful banter almost comical. “You asked us here?”

Oh, Janos. She shook her head minutely as she took another, smaller sip. “Yes, dear. We will shortly be hosting a guest.”

“Yes?”

“Danai Liao-Centrella has sought an audience.”

“Really?” Nikol nearly squealed, the joy on her face transparent.

Careful there, my child. “Yes. Daoshen has sent his sister to discuss some . . . issues.”

“And what are these issues?” Janos responded calmly.

Jessica took a moment to look at the grounds of their family estate and embrace the unseasonably warm weather. You know you’re getting old when you take any opportunity to enjoy the sun.

“He wants to know why we haven’t struck at Zion,” Nikol volunteered.

Janos glanced at his little sister ( you’ll always think of her that way, even when she eclipses you, eh, Janos?)

as though wondering why she spoke up, then slowly nodded his head.

“Nicely done, Nikol,” Phillip praised her.

“Exactly, my dear,” Jessica said. “The chancellor is sending his sister in an effort to impress upon us the importance of our failures . . . or at least, I’m confident that will be her words from him.”

“What do you intend to do, Mother?”

“See what she has to say . . . and then ignore her.”

“Mother!” Janos responded, shock etched large on his face. “How can we not respond to a verbal agreement you yourself made with Chancellor Liao?”

“Oh, I’m not going to turn her out of the house, my dear. But I doubt she’ll come to the table with anything we want. This is an opportunity to further our goals. Daoshen has his hands full, and now is a good time for him to learn that we want more than crumbs from the table.”

“That is very dangerous, Mother. The Liaos are not known for forgetting . . . anything.”

“I know, my dear. But we must take risks, and now is the optimal time to do so.”

Her eldest nodded slowly, as though absorbing her words. But are you really absorbing them, Janos?

“What is my task when Danai arrives?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“You will not be here.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It has been too long since I toured the independent worlds that border the Protectorate. While you have visited some of these worlds, others have never seen your face. And those that have, have not done so for long years. I want you to embark on a goodwill tour.”

“Of course, Mother. Should I prepare to depart immediately?”

"Yes, my son. Your DropShip departs the day after tomorrow. I’ll meet with you tomorrow morning, but for now I’m sure you need to make your own preparations. “

“Of course, Mother.” Janos excused himself from the table with a proper bow and disappeared from the small garden into the interior of the chateau.

Jessica shared a knowing look with Phillip before taking another small sip of the wonderful drink, eyes measuring her youngest daughter’s reaction over the top of the crystal glass: as she took a sip of her own drink, Nikol had a pinched look that revealed her distaste at her older sibling’s easy acquiescence.

Perhaps you begin to see, Nikol, why I do what I do with you. Perhaps.

“And what is my task, Mother?” Nikol said after carefully placing her glass on the table.

“Also nothing.”

“What? Am I being sent off-world on some fool’s errand as well?”

The outrage on her face brought a gentle smile to Jessica’s face, particularly because it offered such contrast to Janos’ reaction.

“Now, Nikol,” Phillip began, clearly ready to take his daughter to task for taking a tone with her mother, but Jessica laid her hand on her husband’s arm to cut him off.

“No, you will stay here. But do you consider what I have Janos doing to be a fool’s errand?” Jessica carefully observed Nikol as her youngest’s eyes lost focus, her attention diverted elsewhere. When a new expression washed her features of its confusion, Jessica smiled in satisfaction.

“You bind them to you.”

“How?”

“By sending your own eldest. Your heir. To come and visit them in their homes. Despite themselves, this will help bind them to you.” Her expression became even more focused. “That’s why you went to Asellus Australis. To bind them.”

“But why me? Why not leave that to Janos also?” She waited for her daughter to fall prey to the easy answer of “a convenience of travel,” and further satisfaction bloomed when she did not.

“Because Asellus Australis is too important to leave to Janos.”

Jessica sipped at her drink again, then placed it carefully back on the table. She could almost see the holoprojection of a map of the Protectorate border flickering before Nikol’s wide eyes.

“Asellus Australis. Asellus Borealis. Sophie’s World. Lungdo. Australis is the key. All those world leaders were on Australis when we arrived. Together, they probably form some level of power bloc.” Nikol’s eyes refocused and snapped onto Jessica. “But how could you possibly know they would be there when you made the trip? How could you have orchestrated that?”

Jessica smiled. “I orchestrated nothing, my dear. Not even I have that faculty. No, SAFE informed me at the last minute that a meeting of those world leaders was occurring. I was able to take advantage of that. This is a lesson you should learn well, Nikol. The key to success is not making everything happen around you, but putting yourself into a position from which you are prepared to take full advantage of circumstances when they arise. I’ve long prepared for this moment, as you well know by now. While I’d planned on stopping on Australis and laying appropriate groundwork toward those other planets, that they were there together was simply a fortuitous event. A sign, if you will, that I move in the right direction. And an event, as you recall, of which I took full advantage.”

“Then if you can win over Australis, the other three worlds will likely come.”

“More, Nikol. That entire region centers on the leadership of Australis. If we can gain Australis, there is a good chance that Sorunda, Ling and even Gomeisa will follow their lead.”

“Seven worlds,” Nikol breathed softly.

“Exactly.”

Nikol canted her head, as though trying to peer at something from a different angle, before a smile of understanding lit her beautiful features. “Yet the very importance of that world meant you could not appear to be too eager. A casual visit is an honor. A purposeful visit suspicious.”

The warmth of Jessica’s smile this time matched that created by the drink. “Exactly, my dear. Exactly. But will all the worlds come to my call? Will all those seven? Will all the independent border worlds that Janos visits?”

“No. But many. When you call, many will answer and support you.”

Jessica nodded, well pleased. “Anson and Lester seem to have forgotten that the League is a coalition of states, founded by diplomacy and mutual respect. Whether it is my fake Marik blood talking, or simply the years of living with Father in exile during the horrors of the Jihad, I’ve never forgotten that fact. Other realms may forge ties with blood and tears, but ours . . . ours is different. And Janos’ ‘fool’s errand’ is one more building block in the wall of that simple truth.” That Janos departs on this important mission without once asking why, is a whole other issue. . . .

Nikol colored slightly as she recognized the reprimand; but she didn’t need her mother to add that not all would answer the call of friendship and, just as with the League of old, some might need to be brought to an understanding through . . . other measures.

“Again, Mother. What is my task while Danai is here?”

“I have nothing specific in mind for you.”

She looked confused, then simply asked, “May I spend time with her when I’m not needed elsewhere?”

“Of course, dear. You’ve obviously become more than mere acquaintances. Feel free to spend with her what time you can find.” Jessica managed to hide her disappointment at her daughter’s failure to perceive the underlying thread of the conversation. She must walk before she can run, Jessica reminded herself sternly . . . and she is walking very well indeed.

“Thank you, Mother.”

“Of course.”

With that, Nikol excused herself and left, walking slowly away from the chateau and out into the garden proper. After waiting several minutes to ensure that Nikol was out of earshot, Jessica answered the question she knew her husband was straining to not ask— she could practically feel it quivering on the surface of his muscles under her fingertips. “We all use each other, my dear,” she said, a bittersweet smile twisting her lips as she gazed at the love of her life. “You of all people should know that. She must find her own way if she is ever to be worthy of ruling.”

Phillip’s eyes were troubled. He served as Jessica’s conscience in so many of her decisions; this decision he could understand, if not completely accept.

Janos’ footsteps tapped a regular rhythm as he made his way back to his room. The cooler interior of the house began to bleed off the warmth of the veranda and dry the sweat around the high neck of his jacket.

You play favorites again, Mother. You always have. Janos passed a pair of guards making their rounds, acknowledging them with a quick look and a nod. He reached a branching corridor and continued on to the right.

You keep Nikol at your side while you send the rest of us off to do your bidding. You have five children, Mother. Five. When will you realize that we are all

worthy of such attention? Janos used the rhythm of his steps to diminish his frustration, keeping it always, always in check. But if you wish me to bind those worlds to you, then that is what I shall do, Mother. He

inhaled a breath so deep that his lungs strained and his eyes watered.

I am ever the dutiful son.

Stewart DropPort, New Edinburgh

Lothian, Stewart

Former Prefecture VII

“How many months have passed, Star Colonel? How many months! And yet here we sit in a parking lot full of DropShips that come and go, and we cannot seem to find the will to leave!” Janis Nova Cat’s words savaged the air; a nova cat hissing rage and warning of an imminent attack.

Even here, Janis? I guess moving my desk temporarily to the main cargo hold does not inhibit you from your endless tirades.

Rikkard Nova Cat ignored her as he continued to work on the force assessment for the coming invasion. No matter how he tweaked the assets at his disposal, the outcome always ended the same. Despite the fierceness he knew his troops would deliver, he simply did not have enough resources. If he invaded with his current troop strengths, defeat was the only outcome.

“You promised prey, Star Colonel. You promised prey and there has been none. How long will you laze around the watering hole? When will you show us that Kev Rosse was not misguided when he gave you command?” The hate missing from her voice for a few weeks after their departure from Irian had slowly returned in the last month, until the strength of it violated the air with each breath.

Finished, he cycled the program closed, shut off the computer terminal and managed to stifle a sigh as he stood. You should be involved in this assessment, Janis. It is why I keep you. Why I’ve never gone for the kill during a Trial of Grievance, though it would make my life easier. You have such skill. Such passion. If only I could tame it—as a team, we would be unstoppable. But I cannot trust you. No matter how often I give you the chance, you always show your colors in the end. Too impatient, even for a Clansman. Too rigid. For a moment he wondered if perhaps her codex included Bloodheritage from Clan Jade Falcon.

He refused to meet her blazing eyes for the moment, and instead looked around him. The handful of people working in the cavernous bay—mostly technicians, but a few warriors—seemed to be ignoring her display. Not good. They have become used to her demands, Rikkard. Not even the technicians on the ’Mech gantrys pay attention anymore. Have you waited too long? But I had to wait. We do not have the required forces. Yet we cannot tip our hand too early. The prize is too grand. The cost of failure too high.

He finally faced Janis, the fury on her face overshadowing her diminutive size and skeletal features. “What do you want, Janis?” It was a rhetorical question, but he knew the time had come to deal with her challenge. They would wait a while longer on Irian for others to answer his summons, and he could not afford to allow his command to slip from him while he focused on the big picture. If only you would learn to think outside yourself, Janis.

“A Trial of Grievance,” she responded instantly.

“So be it.”

She looked momentarily shocked by his acceptance— the first time in months—then her expression changed to avarice. “Here and now.”

“Of course.”

As he walked around the end of the small portable table, the other occupants of the cargo bay were already moving to form a large, loose Circle of Equals. So they were listening. He nodded, his decision to accept her challenge confirmed.

As he crossed the invisible threshold of the Circle, he paused to size up Janis as she stood, loose-limbed, at the rough center of the ring. Though he held no doubts about who would emerge victorious, he also knew to never underestimate a warrior driven by hatred. The emotion made them inherently weak, but also gave them a physical strength that could carry them beyond the bounds of acknowledged defeat. And considering how often I have defeated you, your passion will overwhelm any intellectual understanding of your defeat. He nodded slowly, stretching his arm and back muscles to relieve the strain of too many hours in his desk chair that morning. I have no wish to permanently damage you, Janis. You could be a blade of unequaled quality if I can find the means to temper you. But I will not allow you to destroy my vision, or to endanger the safety of all Spirit Cats.

He planted his foot firmly on the deck plating to get a feel for the surface; surprisingly, the newly laid nonskid covering softened the impact more than he expected. Falling will hurt, but even a heavy fall may not incapacitate.

They moved toward one another, each flowing quickly through several standard martial art forms, from karate to aikido to tae kwon do, taught to every warrior from the moment he or she was old enough to begin testing. They circled twice before Janis hopped forward on her back foot, her forward foot lashing out toward his legs as her arms slashed down to distract him—and parry a counterattack. He easily avoided the move and slid back a step toward the edge of the Circle. Such patience from you, Janis? Are you actually learning?

They circled twice more and then twice again, following an explosion of a quick kick feint and attempted chest strike, before Rikkard realized he was waiting for her endless boasting, the raging words that distracted her more than they ever bothered Rikkard. He was so surprised by their lack that he lowered his guard momentarily, a lapse that Janis exploited ruthlessly with a low sweeping kick that he dodged badly. He was off balance; Janis turned a blindingly fast pirouette, finishing with a high kick that caught him just above his ear as he attempted to duck. The blow snapped his head to the left and made his ears roar from a wall of sound that engulfed his senses. He struck the deck hard, despite throwing out his left arm to soften the impact. The blow left him breathless, but he immediately rolled twice and curled as he spun through a low crouch back up into a standard defensive stance, facing Janis as she finished a flying kick that placed her in the exact spot he’d just vacated.

Deck still plenty hard. He winced, rolling his shoulders and shaking his head to clear the effects of the strike.

“You have become weak, Star Colonel. And we have outgrown you.”

He smiled at her remark. There is the Janis I know too well. She actually flushed; her jaws snapped shut and her lips thinned until they almost disappeared as she maneuvered back and forth to force him to the edge of the Circle.

You are learning. He canted his head, as though trying to physically shift his perception. Have I finallyfound your forge? The waiting? The interminable waiting and my endless refusals to accept your trial? He found it hard to credit, but the evidence seemed clear.

She rushed forward two steps, planted her back foot and slid-skipped forward to lash out. Inspired by his sudden insight and convinced of his need to test it, he crouched lower as he abruptly surged forward on a counterattack. Taking the kick in the chest to ensure that he would be able to grab the full length of her leg, he grunted against the pain of the heavy impact, then clamped both hands onto her leg. In that instant, so close to the edge of the Circle, he could easily have flung her outside of it, ending the trial immediately with a victory. Instead, he swung in a full circle, using his bulk to pivot her into the air in an upward arc. Then, as he swung back around to his original facing, he hammered her into the deck with a blow like the strike of an ax into a tree trunk.

Janis awkwardly flung her arms up to break her fall, but a sharp snap announced the breaking of a bone. Her head bounced heavily off the deck, yet she still managed to roll with the impact, bleeding off the worst effects. In three turns she was in a low crouch, her broken arm tucked tight against her side, her other in a defensive posture as she panted, glaring at her opponent.

Have you learned, Janis? Are you truly changing? The Janis of only a month ago would have launched an immediate retaliatory attack, regardless of the fact that she’d already lost; now she held her position. The long pause ended as understanding slowly suffused her features, warring with her anger.

She shifted completely out of her fighting stance and nodded once, comprehension of his strategy burning in her face. Keeping her eyes on his, she walked to the edge of the Circle and stepped out. The silence was deafening.

Rikkard was able to hide his own stunned disbelief at her un-Clanlike action, but the shock was offset by his pride that she was learning. He might yet forge her into a tool with which to achieve his vision of sanctuary for the Spirit Cats.

He watched her walk away as the Circle broke up, a smattering of conversations discussing this unusual turn of events. If Janis could learn. If Janis could overcome her own distaste of facing necessity, then it was past time he did the same thing.

Time to contract with Clan Sea Fox . . . and perhaps time to let Janis know the prize they would all too soon be hunting.

12

Jojoken

Altay, Andurien

Duchy of Andurien

28 March 3136

Julietta eased into the office like she was entering a bear’s den. She stopped just two steps into the surprisingly dim room, and waited.

Janos would not be so nervous. Elis certainly would not be so nervous. But when she’d received the summons to an audience with Duke Ari Humphreys, she’d expected to appear before him in an audience chamber of some sort, not in a ubiquitous office building located on the outskirts of the botanical gardens.

At least I don’t have to be around Cunin anymore. She managed to stifle the immediate revulsion that made her gorge rise whenever she remembered the beastly man’s affront to her dignity in that hovel of a hunting lodge he kept on the Zahle continent for his safari business. Trying to summon her anger in order to push that memory further away, she whipped her parasol from the crook of her right arm and banged the point on the floor. The resulting muted thump gave her no satisfaction. That memory would never be shared—never.

She took a moment to straighten her dress, pulling the sleeves until they covered her wrists completely and smoothing away imaginary wrinkles, at the same time attempting to identify objects in the shadowy depths of the room. She could just make out a desk at one end of the room, with what appeared to be a mammoth chair behind it. Though she’d yet to meet the man in person, from holofootage she knew the duke’s diminutive stature would be dwarfed by that chair. Making up for your inadequacies, Duke? She looked at the window, wondering why so little light entered at full noon, before her skin bloomed a pleasant shade of rose as she realized her inadvertent innuendo. Julietta fanned her face with her hand as she desperately searched the room for something, anything, to distract her from her own thoughts. She even considered announcing her arrival, but then thought, If you are going to show such discourtesy, Duke Humphreys, then I will return it in kind.

“My lady.” A voice spoke from behind her. She yelped and jumped slightly as she twisted around. “My lady, I did not mean to startle you. Are you okay?”

She instantly recognized the squat figure with his avaricious eyes and small nose and immediately straightened, ignoring the heat of her face, which was almost making her sweat despite the air-conditioning. “I am fine, Duke Humphreys. I was simply startled.” She summoned her courage and raised her chin, looking down her nose at the little man as she’d seen her mother do to others on countless occasions. “I am not accustomed to being kept waiting, much less being sent to an empty, darkened room.”

The other man’s nose twitched; then he swept her a grandiose bow. “I apologize most deeply, my lady. I was held up unavoidably at the last moment.”

“You could not even find the time to order your servants to inform your guest?” While she was mildly shocked at the tone in her own voice, it managed to smother the flames under her skin, bringing her breathing back to normal. I know you play at a game here, but I will not be caught. She shivered as the memory of whiskey-laden breath and a rough hand nearly eclipsed her senses, but she managed to regain control. I will not be caught . . . again.

The duke swept another bow, this one more perfunctory, and then slapped the wall, flooding the room with brightness from a bank of overhead lights, and the window, which obviously had some sort of electronically controlled opacity. The sudden illumination almost brought tears to her eyes.

“My lady, again, I ask for your forgiveness. There is no excuse and I give none. This is fully my fault.” As he finished speaking, he moved across the room toward his desk.

She slowly turned as he walked, taking in the entire office and somewhat surprised to find it not nearly as overbearing as her mind’s eye had imagined in the gloom. While the chair was certainly oversized, it was not the mammoth construct the dimness and her imagination made it out to be. In fact, the only thing in the office that could truly be called grand was the window that literally took up the entire wall facing the botanical gardens. Even Janos would not mind such an extravagance when the view is so splendid.

The duke appeared at her elbow, a glass of some amber liquid in each hand, and he held one out for her. “Please, my lady. Drink and calm your nerves. Accept my apology.”

She glanced at the cup and examined the duke’s apparently sincere smile. Poison? She couldn’t bring herself to believe it. Too many people knew she was here, and there was no possible way the duke could explain away her death. She gratefully took the drink, then nodded as though it were her due and took a careful sip. The heavy cinnamon flavor exploded on her tongue with other subtle spices, but then slipped away, leaving only the memory of its wonder, without an aftertaste that would leave one looking for something to cleanse the palate. On the verge of exclaiming at the unique and delicious beverage, she kept her reaction to a half smile and a nod of appreciation.

Duke Ari smiled in return as he drank a huge mouthful, then moved toward matching couches that faced the view. Standing before one, he swept his arm at the other, inviting her to sit. She moved slowly and gracefully—knowing her dress did not allow for quick walking—careful to keep her poise intact, and sat; half on, so that her skirt would settle properly without showing unseemly amounts of ankle.

You have the initiative, Julietta. Use it. Elis would. “Duke Humphreys, it pleases me that you finally acquiesced to my request for an audience.”

“There was no doubt, my lady.”

She nodded as she took another small sip of her drink and composed her thoughts. As with the marriage proposal, the words she needed to say were a sham. But if she could make them appear sincere— regardless of her mother’s doubts that the duke would ever even entertain the idea—then Jessica would be required to publicly thank her daughter for exemplary service to the state, and Julietta would be able to flush away forever thoughts of Cunin and the travesty of the marriage proposal. Vile man!

“My lady?”

Julietta realized she’d been silent too long, and took another sip. “I’m sorry, Duke Humphreys. This drink has captivated my attention. So wonderful, so subtle. I do apologize for my wandering mind.”

The man nodded, his nose twitching again.

Does the duke suffer from a tic? She tried to put it out of her mind. “Duke Humphreys. My mother, the lady Jessica, wishes me to speak plainly to you. These are evil and dangerous times. Stone’s peace has fallen away and in its place, ambitious men rise to harm those who wish to retain as plows the arms they so long ago forged into implements of peace.”

“Of course, my lady. War has returned to the Inner Sphere whether we wish it or not.”

“Exactly. And it is at such times that we must all determine who is a friend and who is an enemy. Who can be trusted.”

“A trusted ally . . . a trusted friend . . . such is a precious treasure during these times.”

Julietta nodded, pleased by the duke’s response to her words. She began to imagine the possibilities that would open up with an accord between their realms. Janos would be so proud of me. “And it is to find such allies that I have come. We have an ancient enemy on both our borders that has already flexed its muscles.”

The duke began to gently roll his empty glass between his palms. “But, my lady, the Capellan Confederation has struck at neither the Duchy nor the Protectorate, hitting The Republic instead. Some might say, simply taking back worlds it lost long ago.”

Julietta suddenly found herself in her favorite role, teacher to a student. “But, Duke Humphreys, House Liao and their chancellors have ever been more voracious than their stomach’s capacity. Do not forget how many worlds of your own Duchy at one time belonged to House Liao. Successor lords have long memories, but a Liao’s memory is a quilt lovingly crafted to enshrine every mistaken slight and misremembered fault, handed to each heir as a sacred right of duty to atone.”

The duke pursed his lips in appreciation. “My lady, your truthfulness is nearly as bold as your eloquence.”

Despite a lifetime of ingrained caution when dealing with any Andurien, she found herself warming to the duke. Slightly. “I simply convey my mother’s words, Duke Humphreys.” Perhaps polished as needed. Her own smile grew. “Duke Humphreys, we have centuries of history to show us that House Liao will always look on our worlds with possessive eyes. A mutually beneficial alliance against Capellan aggression would be advantageous to the Duchy as well as the Protectorate. “ She took a larger sip of her drink and leaned against the back of the couch, suddenly unconcerned whether she exposed her ankles. Mother will have to thank me.

The duke gazed out the window as though contemplating the importance of her words before responding. “You are most correct, my lady. We live in dangerous times, and in such times we must look to history to help guide our steps forward. We must look around us and decide who is an enemy and who is a friend.”

“Precisely.” She took another sip. This drink really is wonderful. Better by far than the honey tea. I must take some home.

“But in doing so, I find that history provides me with exactly the guideposts I need. And they are not, perhaps, the same guideposts you see.”

Absorbed in contemplating her success, she almost missed the change in his tone; it took a moment for the warning to penetrate her pleasant musings. She looked up to discover the duke on his feet, his earlier relaxed attitude gone as though it had never existed. “I beg your pardon?” She felt the abrupt, horrifying sensation of a situation spiraling out of her control.

“Julietta, there is no mutual alliance. There is only the Protectorate’s hypocrisy.”

His tone slapped her like a wave of icy water. What is going on? What just happened? She defaulted to her standard defense of haughty indignation. “Sir, I would suggest you choose your words more carefully. I have come at the behest of my mother the captain-general to discuss an alliance, and your boorish behavior jeopardizes any potential relationship.” How could I ever have started warming to such a man?

The duke smiled harshly in reply, his beady eyes bright with some unidentifiable emotion. “HPG communications may be faulty, Julietta, but the Protectorate’s adventurism is becoming known. You accuse House Liao of aggression for taking back worlds stolen from it decades ago, and yet the Protectorate is doing the same.”

Her mind raced to figure out how to respond. “Duke Humphreys—”

“My lady, your excuses will not work here,” he said, cutting her off. “You see a past where our realms fought side by side against House Liao. I see a past, a much more recent past, when your realm was instrumental in the subjugation of mine. I need allies. But I would rather the known quantity of an enemy any day than an ally with a knife poised at my back.”

As he spoke Julietta stoked her anger, pushing herself up from the couch and looking down on her opponent with all the imperiousness at her command. “Duke Humphreys, how dare you? I cannot understand how you can ignore the dangers of House Liao, but regardless of the folly you intend to pursue, you will not speak to me in such a way. I came to Andurien in response to a marriage proposal you endorsed; a proposal I accepted in good faith and have continued to consider seriously despite the abhorrent actions of your vassal. And now, when I offer my mother’s hand in cooperation against a common enemy, this is how I am received? This audience is at an end.” She turned away without another word, surprised and a little excited by her own boldness. I will have nothing to show Mother . . . but I will have left this den of deception with dignity.

“Ah, Julietta. The marriage proposal. Now we’re back to the hypocrisy. How long have you been here, my lady? How vigorously have you dragged your feet at every opportunity presented by Charles to move the proposal toward a formal engagement? You never intended to accept the engagement, my lady.”

She slowed her steps, anger boiling over into fury at the audacity of the man. What he said was true, but how he said it was insufferable.

“As for poor Charles, perhaps he was pushed beyond even his limits, my lady. A gentleman can only take so much. Perhaps he only wished to discover if there was any warmth at all below that cold exterior.”

On the verge of turning around to castigate him again, she stopped cold at the duke’s words. Humiliation burned her skin and stabbed in her stomach. He knows. He knows! She rushed toward the door.

“There is more than one kind of unfulfilled promise. . . .”

Frantic to escape, on the verge of hysteria, her eyes filling with tears, she hiked up her skirts and ran from the room, desperate to avoid hearing the terrible words that might follow. Rushed down the hall, knowing she’d been used and manipulated from the start; ran like she knew she would be running all the way back home.

Her sobs began in earnest.

“My lord.” The voice from behind him shook.

Duke Humphreys raised his hand for silence, listening to the sobbing from the end of the hall before it was cut off with the closing of the elevator doors. Turned to see Charles standing in the doorway of a hidden room at the side of the office. The man’s ashen features were particularly stark against his huge mustache, making him appear ill. “My lord, that seems . . . unwise.” The man swallowed so hard that even at this distance Ari could see the bobbing of his Adam’s apple.

Ari barked a harsh laugh. “Unwise? Unwise my ass. That was reckless.”

The other man swallowed again several times and then nodded. “Yes, my lord.” Several more swallows. “I stand by my conviction that she’s a trollop and a prude. But . . . the consequences . . .”

Ari smiled as though he was in complete control, but a sheen of sweat slicked his brow. I may have found my allies elsewhere, but it is possible I went too far in poking the Protectorate nest to find out what’s beneath the surface.

He discovered that he was still holding his empty glass, and abruptly moved to refill it. “Too late now, Charles. The dice are cast.” As he poured his drink he stared for a moment at the painting that covered the false panel hiding the office’s safe, inside which lay a signed marriage proposal. He gulped down the liquor, then slammed his glass onto the table. “Let’s just hope the serpent I let into my bed will remain a serpent.”

“Yes, my liege.”

Ari poured himself another drink. Another large one.

Vale of Holm

Torrick, Ibstock

Former Prefecture VI

Force Commander Casson pulled the targeting reticule onto the target and clenched the primary trigger on his joystick. Twin coruscating beams of spitting energy leapt toward the target, both finding their mark over the Wasp’s center torso line. The attack was complete overkill: the beams obliterated armor, slashed angrily through internal structure and savaged such critical components as the engine and gyro, completely gutting the enemy ’Mech; the unspent energy ate its way out the back torso armor, but the machine was already dead.

Ignoring the stifling heat inside his cockpit, he targeted another unit; a heavy vehicle attempting to maneuver in the Vale of Holm, terrain made hellish by a multitude of terraced hedges. Years of training and experience allowed him to know the shot before the target-lock tone engaged or the reticule flashed gold; he fired another dual salvo of azure death. He coughed, his throat painfully dry, lungs searing in the oppressive waste heat. Yet a savage smile lit his face as the PPC bolts tore into the hapless machine: the first caught the already strained left-side track in its grip, tearing it completely away as it unraveled under the crew’s vain attempts to escape; the second found a weak spot already pounded by previous salvos and punched through the turret armor. The sympathetic explosion that tossed the turret high into the air was as sure a sign as the coming victory that he’d found the magazine stores.

His monitors fuzzed as the heat overloaded the computer and threatened shutdown, and his machine slowed to the speed of molasses; a quickly input key code overrode the computer and he slapped off the shrilling alarms. Panting, his sweat running like a river down his back, he immediately looked for another target, only to discover the region devoid of any moving enemies.

Another ten seconds passed before he finally realized the truth, and he opened a general frequency. “All right, people. I do believe that’s it.”

A few moments passed before he received a tired response. “Aye, Force Commander. The remnants are already surrendering.”

He closed his eyes under the strain of forty-eight hours of lightning strikes that put the world of Ibstock into his hands. Two worlds and two victories. While the warmth of that accomplishment felt good, he knew better than to think he had time to bask in his success. Low-hanging fruits. Barely trained militia. But we’re now within two jumps of the world Lady Jessica wants.

The world I want.

13

Amur, Oriente

Oriente Protectorate

14 May 3136

Nikol walked to the edge of the pond, the stone in her hand a flat, smooth disk of latent fun. Stretching back her arm, she let the stone fly, counting eleven skips before it slid beneath the surface of the water. “Ha, two better than last time.”

“Good for you, dear.”

Nikol wrinkled her nose, then smoothed her expression before turning around. Her mother lounged on a portable divan. She was wearing a modest bathing suit, yet somehow managed to look both imperious and demure—with just a hint of sexy, despite being in her seventies . . . and all apparently without effort. Damn you, Mother. I’m a woman, but you make me feel like I’m the freckle-faced, gangly thirteen-year-old you probably still see me as. Considering everything that had happened in the last few months, she knew that thought was unfair . . . but probably not completely off base.

“Just passing the time, Mother.”

“Of course, dear. We all must find ways to pass the time now and then.”

Nikol sniffed, chose a new rock and turned and heaved it out across the water, distracted from making a careful throw; it skipped a mere three times before vanishing with a large splash.

“You should never let those around you distract you, dear. If you are going to be distracted, it should be of your choosing.”

“Perhaps I wished to be distracted.”

The silence was deafening. And Nikol had never been good at silence. Unlike Elis. “How long do you think it’ll take?”

“You know astrocartography better than I, dear. I’m sure you’ve already looked up all the information, and barring any accidents or time on Liao I’m sure you could provide me with an exact number of days.”

Minutes if I wanted to. But she didn’t say that out loud, despite a frantic desire to do so. She kept talking to keep from making that mistake. “She left so abruptly.”

“Her mission wasn’t exactly going as she’d planned.”

“Do you really feel she’ll be able to return with word from her brother? The chancellor . . . from our time on Terra . . .” She gave an involuntary shiver despite the warm weather. “Even being in the same room with him gave me the creeps.”

Her mother laughed and Nikol stiffened.

“I’m sorry, dear. I don’t mean to offend you. I assure you that he makes me feel the same way. I just prefer a more eloquent description than ‘he gives me the creeps.’ “

Nikol squatted and this time didn’t even bother to avoid getting her fingers dirty as she dug for another stone. The mud was cold and slimy yet comforting, as if it were nature’s balms to all ills. “You mean politically correct.”

“If you wish, dear. But it is my choosing. If I wished to use your phrasing I would do so. But for reasons of my own I would never use such verbiage. Can you say the same? Did you choose your words, or did they choose you?”

Still gazing at the water, she felt a retort dying on her lips as her mother’s words sank in; despite the lecturing tone, she thought about it. Actually dug a little to find if her mother was right or wrong, and as ever, didn’t like what she found. As ever, kept talking to distract herself. “You didn’t answer the question.”

“No, I didn’t. I allowed myself to be distracted.”

“Mother!”

“All right. All right, dear. To be honest, I am not completely sure what is going through Danai’s mind. Nor what she hopes to accomplish with a trip back to Sian. Either she has the authority to treat with us or she does not. In our first meeting she certainly conveyed a sense that she had all the power needed to make binding agreements. Which has left me confused as to her current actions.”

“Perhaps it has to do with her orders to invade the world of Zion when you received a verbal agreement from the chancellor that House Liao would leave that ancient Marik world alone?”

“Perhaps. Something is not right about the whole thing, however. I just can’t put my finger on it.”

Nikol glanced down at her hand, rubbing her thumb and forefinger through the mud, smearing it into her skin. Julietta would be horrified. Nikol smiled. “But will she come back with an alliance from House Liao? Will they actually find a way to guarantee one of our borders?”

“I’m not sure how that’s possible.”

“Expect the unexpected from House Liao.”

“Exactly. And even if she does return with such a miraculous gift, we must be careful of the strings attached. The chancellor will want more than it appears.”

Nikol nodded, then reached for one more stone to redeem the previous disaster. Just as you do, Mother? She let it fly. . . .

Otho Mountain

Padaron, Tamarind

Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey

“Hot damn!”

Christopher’s yell tore away in the torrent of icy wind as he went over the final big jump. Despite his best efforts, the line of his attack and speed— combined with the size of the drop-off on the backside—pulled him out of his crouch. Sensing his balance starting to shift, he broke his arms from their iron-hard arrowhead position and windmilled his right arm slightly before slamming back into the hard-packed snow.

Though he tried to soften the impact by bending his knees, it still jarred him to the bone, and his helmet smacked his knee hard enough to send a brief white flash of pain spiking from his leg to his brain. Managing to keep his descent under control despite the pain, Christopher pulled his arms back, by sheer force of will, into their arrowhead form. He crouched down until his gloves almost obscured his vision, hunkering down behind the windbreak of his arms and sawing through the last two turns until he hit the final stretch; then he buried his head, sacrificing sight and relying on his knowledge of the course because every thousandth of a second counted—and prayed and cursed for just one more ounce of force to bring him down off the mountain first. . . .

He shot past the finish line to the roar of the crowd. Quickly pulling out of the crouch, he put his weight onto the edge of both skis and leaned into the stop as he attempted to bleed off the excess velocity before smashing into the barricade like in last week’s training run. Dropping the poles to dangle on their straps at his wrists, he immediately pulled his goggles away to get a better look at the timing board. As he came to an abrupt halt, even the crowd appeared to hold its breath as the scoring board seemed to take extra long to update. Now starting to shiver from the aftereffects of the blow to his knee and the adrenaline rush now cresting and beginning to ebb, he tried to breathe while he waited, his lungs pulling in frigid air that didn’t seem to improve his light-headedness.

The applause exploded before his brain registered the digital scoreboard. First place by .002. “Unity!” he yelled, raising arms that no longer ached, his heart hammering double-time at the new surge of energy. “Hot damn. Yeah!” As he pumped his fists in the air and two of the good friends he’d made on this tour tackled him to the ground, a new sound rose from the crowd.

“Hellion Hughes. Hellion Hughes. Hellion Hughes.” The thundering chant hammered at Christopher’s senses as he struggled to his feet against Joshua thumping him on the back and Kiri throwing snow in his face. A warmth sparked in his stomach and slowly flowed out to every part of his body. A curse turned to a cheer. You’ll appreciate that, Mother.

“Christopher Hughes,” a woman began, pushing her microphone into his face as a camera crew worked their magic from behind. “I’m Aleisha Sulivan from TNN. For a moment there, it looked like you’d lost it.”

Still strung out on the adrenaline of his win, Christopher didn’t even mind that she got his name wrong. “Just about,” he began, then paused to swallow and gasp another breath. “But I managed to keep it together and pull out a win.” He raised his arms again, pumping them to a new, enthusiastic round of chants from the gathered crowd. I’ve won them over. His smile grew even larger.

“It seems you’ve won over the crowd.”

“Just gave them a great show. That’s what they want. And that’s what I did today.”

“How does it feel to have what was obviously a derogatory name turned into a chant for a winner? I’ve already heard rumors that Gienah Sports has approached you about a line of ‘Hellion Hughes’ hoverboards. Is there any truth to that?”

He kept his smile on, despite his shock. How the hell do you know that? “Seems you’ve got sources I don’t. But if Gienah wants to slap Hellion Hughes on a new line of hoverboards, I’m all ears.” There. Avoid the question and toss Gienah a boost in their market they can’t ignore. Can the day get any better?

“In addition to the other prizes you win, you’ll be meeting personally with Duke Fontaine Marik. Are you looking forward to that?”

The reminder of his mission dampened his elation for a moment, but he still kept his smile on. I’m learning! “I’m looking forward to meeting Duke Marik. And my mother, Jessica Marik, captain-general of the Oriente Protectorate, asked that if I had this chance I should pass along her warmest greetings.” Among other things. Figuring the safest approach on that challenge is going to be as tough as any mountain I’ve tackled. I just wish she hadn’t felt the need to pass her instructions through Charles, that officious prick.

He bent down and patted his knee, then stood up and slipped his arm over Kiri’s shoulder. He was looking forward to the evening with her—another few hours without spending his brain power on his mother’s task. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I believe I better go see what my chin did to my knee if I ever want to ski again,” he finished with a forced laugh.

He waved into the camera and threw one last arm pump to the crowd—their thunderous response only slightly alleviating his darkening mood—then hobbled (only slightly exaggerated) toward the waiting medic van.

When will you learn to trust me, Mother?

14

Amur, Oriente

Oriente Protectorate

16 June 3136

Nikol lounged in the too-much-lumbar-support chair in the darkened room, the multihued glow of the holoprojector like a warm blanket. She was still counting down the time until Danai returned; at the moment her DropShip was riding a tail of fusion flame away from the JumpShip holding at the zenith jump point above the elliptical plain of the Oriente system’s star, on her way to Oriente.

Danai Liao-Centrella. Are you an enemy now? Still a friend? She heaved a sigh as she lazily touched a control on the chair and focused the view from the thousand-light-year swath of the entire human-occupied space of the Inner Sphere down to the remnants of House Marik and the shattered Free Worlds League. Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey. Rim Collection. Duchy of Andurien. Regulan Fiefs. Marik-Stewart Commonwealth. And of course, Oriente Protectorate.The remains of the once-proud Free Worlds League and all those independent worlds in between. She once again brushed the controls and tightened the focus even more, only showing the border between Danai’s Capellan Confederation and her own Oriente Protectorate. Regardless of what you are, Danai, you’re two days away. What did you bring us back from Sian?

“A gift.”

The voice shocked Nikol, causing her to jolt forward and scramble up out of the heavily reclined seat as she spun toward the sound. “Who’s there?” Heart pounding, she raised a hand to shield her eyes against the glare from the overhead holoprojection. She could only make out the silhouette of someone standing just inside the doorway to the astrocartography room. For one wild moment she thought Danai had already arrived, but then common sense kicked in, and she recognized that it had been a male voice. Her breathing hitched with the surge of adrenaline—and the fact that the words spoken had so neatly completed her thoughts. How could someone walk in without me hearing? So much for my warrior instincts.

The man slowly moved down through the three tiers of seating wrapping the room in concentric bands. “I said, what a beautiful gift. To find all of this here.”

The man’s voice and posture made Nikol think the speaker was someone older than she, and her skin prickled with the notion that she knew this person. And she caught on right away to the insinuating tone, like every word had some sort of double meaning. “Uh. Sure.” Brilliant repartee, Nikol. Who are you?

“House Liao and House Marik. Ah, have we ever had peace between our realms?”

The man stopped just far enough away that Nikol still couldn’t get a good look at his face.

It was eerie how his statements seemed to echo what she had just been thinking. But when she considered her friendship with Danai—a relationship that continued to deepen despite the fact that they should be mortal enemies—she sniffed. “Perhaps we simply haven’t given it enough of a try.”

He lifted his left arm into the projection of the Inner Sphere, sweeping it along the border of the Capellan Confederation, curving down the length of the Oriente Protectorate and then brushing the adjoining border with the Duchy of Andurien. Her skin prickled again; the way the man moved his hand abruptly forced her to see the border in a new light. It’s shaped like a woman’s hip, and he definitely just stroked it. Her stomach couldn’t make up its mind whether to be nervous or nauseated. Pretty bold, to be talking to a Marik this way. Who is this guy?

“I believe, Nikol, you will find that some things, no matter how hard we try to avoid them, are inevitable. For almost a millennium we have tried to get along, the Mariks and Liaos. But not even the Star League could completely discourage our natural animosity. Yes, some things are simply . . . meant to be.”

She heard the double entendre again, but without knowing who was speaking she couldn’t figure out his underlying message. Well, if he won’t let me see his face, there’s no way to avoid asking the question. “I’m sorry, but have we met? Your voice is familiar.”

“But of course we have, Nikol.” He took two steps closer, finally allowing the ambient light from above to illuminate his face.

Frederick Marik. Nikol sucked in a deep breath and her stomach lurched as a dozen scenarios, all of them bad, exploded simultaneously in her brain. Oh no. No, no, no.

“I’m so pleased to see you again, Nikol. Your mother told me where to find you, but I never expected to discover a scene of such beauty,” he finished, eyes lingering just too long on her face before shifting back to the projection.

She could practically feel the oil in the man’s voice sticking to her skin. Mother, how could you send him to me?

The older man smiled as he returned his gaze to her, too-perfect teeth gleaming; his gray eyes shining with a knowing look that she could see despite the darkness. Sudden dread at what her mother might have planned stabbed through her like a spear, anchoring her to the floor. “Lord Marik. Wha . . . what a surprise to see you here on Oriente.” She despised herself for the quaver in her voice. He came a step closer, a subtle movement of his arms creating the impression that he intended to embrace her; she somehow managed to keep from shrinking away from him.

“Your mother did invite me to visit when we met on Terra.” The man’s tone spoke volumes about Nikol’s failure to hide what she was feeling.

“Of course, Lord Marik. I’m just surprised you were able to act so quickly on the invitation.” Get a grip, Nikol. There’s no reason to fear this man. And Mother surely can’t mean to throw away all the effort she’s spent on whipping me into shape by marrying me off to a minor noble—even a Marik. She ignored her inner voice, which was whispering that marriage was a very common and well-respected method for accomplishing the same goals. . . .

“So quickly?” The other man chuckled. “It has been almost a year since I saw you last. And please, Nikol, call me Frederick. Lord Marik is my older brother. Paladins like their titles.” He looked away for a moment, then continued. “And Thaddeus was a paladin from the day he was born.”

Nikol latched on to the offhand remark. Sibling rivalry, huh? You’re twice my age and you still envy your older brother? I can so relate. It made her want to give him a small victory. “Frederick, then.” The man’s answering smile practically engulfed the lower half of his face. I’d fall in if I was standing any closer. Then again, that’s exactly what you want.

“That wasn’t so hard, now, was it, Nikol?”

She already regretted her momentary lapse into sympathy, but shrugged as though it was of no import and tried to change the subject. “I’m a little surprised you spent the time to visit us. We’re not even real cousins.”

The man painted a look of shock on his weathered features and grabbed at his chest. “We aren’t? Say it isn’t so!”

His antics encouraged her to follow up her potentially rude comment. “In fact, since you’ve taken the trouble to leave The Republic to visit cousins, there must be other families who would welcome you with open arms.” How’s that for a subtle dig?

He clicked his tongue as if he were dismayed, but moved a step closer. Like a shark testing the currents closer to his prey. Her sudden boldness began to slip away.

“Nikol, Nikol,” he began, voice lowered in a conspiratorial whisper. “You have to remember that though I may have Marik blood in my veins, my mother fled the Free Worlds League. Alys’ progeny would not receive a fond welcome in either the Marik-Stewart Commonwealth or the Regulan Fiefs, I’m afraid.”

“But what of Duke Fontaine?” she shot back.

Frederick actually seemed to contemplate his answer before responding. “While I’m sure there’s no love lost there, I believe I wouldn’t need to worry about a nasty critter in my bed.”

“Do you consider Anson or Lester that dangerous?”

“Don’t you?”

Nikol nodded her head slowly. “Touché.” He took another step closer and she steeled herself to hold her ground.

“I wonder if you would join me for dinner tonight. Your mother informs me that you are free this evening.”

Damn it, Mother! She smiled as graciously as she could, knowing there was no graceful exit. At least for this evening. “I may be available this evening, but only if I finish my work here. If you’ll excuse me?”

The man smiled knowingly. “Of course, Nikol. We can finish our fascinating conversation about history, borders and blood over dinner.” In a single motion he was standing beside her and had captured her hand. The warmth of his breath as his lips caressed the back of her hand made her gulp before she pulled away.

“Until tonight, then.”

“I will be at your anteroom at seven o’clock sharp.”

With that he departed, and she managed to keep herself ramrod straight until Frederick softly shut the door; then she almost collapsed before she reached her chair. Breathing rapidly, she stared at the back of her dimly lit hand as though it were a most vile betrayer. She’d actually responded.

Mother on my case, Danai returning and now this! She flopped back, wondering why her mother didn’t just pick her up and throw her bodily into Frederick Marik’s bed. Now I don’t know if she’s grooming me for the throne or the bedroom!

Desperate giggles bubbled up, and she didn’t know how to stop them.

Regulus City

Chebbin, Regulus

Regulan Fiefs

“Do you think I should cut my hair, love?”

Lester looked up from the document he was reading. He sat on the veranda in the cool morning air, the early light a halo for the vision of beauty flouncing her shoulder-length blond hair.

He smiled, wrinkles creasing around his eyes and mouth as he laid the document on the small wooden table, knowing he wouldn’t get back to reading it any time soon. Then again, it was his third time through it. “You know the rules, dear. I never get to comment on your hair.”

Her eyes shone playfully. “Ah, men. You never seem to remember things very precisely. As I recall it, on our second date you agreed never to tell me what I could do with my hair after I’d cut off ten centimeters just to see your reaction.”

“I believe the word you used was priceless.”

“Oh, it was priceless. But then I forbade you to ever tell me to do anything again in that tone of voice or I was walking away.”

He smiled wider, memories of those moments from decades ago effusing the relaxed morning with loving comfort, momentarily taking the edge off the news in the report. “You’re right, love.”

“I know I’m right.”

He cocked his head slightly, trying to draw out specifics from the dim, warm memories. “Then, if I remember correctly, I suggested a compromise; that I would never tell you what to do with your hair.”

She moved to the table, smoothly pulled out a chair and sat. “A compromise. Yes, dear. That’s exactly what it was.”

They shared another smile. “Why do I get the feeling this is going somewhere?”

“Because it is, love.”

“And that is?”

“That when we take a holiday, we take a holiday. After all, this is just one day. One day after you’ve been gone for months. One day in which I would like my husband to not peer intently at an ugly piece of wood pulp so early in the morning, when there are more beautiful things to look at.”

She swept her arm out to the view over the landscaped park beyond the railing, yet still managed to fluff her hair again.

His smile dissolved into laughter. “You’re right, my love, and I do apologize.”

She immediately stood. “Good. We’ve got a full day of horseback riding and then—”

He held up his hand. “Emlia.”

She trailed off at the tone of his voice, some of the joy leaving her eyes as she slowly sat back down. “This cannot wait.”

“No.”

She sniffed. “It could if you would let it.”

He realized the rest of the day might just be ruined for his wife, even if they never talked work again. In her opinion, any work on one of their too-infrequent getaways was too much. He laid his hand on the table and tapped the paper. She needed to hear this. Needed to think about it in the coming days in order to help him formulate a proper response. But it would eat at the back of her mind and ruin the day. Unless . . . he gave her something else to think about. He took a deep breath, knowing she deserved it after the many months apart and then the frantic work over the past few weeks in the Palace of Mirrors to break up the support bloc Governor Eislan had forged in his absence, returning to his quarters after midnight night after night and collapsing with exhaustion. He couldn’t imagine to what extent the man might have gathered power without Emlia’s efforts behind the scenes. She more than deserves it.

“I know we are still two weeks away, my dear. But . . .” He took a moment to take a drink of tea to fortify himself. “It can be this evening.” He took another sip. “All evening.”

Despite the sudden sweat on his brow, the look of appreciation on her face warmed him to the core. For the first time in years, she almost spoke before she raised a hand to her beautiful lips to keep back the words. She looked away as her face colored, and Lester drank in her gratitude, a palliative to his uncontrollable revulsion. He reached out and touched her sleeve.

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 getting 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 Commonwealth

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.

And buried deep beneath that layer of worry, her most private feelings worked overtime to undermine everything else she worked to accomplish. Those feelings were the reason she dared not sleep more than a few hours at a time. Any longer, and her subconscious might force her to face a challenge for which there truly was no solution.

She swallowed past the thick dust, and abruptly turned and strode off toward her ’Mech. She called herself all kinds of a coward for retreating to her ’Mech as a refuge, but it was her only source for peace of mind. Her job was to protect the world of Marik and its people, her passion to give an entire population relief.

Where would she find refuge from her feelings for Anson Marik?

16

Clan Sea Fox CargoShip Voidswimmer

Zenith Jump Point, Marik

Marik-Stewart Commonwealth

27 September 3136

The scarred features of ovKhan Petr Kalasa seemed to stretch into infinity, as if the heavily veined, naked skin on the right side of his scalp had been abruptly transformed into the expanding surface of a bubble that grew until it swallowed the universe.

Rikkard Nova Cat caught his breath. For just a moment he wondered if Petr’s skull might explode, the Sea Fox Clansman’s brain eating the universe and all of existence—and with an abrupt snap that left him almost breathless, the energy coursing through the Kearny-Fuchida hyperdrive in the bowels of the mammoth Voidswimmer CargoShip finished tearing a hole in reality and deposited them in their destination system.

“. . . sure you are aware, Star Colonel, I have no interest in your contract fee. The price for transportation has been stated and is nonnegotiable.”

Rikkard marveled at the other man’s ability to continue his sentence—much less his train of thought— following the jump. Then again, the Sea Fox spent most of their lives traversing space. They have the advantage

of long experience. . . . He adjusted the strap holding him in the seat of the command cabin of the Voidswimmer , aware that he should be on his way to his DropShip, which would already be making preparations for the in-system burn to the planet.

"Aff, ovKhan. That is not in question. I simply requested a status on your force disposition for future reference, as I anticipate that we might deal together again before this matter reaches its conclusion.”

The other man raised a hand to forestall Rikkard’s carefully prepared argument. “You have successfully bargained for and received access to the only assets I am willing to offer at this time. I have delivered you to your target. Now you must fight to win your prize.”

Rikkard grunted in frustration. The Sea Fox willingness to negotiate anything is legendary. Why does he refuse to even discuss the potential for supplying reinforcements if they are needed in the coming battle? When he opened his mouth to speak, ovKhan Kalasa cut him off.

“Further discussion is not profitable, Star Colonel. You go to your task. We remain on-station in case of failure.”

Rikkard nodded. Despite his belief in and repeated proof of Clan superiority, in the battle for Marik the possibility of failure loomed large, even with the extra forces he’d managed to marshal.

“And to claim your price for transport.”

“Of course, Star Colonel. You would not be here if I did not believe in your odds for victory.”

The man’s smile stretched the scars on his face, putting Rikkard in mind of a world-wise feline, damaged in previous battles but all the more dangerous for the experience.

“Then I will see you on planet.”

The other man nodded without a reply as they both unfastened themselves from their chairs and made their way into the corridor. Petr shot away toward the bridge, leaving Rikkard in awe of the ease with which he handled microgravity. Floundering more than swimming, Rikkard kept his hand on the side rail of the corridor as he made his way toward his waiting DropShip— and from there to the fight that ultimately would decide whether the vision that had plagued him for so many years was a true vision, or a lie.

Firehill Plains

Mandoria, Marik

Marik-Stewart Commonwealth

3 October 3136

Rikkard Nova Cat manipulated his Shadow Hawk IIC into raising both its arms. Each weapon tracked battlearmored troopers from the squad that had surprised him by springing from the hollowed-out confines of a mammoth fallen tree. He used his pinky to disengage the standard targeting reticule on the joystick controls, then slightly unfocused his eyes to take in the whole viewscreen before him, tracking two bounding troopers with two different trajectories. With the preternatural skill hardwired into his reflexes through generations of breeding and fine-tuned by thousands of hours of live-fire actions, he lined up the shot on instinct alone and let fly with the medium pulse lasers mounted in each arm.

The spray of emerald darts slashed across the back of one trooper, cleanly slicing the jump pack in half and causing a minor detonation that tossed the trooper off course and sent him flying in a gyrating spiral first up and then down, hard, into the ground; the trooper didn’t move. The second armor infantry took most of the coherent energy beam across the lower legs. The shot cleanly amputated the right leg just below the knee, dropping the battle armor hard onto its face. Unlike the first trooper, however, the second one, with a savage rush of drugs clotting his blood and blocking pain receptors, was already rolling over and sitting up, his short-range missile pack spitting metal darts in return. Rikkard took both missiles in the chest, at the same time lining up another shot and searing the battle armor until the metal encasing the trooper sagged into a now mostly empty cavity.

Janis’ voice filled his cockpit. “Superb shot, Star Colonel.”

Despite the electronically reproduced voice, her sarcasm bled through loud and clear. A second shot to kill a mere infantryman. I am sure she will flog me with that for some time to come. Even in the midst of battle she still must fight me. Despite her progress. . . . Rikkard sighed as he checked his secondary monitor and reengaged the standard targeting reticule that would link his various weapons into one targeting interlock circuit and discharge them against a single target. A new thought emerged. Perhaps because of the progress.

A tone sounded in his neurohelmet just as a fast-moving blip appeared on his radar screen. “It appears we have company, Star Commander. The last of the current defenders in this region, perhaps.”

“Shall I engage, quiaff?”

“Neg, Star Commander. This one is mine.”

The silence was a rebuff, but he did not care. Regardless of how successfully he demonstrated equanimity regarding the lack of combat over the many long months, he was a Clansman as much as any and the need for battle burned brightly. Pushing the throttle forward, he guided the machine away from the small defile where battlearmor attempted to scale his machine and out onto a very large expanse of mostly flat terrain, with only a gentle grade undulating across the region; from where he stood, the ground to the horizon was covered in a cinnamon-colored grass that in some places actually rose to midcalf of his Shadow Hawk IIC.

A plume of dust in the distance revealed the progress of a rapidly moving enemy force as it came close enough to confirm on visual only. The battle computer ran through its internal technical readout, spitting out its ninety-nine percent accurate report: Legionnaire. Five tons heavier, quicker and with a wickedly powerful rotary autocannon tied to a targeting computer. But I’ve got pulses to help negate your movement and my jump jets to help offset your speed. He nodded at the rough parity of the coming duel and opened a general broadcast frequency.

“My name is Rikkard Nova Cat of the Spirit Cats. I challenge the MechWarrior of the Legionnaire to a single duel. Let none interfere.” He could almost hear Janis gasp at his use of zellbrigen. We may not often use our rituals of battle against spheroids, but I remind you, Janis, that I am still a Clansman.

He did not expect a response from his opponent. Unlike Janis and so many other Clansmen who would rush forward to slug it out, Rikkard immediately put his superior weapon range to use. A quick toggle loaded up an extended-range missile salvo and he led the incoming Legionnaire as he let fly. Without even waiting to see if the missiles hit their target, he pushed the throttle full forward and depressed the left pedal, sending the Shadow Hawk into a left-angled sprint. Quickly reaching almost one hundred kilometers an hour, the ’Mech’s legs hammered like pistons into the hard-packed, bone-dry dirt, adding his own column of dust to the air.

The Legionnaire shifted to the right, quickly trying to bring its powerful but much-shorter-ranged weapon to bear. Rikkard let fly with another extended-range missile strike, then cycled to a standard ATM salvo as the range continued to decrease; watched in satisfaction as the Legionnaire took a full spread of missiles in the chest without breaking stride. You are brave, he thought. The fight for this world will be long and hard.

Rikkard maintained his own speed, the pounding vibrations of the ’Mech’s stride shaking his whole body; his pulse quickened at the fiery surge of adrenaline that matched the pace of his ’Mech’s movement.

He moved farther from his own troops in an effort to keep the distance between the Legionnaire and his Shadow Hawk at long range for as long as possible; his ’Mech soon moved at an oblique angle to the direction of the Legionnaire, just enough off center to allow him to torso-twist to the right and continue firing missile salvo after salvo, while the Legionnaire slowly closed the distance between them.

After cycling through more than a half dozen shots, the enemy ’Mech finally reached its optimum range and the mammoth gun mounted across its back like the dorsal fin of some grotesque mechanical shark spun up and vomited depleted uranium death. Though he knew the weapon must be slaved to a targeting computer, Rikkard’s esteem for the warrior increased further as the initial salvo landed on the mark and his enemy kept it on target for nearly the entire duration of the shot, as hundreds of rounds shattered the armor on his legs down to dangerously thin levels.

Rikkard snapped off a return shot with the pulse laser in his right arm, then executed a dangerous but brilliantly strategic move. Just as his computer shrieked of another target lock, he stomped down on both pedals, igniting his jump jets. Waste plasma blasted out through magnetic baffles mounted on the backpack-like superstructure of the ’Mech, launching the Shadow Hawk IIC into the air as another stream of autocannon rounds tore through the space he had just vacated.

Long years of practice allowed him to feather the jets on the right side to spin the ’Mech in midjump; then he raised both arms and wildly fired off a dual pulse-laser salvo just to keep the enemy off balance, simultaneously gauging his trajectory and balance in flight; the soft whine of the gyro beneath his feet spoke of his perfect balance. As he passed the apex of the jump, he immediately hammered down on both pedals again, kicking on the jump jets at maximum thrust. Because he had been running when he left the ground, his aggregate speed was dangerously high. This forced him to push the jump jets’ magnetic baffles to their maximum capability in his bid to land 180 degrees from the direction he started, without flying backward, as residual velocity tossed his ’Mech to the ground like a rag doll. The pounding velocities pushed him into a gray-out and he felt like an elemental in battle armor was hammering down on his entire body. He gauged the impact, pushed the waste plasma well past the safety zone of the baffles in one final burst of maximum thrust, then smashed to the ground, flexing the knees of the Shadow Hawk IIC and dropping the ’Mech into a crouch, jamming both metal fists onto the hard-packed dirt to maintain his balance. The ’Mech slid backward through several meters of billowing dust, but it remained upright.

The bone-crunching move spiked pain up through his spine and he tasted blood from biting his tongue. Having already cycled a high-explosive, short-range volley into firing position, he pushed off the ground like a sprinter out of the gate. He fired his missiles and an accompanying medium laser off the ’Mech’s centerline before a solid targeting lock told Rikkard what he already knew: at such close range, the laser seared a furrow of bubbling metal along the forward-thrusting torso of the Legionnaire, and the high-explosive missiles pummeled into the cockpit area with devastating effect.

Like the aftermath of a perfectly placed uppercut by a champion boxer, a spasm shook the Legionnaire—a sure sign the pilot had fallen unconscious. The ’Mech careened off center, crashing to the ground with the sound of an exploding aerospace fighter. The mammoth rotary autocannon barrel dug into the dirt, the force of the machine’s velocity bending the barrel as the Legionnaire dove nose-first and then began a slow somersault, its legs splayed up in the air as the barrel ripped away from its mount, sending the ’Mech into several bounding rolls before it slid to a stop, almost completely obscured by a giant cloud of dust raised by its fall.

Rikkard notched back the throttle until his Shadow Hawk IIC stood still; for just a moment he could almost feel his machine flex outside his control, quivering like the flanks of a warhorse breathing heavily over a well-fought victory.

Rikkard attempted to wipe away some of the torrent of sweat pouring off his body, his hands coming away slick from the edges of his neurohelmet.

“We will fight tooth and nail to take Marik and make it a safe haven for all Spirit Cats,” he finally breathed. “This battle was only the beginning. But regardless what comes, we will fight as Clansmen.”

Korituk Bastille

Padaron City, Tamarind

Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey

“I appreciate your granting this audience, my lord.”

The bright, untidy shock of hair combined with the blazing jade-green eyes told him that this young man beat off the ladies with a stick.

Isn’t that right, boy? Fontaine Marik refused to stand as the young whelp was ushered into his office by a page. Fontaine let the silence stretch as his old, tired eyes bored into the boy’s, but the clear gaze held his with equal, straightforward intensity. I like that. I tried to stall this meeting until you gave in and packed it up, but I like that you didn’t waver. Though it does make me wonder why someone willing to throw himself off the nearest mountain would quietly sit on the sideline waiting to meet me. He sniffed, smelling something deeper, and already knew the source.

He carefully reached over to the ubiquitous decanter his pages kept filled and poured himself a large draft. I’m going to need it, dear. He studiously avoided contemplating how comfortable he’d become with talking to his dead wife as though she were still somehow present in her favorite chair by the fire, quietly working on her latest stitching project. He took a long pull from his glass before setting it firmly back on the desk. Then he waved his hand in casual acknowledgment of the boy’s greeting. “I hear you won some type of sports competition.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“Is that how you plan to fill your days? Sports and the extreme desire to see if you can cheat death time and again?”

“No one cheats death, my lord. We only find ways to move the numbers around in the ledger to put off a final accounting.”

The boy’s words surprised Fontaine, until he detected the stiffness of their delivery. I’ll have none of that. “Very eloquent, boy. But if you want to stay and talk with me, you’ll use your own words. If I like what I see, I’ll listen. But I don’t have time or inclination to hear a bunch of lies.”

A smile blossomed on the boy’s face, and his eyes shone even brighter.

Beating off the girls indeed, boy.

“I apologize, Lord Marik.” He shrugged with casual ease. “My mother, you see. If I didn’t open this conversation with the utmost respect . . . well . . . let’s just say the results might be worse than my chute not opening during a ’cane jump.”

Fontaine’s eyebrows raised in confusion.

"Hurricane jump, my lord.”

"What?"

Christopher’s face took on a look of having explained this all too often. “A parachute jump into the eye of a hurricane.”

Fontaine’s brows climbed until they tried to walk off his face. “And you actually can find someone to fly you there?”

Christopher shrugged easily. “Sure. If the excitement of trying to fly in and out of a hurricane isn’t enough, the flash of enough purple gets the job done.”

Fontaine shook his head. What a waste, boy. Yet he was honest about the usefulness of money, which was promising. He brought the conversation back on track. “One should show the utmost respect to one’s mother. Mine was . . . formidable.” He pointed through the open door leading to the parapet outside. “See those crenellations?”

“Yes?”

“Those weren’t originally there.”

“No?”

“No. My mother’s voice, when I angered her . . . which happened all too often.” Several moments stretched as the young man’s face furrowed in thought before he abruptly howled in laughter. Craggy eyebrows shot down in a glower over such a bawdy noise violating his office; yet they rose gently over the sheer glee. So long since I heard such a carefree sound. So free of the weight of the world.

“I believe you win, my lord Marik. My mother is a formidable woman, but I’m not sure even she could match your mother for such . . . forcefulness.”

The other man nodded, casually taking another drink as he intently watched Christopher from the corner of his eye. “She was surely unique.” Fontaine could see that the boy was clenching his jaw, though he was trying hard to hide his tension. Ah. You’re not here of your own accord, boy. So it’s your mother. What does she want?

“What do you want, boy?” Enough small talk. Let’s get this over with. I’ve a realm to run.

The boy took a deep breath, as if he were gulping down courage, and then began to speak. “My mother lady Jessica would like to propose an alliance between our two realms. Anson Marik has been making significant troop movements within his realm, and there are rumors he is resurrecting the Silver Hawk Irregulars. Now is the time for those who would see Anson’s ambitions curbed to join together.”

Fontaine set down the glass and leaned back in the chair, settling his old bones firmly, eyebrows arching in surprise. “That was direct.”

“You told me to be honest, Lord Marik. If you want straight talk, I’ll give it to you.”

Fontaine nodded as he mulled over the news. Not really a surprise, though I find it interesting she sends one of her youngest pups to deliver it. He picked up his drink and nursed it as he thought about what it all might mean. As his mind churned through the permutations, he picked at the boy, trying to see what more he could find.

“So, Anson is saber-rattling. There’s no love lost between the Lyrans and the Mariks. Especially after the Jihad. I’ve seen plenty of reports describing current Lyran troop movements. Anson could simply be responding in kind to show the Lyrans we will not roll over. Even I’ve begun some troop movements and a new militia recruiting drive. After all the worlds the Lyrans grabbed during and after the Jihad, it pays to be careful."

Christopher nodded. “Of course. That’s what it could be. In fact, that’s likely what it is.”

Once more Christopher caught him off guard, but he smiled. “That’s more like it, son. That’s you talking. So if Lyran aggression is the most likely motive, why should I consider an alliance?”

Christopher laughed. “Because while that’s a likely reason, it’s not certain. You may think me reckless, my lord. And I am. But I’m also very careful. I calculate my chances with a very critical eye. And I pay attention to my equipment and resources. Attention to detail is what makes my bets pay off. The most likely cause of Anson’s troop movements is a response to the Lyrans. But if it is not . . .”

Fontaine found himself warming to the boy. Nice analysis. Still, the concept that she sent her next-to-youngest to treat with him . . . He glanced toward the chair, longing for the sage advice of his beloved. If the boy is here, where are her other children?

“Your mother is empire building,” he said abruptly, and saw he had caught the boy off guard.

“Sire?”

“Your mother is empire building. This isn’t about an alliance with my realm. Her goals are a lot grander. I’ve seen it coming for a while, but she’s taking it to a new level. What’s got her spooked, boy?”

The young man blinked his eyes slowly several times, before apparently deciding on a path. “I don’t know, my lord. I was not even privy to what this meeting would be about until months after I left on this sports tour. And what little information she did share with me came through someone else.”

Fontaine set down his glass again, slowly leaned forward and heaved up out of the chair. He walked to stand a mere three steps away from the young man. I think you actually told me the truth again. For just a moment he wondered if it were all a put-on. Either you’re stupid, or you’re a lot smarter than I gave you credit for. Much to Fontaine’s chagrin, he realized it was probably the latter. He liked the boy’s spunk, but he poked at his defenses one last time. “Either you’ve just been incredibly honest with me, or you’re stupid.”

The young man took the potential insult in stride. “I’ve been called a lot of things, my lord, including stupid. But those using that term apply it to what I do. And as I said, my lord, I carefully plan every action. Those who call me stupid simply don’t—or won’t—understand that.”

“And I’m sure your mother faces some of the same criticism. And while I have no ambition for empire building, she at least has the decency to approach me civilly—though your methods are a bit unorthodox.”

The young man nodded.

“I do find it ironic that the captain-general without a drop of Marik blood is the one to best remember the roots of our League. That braggart Anson is a bully and Lester, the old wretch, doesn’t deserve a kennel . . . they’d both see my realm conquered if they could figure out how to do it without one of the others tearing apart his own realm in the meantime.”

“That’s how I’ve always seen it, my lord.”

“Have you, now?” he responded, a smile creasing his lips for the first time that day. “Don’t pretend you know what you’re talking about, boy. You’re a mite smarter than I originally gave you credit for, and I hope you get past this suicide phase and accept that your mother might just have the best vision of any of us. I’ve watched her for a lot of years, and she’s played a subtle hand. A lot more subtle than those other two. And that just might mean all the difference in the end when she makes her play. But you listen to me, boy,” he said, stabbing a bony finger at his chest. “She’s missing something. Something she’s going to need if she doesn’t want all of her years of work to come crashing down. Despite our freethinking, despite the horrors of the Jihad and the Great Betrayal by the captain-general . . . we’re more like the other Great Houses than we want to admit. If she truly wants to unite us, she’s gonna need Marik blood. Not mine. I’m too old, nor would I seriously contemplate it.” I’m too old to give you up, my dear. “But you take that back to your mother. You tell her what I’ve told you. She wants to see my support thrown into her bid, show me how she’ll have Marik blood to help forge that union again.”

He reached behind him, picking up the glass and tossing off the last of the liquid, its warmth as ever a salve to his burdens, including this latest one. “And if I like what I see, well, then she may just get her wish.”

17

Amur, Oriente

Oriente Protectorate

1 November 3136

Jessica moved down the corridor. She seemed to flow, as though her feet did not move so much as her heavy dress acted as a hoverskirt, allowing her to glide on a cushion of air.

As she neared the end of the hall, the guard snapped to attention and then bowed low, after which he slowly, quietly as ever, opened the door. Jessica nodded once in acknowledgment, looking the guard directly in the face though he kept his eyes glued to a spot over her shoulder. He knows, as do they all. I know every one of them, even if propriety means we do not speak.

The raised voices inside the room immediately enveloped her in the edginess of simmering tempers. Barely home a day and already you two are back at

each other? She didn’t hide the sigh, knowing they’d not even noticed her arrival.

“But how could you not know something was up? How could Duke Humphreys simply dismiss you like that? There must be something you’re missing.” Nikol’s almost strident tone lashed at Julietta, who responded by shrinking back in her chair, the tone of her response making it clear she was on the defensive.

“And I tell you, sister, there was nothing. One moment I’m dealing with the insufferable Cunin, and then Duke Humphreys finally agrees to see me. From one moment to the next, he’s dismissed me, letting me know he has other allies.”

“What other allies?” Nikol responded, leaning forward, clearly in control.

Fascinating. Jessica stood rooted to the spot, wondering at the new dynamic between her daughters.

“There are no other allies,” Nikol continued without waiting for an answer, holding up her hand as she ticked off the points on her fingers. “House Liao? As bad as the blood is between us and House Liao, it’s threefold and more between them and the Anduriens. Canopus? Despite the Centrella blood that flows in Ilsa’s veins, the magestrix is perhaps even more Liao than the chancellor. Both brother and sister . . .” She shivered. “Give me the creeps. And Duke Humphreys is smart enough to see the same thing. The Rim? Sure, I suppose they could be courted—we’ll see what Elis says when she returns—but an ally to deter military force? Ridiculous. And the Fiefs?” Nikol paused momentarily, a thousand-meter stare filling her face.

As Jessica held her breath in the near silence to keep from giving away her presence, she carefully watched her eldest. Julietta breathed as though she’d just run a marathon, eyes wide and face flushed, mouth open to gasp at air as her chest heaved. A perfect opportunity to seize back the initiative, yet yousit frozen, a deer in the headlights. You’ve ever been reluctant to take the lead, especially with your older brother to make all your decisions for you. But this? Jessica slowly nodded, further confirmation of her initial reaction upon meeting Julietta at the DropPort yesterday. Something happened to you, Julietta. Something important. And it has weakened you. Perhaps irretrievably so.

She turned her eyes to her youngest daughter, amazed to notice—like she was a spectator witnessing an event for the first time—that Nikol wore a burgeoning mantle of leadership; she radiated a core sense of herself. Perhaps more so than Julietta ever did. And now with Julietta damaged beyond repair? A coolness swept through her like a draft of winter air carried down the empty nighttime corridors of the palace. She closed her eyes, momentarily allowing herself to wallow in the sorrow of a myriad worries of what might have happened to Julietta—and the sure knowledge that despite years of holding out hope, she would finally have to admit defeat. You will never rule, Julietta. Not even a world.

“The Fiefs are a possibility,” Nikol finally continued, returning Jessica’s attention to the silent tableau. “But I’m not sure I see it. The only way Lester would contemplate offering protection outside his borders is if the Anduriens were willing to join realms. And can you imagine that? Can you imagine the Anduriens giving up their right to rule? After all the centuries of trying to gain their freedom? Can you imagine Lester allowing such autonomy? There must be something you’re missing.”

“I tell you, sister, there is nothing that I missed. I did everything I could to broach the topic of establishing ties with the Anduriens and the duke kicked me off his world.”

“But the insult!” Nikol said, her voice rising a notch.

In Nikol’s tone of voice and the outrage on her face, Jessica saw something unexpected. You still feel loyalty to Julietta. You may have thought you were past all that, but despite the range in your ages she is still your older sister. Despite her failure, your outrage is not just

for our name, but for Julietta herself. She hesitated a moment longer, briefly doubting the effectiveness of using Julietta as an object lesson for her younger children; she had not considered that they might love her enough to feel anything more than pity. She decided it was time to step in.

“Is of no import.” Jessica finished Nikol’s sentence as she glided forward. Startled, the sisters turned toward their mother. Their reactions to her apparently sudden appearance supported her initial impressions: Nikol maintained her mildly outraged look, but Julietta’s face actually flushed a deeper red. I am sorry, Julietta. And perhaps I’ll be able to pay back the duke one day for whatever it is he did to you (I know you’ll never tell me what that was)—but for now I must move forward without you.

The Protectorate stands ready.

“How can you say it’s not important?” Nikol demanded. “No ruler should be allowed to kick a Protectorate heir off his world.”

“I’m sure our bottoms will not be too worse for the wear.” She ignored the haunted look in Julietta’s eyes as she took a seat at the table between her daughters, settling gracefully into her chair. “My dear, in your argument you forgot one important element.”

“And that is?”

“That Danai Liao-Centrella guaranteed we would not need to worry about the Duchy of Andurien. Which is why I’ve slowly begun to move troops away from that border. Not wholesale . . . I’m not that trusting. But we have tested the waters, and so far the border has been silent as a grave.”

“So you think Duke Humphreys actually made a deal with House Liao? That seems . . . preposterous.”

“It does.”

“Then I don’t understand.”

Neither do I. But Jessica shrugged meaningfully, regardless.

“Then is he lying? Is Liao simply using muscle to keep the Anduriens in line? That hasn’t worked well in the past.”

“There is no way for us to know exactly what is going on at the moment. But with Liao’s commitments in the former Republic prefectures, does he have the resources to strong-arm the Anduriens? I doubt it, or he wouldn’t court me to apply pressure in the same region of The Republic.” She laid her hand on the smooth table, as she always did while deep in such conversations, drawing strength from its solidness and history.

“Furthermore, while I’m sure Duke Humphreys took our apparent interest in Julietta marrying his vassal with a grain a salt, I cannot believe he would willingly toss away the potential for that tie unless a bigger fish came along. I am certain of that.”

Julietta remained silent, but as Nikol opened her mouth to speak she was cut off by the noisy entrance of Torrian Dolcat. Jessica became absolutely still at the appearance of Torrian outside their normal meeting venues. For him to come here and interrupt . . .the news must be incredibly important. Her mind leapt to the worst conclusion: Stormdrain has been compromised! Fear gripped her throat until she wheezed with the effort to maintain her composure. Not that.

As Torrian drew closer, however, she could see from his face that the news was unexpected, but positive. He stopped walking when he was within a meter of Jessica, then glanced back at the guard standing stiffly at attention inside the room, his face twisted with anger and dislike.

Ah. You bullied your way in. Jessica signaled a dismissal to the guard, and he stepped back outside.

Torrian waited until the door closed, and then walked over to stand next to Jessica. “I’m sorry for interrupting, Your Grace. But I knew you would want this information immediately.” He handed her a folded printout, which she accepted gingerly, as if it might sear the flesh from her hand. She took a deep breath, unfolded the sheet and read. Her surging fear turned so quickly from dumbstruck shock to pleasure that she was incapable of responding for several long minutes. As though moving in slow motion, she turned her gaze on Torrian. “Has this been verified?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Mother, what is it?” Nikol burst out, losing her struggle against her impatience.

Jessica contemplated keeping the news to herself for a moment longer, but her lips moved almost of their own volition as her mind spun a skein of possibilities. “The Spirit Cats have invaded Marik.”

The news sparked a furious debate between her daughters over why the Spirit Cats might invade and what it might mean, but Jessica caught Torrian’s eye and he allowed his excitement to show, further stoking Jessica’s growing euphoria. “It’s what we’ve been waiting for,” she said, her voice so low that only he heard her. At his answering nod, her excitement spiked in a physical pleasure she’d not felt in years.

Easy, Jessica. Wouldn’t do to die of a heart attack just when it has truly begun. She shook her head at the stunning serendipity. What luck! The Spirit Cats have invaded Marik. What could possibly be more fortuitous? It’s a sign. She remembered what she’d said to Nikol: I’ve placed myself to take advantage of this unlooked-for situation.

She took a long, slow breath, then nodded, once, firmly at Torrian, who waited with avid eyes for her signal. He nodded sharply in return. No words would be spoken at this final juncture; no written trail would lead back to her. But here, right now, Jessica knew that Torrian must be absolutely certain of her intentions. Once again she nodded firmly: Operation Stormdrain was to move into its final stage. He bowed and slipped out of the room, heading toward his tiny control center and the messages he now must send.

God help me. But her excitement over the appearance of the key from a totally unexpected quarter quickly overshadowed any remorse. The key to everything.

Jessica raised her hand, instantly silencing her daughters. In a flash of unhappy inspiration, Jessica saw that the key to her grand plan also offered Julietta the chance for one final service to the state. Though Julietta would almost certainly fail, the circumstances into which Jessica planned to send her would provide what Jessica needed regardless.

And in Julietta’s final failure, Nikol will understand that the ties of the state bind closer than family blood.

“Nikol, Julietta.”

“Yes, Mother,” they replied in unison, though with very different tones of voice.

“I have important missions for you both. Missions that may mean the difference between ultimate success and failure.”

“Thrice-damned sons of tin whores!” Anson roared.

In the small confines of the safe room, the sound was almost deafening, increased by the crash of his metal chair falling as he leapt to his feet and the cacophony of the contents of his desktop being swept to the floor. He towered in the middle of the room, another angry roar erupting like a volcano of rage before he stood panting, a bear awakened too early from its hibernation, voraciously hungry and one hundred percent royally pissed off.

His sausagelike fingers clenched into fists the size of a small child’s head as he looked for another object against which to target his ire. The only other loose object in the room, despite the presence of several workstations and the desk, was the holovid player; though tempted, he couldn’t bring himself to destroy the messenger. Not a mechanical one. Now, if Daniella sent a live messenger, then . . .

Captain-General Anson Marik felt truly shocked by the turn of events. And if there was one thing he loathed, it was being caught flat-footed. He exhaled heavily through his nose, then reached out to hit REPLAY.

The image of Daniella covered in sweat and dust, her cheek bandaged, sent him into a new fit of rage even before she began to speak.

“Captain-General. I have routed this message as quickly as possible, but don’t know when you’ll receiveit. A large Spirit Cat force has invaded Marik, taking the Firehill Plains and inflicting twenty percent casualties within the first four days of fighting. The situation is dire. We need reinforcements immediately. I will do what I can to hold on.”

The holomessage went dark again. Blunt as ever, Daniella. But there was no way my plans could have anticipated this development. He wanted to pace, but realized the room was too small for his bulk; if he was going to smash something, he wanted to do it on purpose, not as an accident of proximity.

The trap had been set for the Lyrans. He’d even have been happy to catch Jessica. But who would’ve thought the Spirit Cats would trip it. And now I’ve got to do something about it! “Maggot-eating tin-can-birthed sons a’ bitches!” he ground out between clenched teeth. There was nothing to be done for it. Losing Marik was not an option. Even if it meant giving away his ploy of switching capitals. He had to send reinforcements.

With deliberate movements, careful to keep his rage from bursting out in another fiery explosion, he pulled out a new message cube, queued it up and began to record.

18

Dormuth

Mandoria, Marik

Marik-Stewart Commonwealth

19 November 3136

Rikkard scanned the tall corridor of the four-lane road, skyscrapers standing like sentinels along the major traffic artery. Despite the eerie silence of the long, apparently abandoned stretch of road, it screamed death trap for anyone stupid enough to enter. He scrutinized every secondary screen in the Shadow Hawk’s cockpit as he flipped through multiple scans, trying to get a firm read on what might be lying in wait. But as was the case in most modern cities, the high metal content of Dormuth’s construction made it difficult. Very difficult. And they have become very good at hiding their intentions.

“A trap a Sea Fox would be proud of, quiaff?” commented Karli, his second-in-command.

“Aff and aff,” Rikkard responded.

“Every attempt to penetrate into the heart of the city has been booby-trapped.”

“Spheroids,” he swore in reply. The damage the Marik defenders were willing to wreak on their own civilian infrastructure—not to mention the collateral damage to civilians, no matter how many they evacuated—appalled him. Years of fighting in the Republic of the Sphere had not prepared him for this low behavior.

“Yet if we do not penetrate the heart, the city will never be ours.”

Rikkard nodded at the rhetorical statement, bringing up a map overlay of the city once again with a few strokes on the small keypad. With no apparent overall city plan, Dormuth had developed along the lines of an out-of-control contagion, flanges morphing in any direction as new suburbs and business parks sprang up over the centuries to incorporate the increasing population.

So incoherent. So lacking in order. It perfectly captured the spheroid way of life. Yet even a rabid dog can be dangerous. And the defending forces had proven most dangerous, repulsing repeated forays; the Spirit Cats’ ferocity was blunted against the defenders’ superior knowledge of the terrain and their willingness to do anything to keep the Spirit Cats from taking the city, even if it meant burning it down.

In his original estimate of the campaign, he would already be on the second leg of securing the world by this time, tackling the League Central Command and Coordination facility; something he would expect to take a lot more effort than securing Dormuth. And if Dormuth has proven this formidable, what will that fortress bring? The idea left him cold; worried. They will send reinforcements. They cannot let a world as important as Marik fall without sending reinforcements, even if other worlds must be sacrificed. He knew that much about spheroid idea of empire. And we must have this world secured before then, or my vision might fail!

“And here you sit, debating.” The cool tone sliced as cleanly through his thoughts as a beam of energy.

He unclenched his jaw from its automatic reaction to the familiar voice. “Not all of us have the luxury of leading troops to their deaths without repercussions, Janis.”

A barking laugh was a slap. “If any of my command doubted my ability to lead they would initiate a Trial of Grievance. None have done so. More than I can say for you, Commander.”

“Any that would, Commander, are dead under your hand.” He closed his eyes, furious with himself for speaking such words out loud. His frustration was palpable. He thought he’d found the key to unlocking the potential of the warrior and leader, only to find her fighting him even more fiercely, as though she sensed he’d found her Achilles’ heel. And now she appears to have found your own Achilles’ heel, and is targeting it with laser-guided precision to undermine your authority. He sighed heavily.

“The great Star Colonel Rikkard accuses, and yet who has taken the most ground in this city? Who will take this avenue and drive into the heart of the city once and for all? Unafraid!”

Her voice did not shout triumph. That would be akin to saying that the launch of a DropShip was merely loud.

“Purifiers, with me!”

Before Rikkard could respond, Janis’ Nova Cat lurched into motion, followed by a reinforced Star of ’Mechs, vehicles and battlearmor; a spear cast at the city’s heart. Despite the 70 tons above the clawed feet hammering into the ferrocrete of the road, the road withstood the strain, with only indents marking the ’Mech’s passage.

I cannot stop her without calling a Trial of Grievance. And I cannot risk a trial. Not now. Despite the deaths caused by her reckless leadership, she has achieved more victories than I or any other. And if I win without killing her, it will only submerge what is boiling below the surface. I must find a way to reach her before she destroys everything.

He watched their progress, eyes flicking between the forward viewscreen and the bevy of secondary monitors, trying to guess when the trap would be sprung. Long seconds stretched to a minute, and Janis was nearly a full kilometer from their position.

Is there no trap? The doubts already fluttering around his head like a flock of ravens seemed to multiply until they blocked the light; abruptly, a spectacular flash rent the late-morning air, followed by a billowing, sooty cloud that spurted from across the entire base of one of the midsized skyscrapers on the right-hand side; vibrations rocked the Shadow Hawk IIC; then the thunderous shock wave reached the kilometer distance, multiplying the unfolding chaos. Horror wracked Rikkard’s face; his skin, dried from the days of endless heated battle, stretched until it threatened to snap like damaged myomer.

In horrid, slow motion—as though the building wished to savor the moment—the structure toppled into the street in an avalanche of unimaginable energy, completely burying Janis and her troops.

Daniella Briggs willed her emotions to nothingness as she watched the replay again from the basement of the Jesuit Secondary School, only thirty blocks from the latest attempt by the Spirit Cats to penetrate to the heart of Dormuth.

The Harving Trust and Loan building dated back two centuries to a decade-long resurgence of the pre-Star League-era fad of ornamenting buildings with a heavy brick façade. While any of the buildings along that stretch of road could’ve been brought down to accomplish the goal, her combat engineers argued that the building with the brick façade not only required fewer explosives to explode—a critical element in the decision, as their resources dwindled dangerously—but the bricks themselves would be higher-energy projectiles; the building’s own shrapnel. And the old, stately building produced the desired results, with battlearmor and even a ’Mech seen toppling under the high-velocity brick rain before the cloud of smoke and dust obscured the area. The entire structure came down, slamming into the buildings across the street in an orgy of shattered glass, imploding façades and massive structural damage that stretched for hundreds of meters from the point of impact.

Six hundred and twenty-two million, three hundred and seventy-six thousand, four hundred and eight C-BILLS. And thirty-three cents. She closed her eyes as the to-the-penny report on the cost of the delaying action ran behind her eyelids like the ever-expanding white paper produced with careless abandon by a bean counter adding up material cost and ignoring the human cost. Not a single civilian life lost. But even if the war ends tomorrow, how many livelihoods have I just annihilated? Not to mention, I’m sure, a committee for the protection of historically important buildings will scream bloody murder over this.

A dark smile twisted her lips. I’ll let them flog menaked in Seagull Square, if it comes to that . . . because that would mean we won. We kept the world and most of Dormuth still stands.

“General,” a voice interrupted.

She pasted a more reasonable look on her face (she hoped) and peered through the darkness, trying to make out the fellow outlined by the brighter light in the hallway. “What?”

“You told me to inform you immediately when a JumpShip arrived in-system.”

Her heart leapt to her throat and she clasped her hands to keep them from reaching toward the comms officer and shaking him for an answer. “And?”

“Nothing, Commander. Just a trader. No news that bears upon our situation.”

“Thank you.”

The man saluted smartly and departed, leaving General Briggs to slowly turn back to the table. To replay the desperation she’d been forced into once again, despite her best efforts to stop. Knowing the same scene would replay tomorrow and the day after and the day after that, until the entire world swam in a haze of dust and smoke and destruction.

Where are you, Anson? Where are you?

19

Dormuth

Mandoria, Marik

Marik-Stewart Commonwealth

15 December 3136

Julietta Marik walked primly, holding her heavily laced dress above the dirt and soot covering the entryway of the thirty-plus-story building as far back as the first bank of elevators.

Despite the four Oriente guards at her back and the two companies of men stationed at key points along the southeast corridor of the city leading from the DropPort to the field headquarters of the Spirit Cats, in case a fighting withdrawal became necessary—a possibility about which the commander in charge of her detail talked all too much on their way to the world of Marik—she felt more defenseless than ever in her life. A shiver raced down her spine, standing the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck on end until they practically snapped with barely controlled electricity.

Herald of a coming storm?

She tried to shrug off such superstitious nonsense. She had abandoned her fascination with palm reading, divination and other pastimes she associated with magic when she became a woman. But lately she found herself drawn to the rhythms of those more innocent times, wanting so desperately to see what tomorrow would bring that she surreptitiously read tea leaves, or studied bones taken from bird nests in the garden. As a child, she’d always wanted to meet a witch, but could never quite muster the courage to escape from the palace and make her way to the woods, which she just knew must be filled with witches and elves and haunted things that she could entice with some sweets to tell her of a Prince Charming and a vaulted castle, and more.

“My lady.” A voice spoke from behind her, startling her back to the present. She glanced over her shoulder at the too-young face of the captain of her guard (was his name Tilson?); his broken nose a vague insult to her station. Hardly Prince Charming. She shivered again as her mind flashed on the unwanted touch of strong, callused hands. There are no Prince Charmings.

“Yes?” she managed.

“We have been granted permission to enter the basement facilities.”

She looked at the man as though he were slowwitted before realizing she’d just been standing there, a thousand-meter stare on her face, looking at the stairs bending down and out of sight to the right between a pair of elementals that towered over her like gods, sculpted flesh shining like burnished metal even in the dim lighting. The ghostly touch of callused hands sparked again, more insistent.

Though she kept any tremor from her voice, she knew her flesh betrayed her, as ever. “Of course.” She immediately stepped forward, trying to keep from rushing as she passed the towering guards and moved toward the lower levels of the building.

The echoes of her footsteps bounced around, disorienting in the subdued light that grew dimmer before a brighter glow announced the end of the spiraling staircase. Her heart began to beat a heavier rhythm. Like descending into a cave. A cat’s cave. A man’s cave. The last thought ended her ability to think and she just concentrated on continuing to put one foot in front of the other, pushing on because with her guards behind her, she could not go back; the fear of their disappointment stronger than the fear of the unknown Spirit Cat who awaited her arrival.

Julietta’s breath caught in her throat as the light fully enveloped her and she blinked in the brightness for a moment or two. This time she did stop, all thoughts of dark caves filled with the stink of savage men forgotten as a glorious room appeared before her, like visual manna to her starved eyes.

The mammoth ballroom stretched at least one hundred meters, with a dozen fluted Corinthian columns marching along the entire length on either long side; the short sides were paneled in mirrors that provided a view into eternity. The tiled floor shone a brilliant burgundy, revealing the extravagance of Mansu-ri burnt ciana marble; the ceiling vied for equal prominence, with more than a dozen glorious murals decorating a roof of carved stone elaborate enough to rival almost anything this side of the palace on Oriente; four mammoth chandeliers and half a dozen smaller ones cast enough light to erase every shred of shadow attempting to hide in a nook or cranny.

“How in the world are these chandeliers undamaged in the devastation wrought above?”

“It was built to last, Julietta.”

The deep voice startled her. A man in a light gray singlesuit came striding from her left. Leaning against the wall, waiting to pounce. She gulped several times as the piercing eyes sized her up, and the way he approached reminded her vividly of felines she had seen on Cunin’s safari stalking their prey. She nearly swayed with the visceral strength of her response.

“You are a Spirit Cat,” was the only response she could manage as she tried to regain her equilibrium in the sudden onslaught of conflicting emotions. The man smiled as though she stated the obvious, leaving her struggling to cool her warming features once more.

“It is beautiful,” she said, indicating their surroundings. As she took a deep breath of the dry air, she thought she caught a hint of jasmine. But why here?

“Aff, Julietta. It is why we keep it lit. Why I keep it lit. To remind myself there is beauty, even in the midst of battle.”

Her mind latched on to the part of his statement that she could use to become angry—an emotion preferable to any of the hundred others that had gripped her in random succession these last months. “My name is Julietta Marik,” she said coolly, doing her best to look down her nose at the taller man.

“That is your tradition. Our tradition does not bestow last names upon those who have not earned them.”

Memories of her Clan customs geopolitical classes floated to the surface, but she spoke again before her mind had come up with a solution. “But no man calls me by my first name without my permission.” Her heart skipped a beat as the Clanner frowned.

Mother will kill me if he doesn’t. I’m losing controlof the situation, just because I cannot face him without anger as a shield. Fear rushed blood to her face.

Then he smiled, tipping his head to the side. “I believe you have earned the title ‘lady,’ is that correct?”

She stared at him for a moment, confused by the question. Then she caught his use of the word earned and understood where he was going. A smile at the memories tugged at her lips. “I believe I earned that title a long time ago.”

He inclined his head. “Then lady it shall be.”

She looked expectantly at the Clansmen. His silent, piercing stare began to unnerve her once more. I refuse to invite myself in, you lout. “You will call me Lady Julietta, and I will call you . . . ?” She knew his name, but if he was going to be rude . . .

He inclined his head again, as though she somehow scored a point. “Star Colonel Rikkard.”

“No last name?” she asked, then blushed furiously at her own lack of manners.

He showed no reaction. “I have not yet gained a Bloodname, lady.”

“Ah,” she responded. She looked meaningfully at a small door set discreetly in the short wall nearest them, but Rikkard let the silence stretch again. Unable to stand it any longer, she opened her mouth to speak just as Rikkard broke the silence.

"Using the trader JumpShip as subterfuge to land was very clever of you. But why have you come?”

She gestured at the echoing hall. “Is this the proper place for such a discussion? Perhaps a more private place?”

“There is no more private place than this, lady. And I am very busy. Why have you come?”

Unused to standing practically in the doorway to negotiate with a potential ally, she mentally shrugged, took a calming breath, then plunged in. Clanners like blunt. I can give them blunt.

“My mother, Lady Jessica Marik, has sent me to offer to the Spirit Cats the friendship and support of the Oriente Protectorate in this time of challenge and opportunity. You obviously intend to stay, yet week after week you become more bogged down while the Commonwealth forces burn down the very world you are trying to capture.” She licked her lips, knowing she didn’t understand all the nuances of what she was saying, but confident she was convincing in repeating what she’d learned from her captain of the guard during the transit in-system. “The Marik-Stewart Commonwealth will be sending reinforcements. They have no choice. In fact, they could be arriving in-system any day now. Do you have reinforcements on the way, Star Colonel? You could have, if you accept my mother’s hand in friendship.”

Rikkard remained motionless as she spoke, then let the silence stretch again, broken only by the occasional creak of a boot as one of her guards shifted. I must remind them that their conduct reflects on me. There should be no movement!

“I have heard of no troop movements toward this world from the Marik-Stewart Commonwealth,” Rikkard said abruptly. “As for my own reinforcements, even if they were only a day away, I would hardly share that information with you, lady.”

She nodded her head in response to the obvious truth of this statement.

“More to the point, we have never had a good relationship with a spheroid government. You offer friendship and potential support from an empire that would profit more than most others from possession of the world of Marik. It would be all too easy for you to slide into our rear arc and eliminate us with a quick salvo of betrayal.”

“How dare you—” she began, but he brusquely cut her off.

“Please, lady. Do not think we are so naïve as your history books portray us. We have learned much in the long decades we have spent in the Inner Sphere.”

She dropped her false anger and gave a grudging nod.

“If that is all you have to say, then we are done here.”

“I will remain on-world,” she said quickly, as he turned away.

“Why?”

“Because things change quickly in war, Star Colonel. And because sometimes an offer of friendship is just that. My offer stands as long as I am here on Marik. Please consider it.”

Mountain Retreat

Paltos, Atreus

Marik-Stewart Commonwealth

“Thrice-damned ol’ man!” Anson Marik bellowed his fury into the wintry air, shaking his massive fists above his head. Snow fell lightly on his bare arms, but the heat of his anger kept him warm.

“My lord,” a guard said quietly from the doorway. “You should not shout on the veranda. You might be heard.”

Anson leveraged his frame around to face the guard, who blanched at the intensity of his focus. “Haven’t you got a full battalion of troops secreted across the ten thousand acres of this estate?”

“Yes, my lord,” the guard responded, eyes wildly seeking an escape route.

“And you’ve got overlapping remote sensors set up, with corresponding monitoring stations.”

“Yes, my lord,” the guard responded, his voice growing softer.

“And you’ve even got a Schatten surveillance air-ship covering the entire area during the night.”

The guard nodded mutely.

“Then by God I’ll scream on my own veranda if I wish, and be damned with this hiding. The ol’ man did this on purpose!”

The guard managed to snap to attention while simultaneously wilting, his face averted and eyes closed as though praying he might be anywhere but here, receiving the full brunt of his lord’s ire. Anson turned back to face the beauty of the landscape beyond the deck, though he didn’t see it. His hands trembled as he scanned the document again, though the words already were burned into his brain.

How dare you waste so much time, ol’ man? You squawk about security, send your message by a circuitous route using a special self-destructing verigraph courier. “That our enemies not discover what we are about.” Anson’s chest heaved, his exhaled breath an explosive white column torn to wisps by the weight of its moisture.

Months I’ve waited. Months I waited for the stinking ol’ man to fulfill his part of the bargain and when he finally responds, he whines about security concerns? I’m losing our ancestral home world to upstart tincanners and he’s worried that someone will find out we’ve been talking to each other? And to top it off,he’s only willing to rattle his saber on the border . . . and he’s sending an old man, three women and a dog!

The cool breeze off the frozen mountain lake a kilometer distant ruffled his hair and tugged at the whiskers of the beard he’d begun to grow. A new thought occurred to him. “It’s not your home world, is it, ol’ man?” he ground out between clenched teeth. “You make claims on being captain-general, but you’ve not a drop of Marik blood in your body. If Marik burns, it doesn’t matter to you! You’ll pay for this, ol’ man. I’ve got our agreement in writing. Right now I’ve got to slap down some thrice-damned Clanners. But I’ll not forget this. Mark my words, ol’ man.

“I’ll not forget.”

Chateau de Leon

Julon Mountain, Clipperton

Regulan Fiefs

In their busiest season, when tourists traveled from nearby worlds for the Fief-class skiing all along the Julon Mountain range—and to marvel at the majesty of the spectacularly appointed Chateau de Leon lounge and dining hall, which hung over a thousand-meter precipice—supplies were packed cheek by jowl along both sides of the corridor between the cargo docking bay and the kitchens of the Chateau de Leon (directly under the dining hall and hotel), causing the constant flow of employees to constrict.

Jason moved with fluid grace despite the hubbub, never bumping into anyone. His waiter’s vest bleached brilliantly white and his black pants pressed until the front crease could double as a razor blade and his shoes buffed until he could see his reflection—he carried himself with the assurance of an employee long accustomed to his job, knowing exactly where he needed to be. The only element out of place in his appearance was the satchel he carried over his shoulder; it was not time for a shift change, and so some of his fellow employees thought it was odd that he was still carrying an outside bag if he was already working the late-morning brunch. But his confident stride, pleasant smile and sincere blue eyes consistently discouraged anyone from questioning him.

Despite his long limbs and easy pace, he took an inordinate amount of time to traverse the entire length of the underground corridor. A stop to adjust the satchel; to remove a rock from his shoe; to scratch his calf; to pull out and check his schedule; to retie his shoe: each time he stopped he balanced himself against a crate, or a bundle of bags, or a rolled and heavily taped package.

By the time he reached the end of the corridor and neared the intersection of three conjoining corridors— one that led directly into the kitchens, another to the staff area and the third up into the Chateau and hotel proper—his bag was significantly lighter, but not noticeably so.

It didn’t have to be done exactly like this, of course. They’d spent years preparing, lining up the careful deliveries through half a dozen different companies, spreading a net across nearly two dozen worlds. But Jason wasn’t a man to leave any detail to chance. And this would be his crowning achievement. The one that would put him into the history books. They would talk about this for decades to come. Study it in every nuanced detail.

Perhaps even centuries.

He leaned against the wall, and now people did notice him, for he wore a strange expression on his face; even more unusual, however, was the sight of a waiter in his bleached vest with his back against the none-too-clean ferrocrete wall.

One of the older waiters began to make his way through the swirling stream of people toward Jason, intent on bringing the young man up to snuff. Jason smiled sweetly at him and depressed the initiation key in his pocket.

The key—which would only work at close range— launched the triggering devices he’d placed on half a dozen packages the restaurant had received in the past week, which transmitted microbursts of encrypted electrons that tripped safety measures, allowing micro-battery packs to engage and ignite fuses, which sparked in a microsecond display of unseen twinkling blue lights buried deep among cartons of dried fish, bails of fresh linens, shanks of imported calloway wildebeest and more: nearly a ton of high-grade pentaglycerine explosive detonated in almost perfect unison.

The occupants of the hallway were obliterated instantly as the explosives received a huge force multiplier from the heavily reinforced ferrocrete columns and corridors of the chateau. The expanding blast wave rushed back along the direction Jason had traveled and tossed around the heavy hover trucks in the bay like so many children’s toys, turned the walls leading into the kitchen into a storm of superheated ferrocrete shivs that killed nanoseconds before the crushing overpressure pulverized flesh and the firestorm incinerated bone. No perceptible time passed before the blast disintegrated the ceiling and exploded upward into the packed dining hall, wreaking unimaginable horror.

Perched like a raptor’s nest on the precipice, the Chateau de Leon underwent years of rigorous computer modeling before the government granted a license to build the extensive facility, including a thousand-room hotel behind the dining hall and lounge. But no engineering test could conceivably have taken into account the forces thus dropped into the heart of the structure. Its mooring pillars, driven meters deep into the cliff’s edge, were shorn off as first the dining hall toppled and then the very cliff face itself, damaged beyond structural limits, collapsed as well, carrying most of the hotel with it.

In the instant Jason died, he knew nearly ten thousand people would meet their various gods on the same day.

Yes, they’d talk about it for centuries. . . .

20

Dormuth

Mandoria, Marik

Marik-Stewart Commonwealth

2 January 3137

Rikkard glanced wearily at the monitor, trying to make sense of the deluge of images that washed the screen. The sounds of explosions tickled the back of his mind, but he swam through a malaise of fatigue and frustration and the weight of his dream fading day after day.

A warning Klaxon snapped him out of one of his all-too-frequent spells as a brace of missiles rained down metal hell across the lower extremities of his Shadow Hawk IIC. Moving too quick for him to identify it, the vehicle vanished down a side street five hundred meters farther down the street. Rikkard shook his head to dislodge the cobwebs and jerked his targeting reticule to the right as another warning Klaxon signaled incoming enemy fire. Two short-range missiles from a battlearmor caught him just below the chin of his machine. The concussive blast did very little damage against the tough center-torso armor, but the feedback from the near hit to the head spiked his adrenaline, burning away the last remnants of fog in his brain.

He lined up a shot as he watched a battlearmored infantry expertly make contact some twenty stories up the side of a nearby building and ram its huge battle claw into the ferrocrete, anchoring itself in position. It reoriented to him, drawing a bead with the laser mounted in its right arm to fire off a series of short, coherent ruby beams that nipped at his flanks like a pup intent on pulling down a beast ten times its size.

Rikkard manipulated his joysticks, brought both arms to bear and let fly with a flurry of emerald darts that pulverized the battlearmor and even detonated part of the wall as moisture just below the surface vaporized under the hellish energies; as the wind cleared away the dust he could see that only the clawed arm, severed at the elbow, remained attached to the wall.

A battered Nova Cat hove into view from an adjacent street five hundred meters away, battlearmor swarming it like gnats. Rikkard automatically moved his targeting reticule over the armored troopers; under normal circumstances, he would attempt the difficult shot required to pick off the offending enemy without damaging the ’Mech. In this situation, however, he knew such aid would be violently rejected.

If you are the nova cat spirit incarnate, as you preach since your resurrection from deep beneath the collapsed building, then you cannot be killed and I will not help you, Janis. Bile threatened to rise into his throat as he contemplated how her death in battle would make his situation less complicated.

He methodically worked the pedals to swing his ’Mech around to its original course and throttled it to a walk, arms automatically sweeping for enemies he knew would appear at any moment. Knowing that despite the daily losses he must continue to launch attacks around the heart of the city or lose the initiative completely. Recognizing that his command was slowly slipping away as Janis undermined his authority. Bitterly accepting his own growing doubt of the truth of his vision.

Galaxy Commander, why do you not come?

Dormuth

Amur, Oriente

Oriente Protectorate

Commander Casson concluded the presentation of his plan for the invasion of Marik. He clicked off the holoprojector and the lights in the secure room automatically came up, lighting the faces of Lady Jessica Marik and her youngest daughter, Lady Nikol Marik. He stood at attention, respectfully averting his eyes from their nearly identical expressions. Peas in a pod, those two.

As the minutes passed he subtly clenched and relaxed his leg muscles so that he could remain strictly at attention until they were ready to comment. He was not nervous; he respected the intelligence of both women and knew they thoroughly understood his plan. Now they were attempting to poke holes in it.

“Nikol?” Jessica finally prompted, drawing Casson’s eyes first to the mother and then to the younger copy cast from the same physical mold.

“We don’t have that many forces available at this time.”

“Correct.” Casson nodded. “This would require at least three months—I’d prefer six—to reposition troops.”

“Even then you’re leaving our borders dangerously exposed.”

He nodded in agreement, gratified by Nikol’s intelligent analysis. You’ve grown up overnight, my lady. Happy to finally see the lady Jessica and one of her heirs. “My lady,” he began, nodding toward Jessica, “this proposal is based on two premises. One. That we need to capture Marik, and that goal is our highest priority. Two. That our border with the Anduriens is secure as a result of the agreement reached with House Liao. A security, by default, that extends to our border with Liao.”

“Never trust a Liao farther than you can throw a branth, Commander,” Nikol advised him. He fought to conceal a smile at the acerbity in her voice.

“I live by that principle, Lady Nikol. However, I was provided with two basic premises and have formulated a plan accordingly. I have not repositioned everything from those two borders, but I’m well aware that I’ve significantly weakened our defenses there.”

“You’ve stripped too much from our borders with the Fiefs. They’ll know when we move such a large continent.”

“Yes, they will.”

“And this is your best plan?”

He took no offense at her rebuke. So glad to see the lady Jessica in you. “No.”

“No,” she said, eyes clouding as her forehead creased. “I don’t understand. Why would you deliver a faulty battle plan?”

“It is by no means faulty, my lady. This is a viable option, though it does entail significant risk.”

“But you say you have a better plan.”

“I did not have a better plan until yesterday, my lady.”

Nikol’s forehead creased even more; then it smoothed as she slowly turned to look at her mother; even Casson’s long association with the family provided insufficient insight for him to read the conversation taking place behind the inscrutable look both women now wore. With the skill of any military man who dealt extensively with the nobility, he once more found something interesting on the back wall to occupy his time, surreptitiously scratching an itch on the back of his hand against his pant leg.

“Spit it out, Mother.” Nikol finally broke the tableau. “I’ve already figured out the Spirit Cat angle. It’s where you sent Julietta, after all. If we can ally with the Spirit Cats, we’ll significantly lower our resource requirements for the invasion. But that still leaves several worlds we need to capture in the interim to cut off Marik and keep Anson from reclaiming the world. What else have you got up your sleeve?”

“I never reveal everything up my sleeve, my dear. You of all people should know that by now,” the lady Jessica responded, voice lilting with suppressed humor.

“Fine. But you’ve got to reveal some of it.”

“I do?”

“Yes. Like the fact that you’ve already moved some troops near the border over the last year.”

From the corner of his eye Casson saw Lady Jessica’s eyebrows arch.

“I have?”

“Yes, Mother. You have. You’ve been working at this for too long to not have made such preparation. What I don’t understand is how you expect to keep the Fiefs occupied if they realize how dangerously exposed you’ve left our border.”

“Something for you to think about in the coming weeks. Are your preparations complete?”

“Of course.”

Despite her cool words, Casson detected the excitement just below the surface and suppressed a smile.

“Commander Casson,” Jessica said.

“Yes, my lady,” he responded smartly, looking her square in the face before adjusting his eyes to her chin as was appropriate.

“You have two important duties in this coming campaign.”

“Aye, my lady.”

“Which is the most important?”

“My blood for yours, my lady,” he responded instantly, his fervor completely unfeigned.

“Very good.”

Nikol tried to not bounce in her seat as Janos walked into the small sitting room. Despite her occupation with the fueled DropShips sitting on a tarmac waiting for tomorrow’s launch, her brother’s face shocked her back to the here and now. You look so old, Janos!

“Welcome, son,” Jessica said, indicating the only unoccupied chair in the room.

Nikol tried to gauge from her mother’s voice and expression whether she could see the change in Janos, but her mother was as inscrutable as ever.

“Mother,” Janos said, easing into the chair as though he really had aged ten years in the months he’d spent touring the independent border worlds. “Nikol,” he continued, nodding perfunctorily in her direction before returning his attention to their mother.

I love you too , brother.

“How was your trip, my son?”

“It did not go as well as we’d hoped.”

“No?”

“No. Though I was well received in every system, a common undercurrent ran through every reception. Though only one or two rulers harbored real animosity toward Oriente, even those most inclined to ally with you seemed reluctant to be too open about their feelings.”

“The Fiefs have done their job well.”

“Lester has never minced words over his feeling toward you, Mother.”

“Too true. And he has been charitable compared with Anson.”

“Not to mention,” Janos continued, “their actions at the end of the Jihad as they hunted The Master . . . it is impossible to forget such barbarity. The Fiefs may play at civility, but a beast lies just beneath the surface . . . a beast no one wishes to arouse.”

“And rightly so,” Jessica said.

Nikol stared for a moment at her mother, struck by a strange quality she suddenly heard in her voice. Are you afraid? That didn’t seem possible, but it was a strong impression.

Janos nodded and opened his mouth as though to respond, then closed it again. He sat stiff-backed, unable to relax even in this intimate family gathering.

I doubt you know the meaning of the word intimate , brother. Nikol nearly giggled at the idea of Janos being intimate, but she covered it with a slight cough and her hand over her mouth.

Janos glanced crossly in her direction before continuing. “Not a single world was willing to sign anything, though several made verbal commitments.”

Nikol spoke up. “Which aren’t worth the breath they used to say them unless we can strong-arm them into compliance when needed.”

Janos’ features registered the affront of his little sister daring to interrupt the conversation of the adults at the table, but she met his eyes when he tried to stare her down. I am no longer your little sister, Janos, and you need to learn that, right now.

Janos raised his eyebrows at her boldness, then looked back to their mother, his expression equal parts confusion and irritation. Nikol made no effort to hide her smile.

“They assured me, Mother, that—”

Jessica cut him off with a raised hand. “I’m sure they did. And while some of them may actually mean it, Nikol is not too far off the mark. Rulers can be cattle just like any crowd, and will move with the prevailing wind. If too many of them fail to heed the call, those who spoke of oaths will find ways to rationalize taking new ones.”

Janos’ eyes narrowed dangerously at the prospect of any of the rulers he treated with going back on their word. For just a moment, before his features smoothed back into their usual neutral expression, Nikol glimpsed the man that might have been—and caught a minute shift in her mother’s eyes, too. Is that what you see every day? An abrupt sadness filled Nikol as she empathized with her mother; shared disappointment in a son and older brother who never lived up to expectations.

“They need an impetus, Mother.” Janos finally spoke, the weariness Nikol saw in his face bleeding into his voice.

“Yes, I suppose they do,” Jessica responded, giving Nikol a speculative look that made her feel uneasy. You can’t change my orders, Mother. You’ve given me my task and I’ll depart tomorrow to do it.

But the memory of her mother’s inscrutable gaze followed her for days, and she couldn’t erase the memory of the uncomfortable weeks spent dodging an enthusiastic older man.

Janos stood in the bathroom of his own room and heaved a sigh of relief. Finally home. He undressed slowly, allowing his clothes to fall where he stood on the plush carpet; a sure sign of his fatigue.

He opened the glass door to the shower, turned on the hot water and waited for the first burst of cold water to pass before stepping into the soothing spray. He almost groaned in pleasure. Amazing how good a shower can feel, especially after months of nothing but the sponge baths ubiquitous on DropShips and JumpShips.

He lathered up the soap and tried to scrub away the grime from the trip. Tried to scrub away the image of his mother and youngest sister in apparent collaboration; after rinsing away the soap, he squirted an extravagant dollop of shampoo onto his palm and proceeded to scrub his scalp until the pain made his eyes water.

You’ve grown up, Nikol. Grown up and then some. I still see the impatience that has always been your Achilles’ heel, yet . . . Afraid he might actually scrape away his scalp, he let his hands drop and raised his face to the shower, hoping that the cleansing water might bring healing.

I’ve been your dutiful son for so long, Mother. Patient and stolid. Those are virtues that you don’t seem to see. . . .

He flashed on the image of a proud mother overseeing a chick taking its first flight, the mother’s eyes unable to see anything except the bright young wings. His head slowly sank forward until it rested against the cool tiles, the hot rain on the back of his neck no longer soothing. More than two decades. It had been more than two decades, but tears fell this day, unseen among the spray, as Janos finally gave physical expression to a worry that felt more like a yoke with each year that passed . . .

And now she might never see. . . .

21

Dormuth

Mandoria, Marik

Marik-Stewart Commonwealth

14 February 3137

The grandeur of the ballroom paled in significance as Julietta tried to hide her shock. The bright lights of the grand room were merciless, revealing every new wrinkle and the sag of flesh as if she examined him through a microscope. Can it have been only weeks since we last spoke?

Star Colonel Rikkard Nova Cat stood before her, shoulders slumped and eyes unfocused. As though you see things no other can? Normally such a thought— especially applied to a Spirit Cat, a Clan renowned for its mysticism—might’ve caused a twitter of suppressed laughter. Not now. You do see something beyond the here and now . . . and it has crushed you. She never thought to see any warrior, and a Clansman at that, so demoralized. But the signs were there for those who could read them. Her eyes skipped to his hair. She thought she spied some gray strands.

“Lady.” Rikkard finally spoke, several long minutes after she arrived at his summons.

“Star Colonel,” she responded, her tone deliberate yet encouraging. But not callous.

“I have confirmation that a small flotilla of DropShips are inbound.”

“Really?” It was easy to infuse her voice with surprise, as it was genuine. Why didn’t I know about this yet? I will have a word with Captain Tilson! “Who is joining our little struggle?”

“Do not play games with me, lady. I am sure you are well aware the incoming troops belong to the Marik-Stewart Commonwealth.”

Her stomach muscles clenched and she momentarily forgot Rikkard’s lackluster delivery of this news, itself a significant clue that his passion for this campaign had been compromised in some way. Commonwealth reinforcements . . . I cannot be captured! She knew they would ransom her for a tidy sum . . . but in the midst of war, a lot could happen. Bile rose as she once again blocked the memory of those callused hands; she reached for something, anything, to distract her attention from the painful knot in her belly.

“Star Colonel, I will respect your desire for blunt speech and observe that this news seems to have unduly weighed you down. Considering the fight you have waged these last months, I would not expect something as simple as the arrival of enemy reinforcements to cause you such . . . unease.” She snapped her mouth shut, afraid that she would say more than was needed; afraid that in her anxiety about the possibility of being captured and ransomed, she would destroy her chance to strike a deal with the Spirit Cat commander.

Star Colonel Rikkard’s gaze seemed to turn even further inward, as though a yawning chasm had opened into a blackness from which none might return. The silence of the room grew so profound that the distant crump of sporadic explosions could be heard even in this place, meters underground. Rikkard licked his lips in what appeared to be a nervous gesture, then responded in a voice as cold and desolate— and unguarded—as the void in his eyes. “I have just received word that Galaxy Commander Kev Rosse has been assassinated.”

Julietta recoiled from his words, but managed to not cry out in surprise. For the first time in weeks, a cascade of thoughts swirling like the maelstrom of a furious battle swept away the ever-present fear that kept the knot in the pit of her stomach.

If Kev is dead, that means no reinforcements. And if they have no reinforcements, then they must agree to Protectorate help. She looked at Rikkard with a fresh eye. He appears broken. Will he give up? Will the concept of an alliance mean anything if Rikkard’s will to secure this world has been shattered?

Julietta relaxed her fingers from where they were wound in the fabric of her dress, wiggling them until the returning circulation rode invisible pinpricks the length of her hands. Discovered her lips tasted of dust and mildew, a testament to the wearing down of the immaculate order of the place since her first visit. Taking a deep breath, she pressed forward. She must assume that a Clan warrior could not so easily be broken, despite Rikkard’s outward appearance.

“Star Colonel Rikkard, I grieve for the loss to the Spirit Cats. But the loss of a single individual need not diminish the vision he espoused. Does not lessen the power of your own. It would appear that now, more than ever, the world of Marik is a refuge the Spirit Cats must have.

“If Galaxy Commander Rosse is gone, I assume there will be no reinforcements.”

“Aff,” he responded in the same toneless voice. “The Nova Cats, through Mystic Kisho, have extended an invitation to all the Nova Cat enclaves within the shattered Republic of the Sphere, calling them home. It is said that many Nova Cats, and even some Spirit Cats, are answering the call. Are following their visions . . . home.”

She could not immediately grasp all the ramifications of this startling news, but she knew her mother would find it invaluable. And still she needed to know if he would remain and fight for the world. Or would he “answer the call”?

“And what of you, Star Colonel?” She blushed furiously; she was trying to achieve bluntness, but every sentence out of her mouth seemed more foolish than the last. And she didn’t want to make him angry.

“What is it you want to know, Lady?”

Under her breath Julietta swore a curse that would’ve shocked (and in some cases delighted) her siblings. It’ll be a miracle if I can salvage anything from this venture! She thought frantically how best to phrase what she wanted to know. “Will you accept the invitation of the Nova Cats? Will you accept the loss of all you have fought to accomplish and bow to the vision of others a half thousand light-years removed?”

Like a small fire kindled in the black night of a new moon, animation returned to Rikkard’s eyes, the first hint that the implacable will that brought him to this time and place was only banked, not extinguished. She breathed a sigh of relief.

“My vision calls to me now as strongly as ever,” he responded slowly, as though testing his words for truth.

“Then you will stay and claim the world of Marik?”

“Aff.”

“But you cannot hold this world with Commonwealth reinforcements arriving.”

Rikkard shook himself and then smiled slyly as his old self seemed to slide into place, leaving mere vestiges of the defeated commander still visible. “I see what you are about, Lady.”

“I have never made any pretense at not having ulterior motives. We wish the Marik-Stewart Commonwealth to no longer have access to this world. You wish to hold it as a Spirit Cat refuge. If both our objectives are achieved, is that so wrong?”

Rikkard’s eyes bored into hers with renewed intensity, yet he answered quickly, reinforcing her impression that he had been severely shaken. At least enough so that her somewhat clumsy efforts had succeeded.

“Neg. It is not wrong.”

“Then you will agree to an alliance?”

“The terms must be defined and the details laid out. An open invitation for a military alliance with a spheroid power invites only disaster.”

“History supports your view,” she said stiffly. “We also seek well-defined terms of alliance, but we must move quickly. As you say, Commonwealth troops are already en route, and the Protectorate forces cannot arrive instantly. You still must hold out.”

This time a true, burning fire blazed in his eyes. “We will.”

She marveled at the inner strength that could survive such a battering of will, and the drive to succeed that turned so quickly to face the new challenge. “Very good, Star Colonel.”

Rikkard turned and led the way into the depths of their underground command center. Julietta followed, her mind already composing the triumphant report informing her mother that she had established the alliance Jessica sought. Despite her missteps.

You will not eclipse me so easily, Nikol.

Dormuth

Mandoria, Marik

Marik-Stewart Commonwealth

“Say again?” Daniella Briggs tried to keep the shocked surprise from her voice, but she knew her anger showed on her face. A minute passed as the signal feed flashed at the speed of light to the operations deck of the command DropShip of the incoming reinforcement fleet, to be answered by the commander and flashed back. Only a few million kilometers remained in their hundred-million-kilometer journey, but in her current mood that was an unconscionable delay.

The screen sputtered to life again. “I command a battalion of mixed troops. Captain-General Anson Marik sends his regards. I and my troops are at your disposal.”

She slowly leaned forward, gripping the edge of the console like a lifeline to reality. Her limbs shook with suppressed hysteria; only the looks on her subordinates’ faces kept the dark amusement from slipping her control.

A mixed battalion. Which means, if I’m lucky, anadditional company of ’Mechs. If I’m lucky. What have you done, Captain-General? I’ve only kept control of this world by destroying Dormuth. And when your reinforcements finally arrive, they’re only enough to bring us up to par with the Spirit Cats? Maybe I can hold them at bay now without resorting to dropping skyscrapers and leveling entire city blocks. A snarl peeled back her lips; that, along with the lines etched by the strain of the past punishing months and resulting weight loss, made her face look like a maniacal skull.

“Why,” she finally ground out, “are there not more reinforcements? We have waited long months, and this is what the captain-general sends?”

Small talk and the sound of fingers on keyboards ceased at her words, and only the constant hum of electrical equipment filled the silence as they waited the required sixty seconds for an answer.

“Captain-General Marik felt an infusion of troops critical at this juncture and so I command the first wave. A second wave is imminent.”

Which she knew could mean anywhere from a week to a month or more. Always couch such broadcasts in conservative terms just in case encryptions are compromised. All this time, Anson, and this is the best you

can do? My people are dying! She closed her eyes, willing herself to stand erect once more, knowing that her words, body language and tone would be needed to light a fire under her troops. Willed her slumped shoulders into an erect barricade of determination. Upon such might all depend if a second wave of reinforcements did not set down on a world still held by a Marik.

“So be it, Commander Jacks. You will have your deployment orders within two hours.”

22

Choac Plains

Nashhad, Oceana

Marik-Stewart Commonwealth

1 March 3137

Though it was still several kilometers away, Nikol imagined she could feel the fusion fires within the mammoth tractor as the 600-ton locomotive engine powered toward her position. Pulling nearly three dozen cars behind it, the Adelante passenger/cargo train represented a small DropShip’s worth of mass hurtling toward her forward picket lines. Despite her repeated requests/pleas/orders to stop, the train moved inexorably forward.

She now knew the cargo capacity of this train model to a hundredweight, and appreciated (and feared) its capability for quickly and easily moving enemy troops; Casson nearly lost a lance of ’Mechs to a combined-arms company spilling unexpectedly from what they’d assumed was a transport for dried foodstuffs from the northern plantations and workers returning from the late-summer harvest. Now they assumed a potential flood of troops each time one of the trains approached their lines.

Never mind that tradition, from all the way back into the Succession Wars, forbade the use of such civilian vehicles for wartime matters. It was one thing to use a civilian train to quickly ferry troops from one location to another behind the front lines. But to use it to ferry troops right into the face of enemy forces, or to move reinforcements into position behind your front lines—that made them targets. And when a target refused to acknowledge your broadcasts, you had to take out the target, regardless of the possible consequences.

“No way are you going to spill a battalion of troops into my rear echelon,” Nikol said quietly, reflexively trying to wipe the sweat off her face and annoyed with herself when her hand banged into the neurohelmet— again. It hadn’t been that long since she’d been in her ’Mech.

“Commander.” Jenna’s voice rang out. “Casson reports that he’s penetrated Axion and the commander there has surrendered.”

“So quickly?”

“He wondered the same thing.”

She breathed deeply, eyes watching the readout on her forward screen as the distance between her and the train rapidly shrank, tempted to call the train conductor on an open frequency one more time. But after ten attempts at communication, she knew it was futile. “So, either we overestimated their forces and the world is ours, or they’re trying a Trojan horse on us?”

“But they just did that two weeks ago, commander, “ her XO shot back immediately. “Would you try the same tactic twice in such a short time?”

“No . . . no, I wouldn’t. Then again, maybe that’s their strategy. That we wouldn’t believe they’d try a stunt like this twice.”

“Maybe we’re overthinking this. . . .”

She wanted to smile, despite the tense situation. All about gut reactions, eh, Jenna? “If I’m wrong and they have troops on this train . . .”

“The world is still ours. It can’t be carrying more than a company of regulars, maybe two additional companies of militia. We’ve got enough to take them.”

“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 3137

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.

“I can’t guess. They may have been at the end of their recharge cycle, or they could be close enough to finished to risk using their fusion drives to quick-charge their K-F drives."

“Or,” Nikol said thoughtfully, as she adjusted her right foot’s magslip to stay adhered to the deck, “they could be bluffing. They could’ve arrived today, which would mean they have had no chance to charge their drives even using their fusion engines—not without risking damage and stranding themselves here. They could simply be bluffing, hoping we’ll push ourselves too hard, too fast, hoping to stall their jump.”

The smile reached his eyes this time as he nodded. “Well calculated, my lady. But even if they get away, we’ve hurt them. Badly.”

A strand of her hair slid onto her cheek and she abruptly scratched her face as she tried without success to tuck it back into the knot at the nape of her neck. Suddenly, she nodded as she grasped the full implications. “Even if they escape, they’ve likely deployed all their own aerospace assets.”

“Not likely. They have . . . unless they’ve jury-rigged space on their DropShips for more aerospace fighters, which I highly doubt.”

“And if our forces carry the day . . .”

“Unless they’ve got a real good surprise up their sleeve, we will.”

“Then we’ve just put a hurt on the Commonwealth they may not be able to recover from.”

“We throw up a blockade here as we did in the Oceana system, and any additional reinforcements we either take, or they’re so damaged fighting their way through our blockade it makes no difference.”

“They can jump around Oceana or Angell.”

The man nodded. “Of course. They could even go through unpopulated systems in this area. But that takes extra weeks, and accepting the risk of blowing a helium seal and leaving yourself stranded in a system no one may visit for years, if ever. Not even the most dedicated men are generally willing to commit themselves to such risks.”

“Then we’ve isolated Marik.”

“As best we can, yes. Another hour and the JumpShips will either jump, if they can, or capitulate. Either way, it’s time to start thinking about our ultimate prize.”

The loosening knot turned into a fierce spark of determination. To capture the prize; to hold Marik.

Elis is always talking about her angles, how she hedges against the outcome she wants to prevent and improves the chances for the outcome she wants toachieve . . . Maybe this success can be my angle. Maybe winning Marik will make marriage to Frederick less important to Mother.

She wet her lips, determined to ignore the fact that her mother would do whatever she pleased, regardless of her children’s angles; at least, Nikol had yet to find an angle that worked against her mother.

24

Dormuth

Mandoria, Marik

Marik-Stewart Commonwealth

28 April 3137

Julietta struggled to maintain her composure as the verbal assault continued.

“How is it that even more Commonwealth reinforcements have arrived in-system before we have seen even a single Protectorate ship? Where is your vaunted aid, lady? Where?”

The scorn was unmistakable. She swallowed, the office abruptly too small. Too far underground. Too . . . simply too.

“You promised aid, lady. That was part of our agreement. Part of our pact. There was no rede . . . no trothkin present to witness. But that should not matter between people of honor. We cannot hold out much longer. . . .”

Julietta braced herself as Star Colonel Rikkard drew in a ragged breath. But instead of launching into a further tirade, Rikkard glanced beyond her to the door of the small office, as though he suddenly wished to be any place but here.

Like me. She ground her teeth, wondering how much more of this yelling Tilson would put up with before he barged in again. Despite the ludicrousness of the entire situation—not to mention the improprieties involved and how the hair stood up on her arms when it dawned on her what had occurred—she couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips when she remembered the gleam of protective adoration in his eyes when he burst into the room after Rikkard began shouting. However good Tilson might be—and he would never have been chosen for this assignment if he wasn’t up to the task of protecting her—Rikkard was simply better. And in his current mood, with his eyes so wide the whites outshone everything else in the room . . . Tilson won’t last long.

“Star Colonel. Our agreement was very clearly stated; I cannot be held responsible if your understanding of that agreement was flawed.” She suppressed a nervous shudder at her audacity, then straightened her spine even more, if that were possible. He needs me. I do not need him! Of course, she did need him if she were to salvage any respect from her mother and Nikol, but she managed to ignore that fact for the moment.

Rikkard slowly moved his eyes from beyond Julietta’s head to look her full in the face, a furrow deepening on his forehead until a storm stood latent on his face, thunder and lightning flashing behind distant, cloudy eyes.

“The agreement provided for military intervention,” Julietta rushed on, almost breathless in an effort to forestall what would surely be an epic response. Sweat (sweat!) trickled between her breasts.

“Exactly!” Rikkard almost shouted as he heaved up out of the chair, a belligerent whale surging up from the depths to bellow its frustration at the sky. “Military intervention. That was what you agreed to provide!” He began pacing the length of the office; considering its small size, it brought him uncomfortably close during each circuit.

“But the agreement did not specify ground military intervention.”

Rikkard froze midstride, the thunderous look and distant lightning once more charging his face with foreboding. “What?”

“Our deal did not make any specific mention of ground military intervention.”

“What other type of military intervention is there, lady?”

Careful, Julietta . . . that tone masks a calm before the storm. A potentially terrifying storm. She swallowed several times to regain her voice, then continued, knowing that she could delay imparting this information no longer. “Planetary interdiction. If all has gone according to plan, both the Oceana and Angell Two systems are under Protectorate control. Any glance at a stellar map will show that without those two key systems, the Commonwealth will find it virtually impossible to reinforce Marik. The last reinforcements to arrive are the last you will see.” Please let it be so. “Protectorate forces will arrive soon enough to complete the full cordoning of Marik.”

Something strange crept across Rikkard’s face, like a foul wind stirring the clouds that scarred his face, as long moments stretched into almost a full minute. Julietta struggled to maintain her poise and eye contact, valiantly ignoring the sweat that now dampened her armpits.

Her eyes moved away from Rikkard’s face for a fraction of a second and light flared shockingly, brilliantly and then a high-pitched wail sounded and then pain blossomed, first on the back of her head and then on her face. Confusion reigned as she clawed through the pain wrapping her senses; a cacophony swelled as the door banged open and then multiple voices exploded; she might as well have listened to the braying of a pen of donkeys for all she could make out what was happening.

Get a hold of yourself, Julietta. This is it. This is important. Your life depends on this! She knew it as surely as she finally understood she’d been struck in the face and had flopped backward like a fish, likely banging her head on the floor. He hit me. He hit me! Understanding dawned; he had been standing a good two meters away from her when her eyes drifted. Oh my heavens . . . at that speed, if he wanted me dead . . . But I am alive. So what is going on? Concentrate. The coolness of the floor bled into her hands when she flexed her fingers, and this seemed to bring some relief to her throbbing head. The voices resolved into coherency, as though her brain had found the right frequency again.

“How dare you strike Lady Marik!”

Tilson. That was Tilson.

“This ends now, surat. You have gone too far. Making a deal. Like a moneygrubbing Sea Fox! Like a fat Lyran merchant! We are Clan. We do not make deals! In front of these witnesses I call a Trial of Annihilation. A Trial of Grievance cannot wash away the stain you have spilled on the Spirit Cats. Only the purging of your blood will answer.”

She didn’t recognize the voice, but loathing dripped from each word like a visceral slime.

“You will not ignore me!”

Tilson again. “Tilson?” She only managed a whisper.

“You have no right to call a Trial of Annihilation. There is no Clan conclave here, Janis.”

Rikkard now.

“Stop ignoring me!” Tilson’s almost petulant yell might have been funny if the scene weren’t so desperately dangerous.

“Tilson!” She finally managed to speak loud enough to be heard, though as a result her head rang like a church bell.

“So be it, surat,” the woman’s voice continued (Janis?). Then a Trial of Grievance it is. But know that when I am triumphant, you will be dead.”

“My lady.” Tilson spoke at her elbow, and she realized he must be crouching by her side.

“Do not say another word,” she whispered.

“But, my lady—”

She cut him off with a slight shake of her head, which she immediately regretted. “My honor can wait, Captain. What is going on?”

“When you screamed I broke into the room,” he began, voice soft, but harsh, “only to be pushed out of the way by a bald woman and a small cohort behind her. They are—”

She once more cut him off, this time by touching his hand. Her vision cleared from black to gray and then the room swam dizzyingly into focus, which helped her head not at all. Though they were still blurry, she could at last make out her fingers, splayed and trembling.

“I think I know what’s going on,” she whispered. “We are about to see the undoing of the Spirit Cats, or perhaps the ascendance of a new leader who will not care to treat with any . . . spheroids.” She’d seen enough showdowns between Jessica and other world leaders to know what was afoot.

A scuffle broke out; she lifted her head, suddenly afraid of being struck again, and nearly passed out from the movement. She leaned against Captain Tilson to keep from falling over. The scuffling turned into the slap of flesh on flesh and the grunting of strenuous effort. “What is going on?”

“They are fighting, my lady.”

“In here? It’s too small!”

“For what they are about, my lady,” he continued, voice suddenly flat, clearly speaking with expert knowledge, “it is large enough.”

“Are we in danger?”

“No, my lady. This will be over quickly.” The resignation in his voice quieted any further response, and she closed her eyes and concentrated on the sound. The eerie lack of banter confused her. In all the action holovids she’d watched as a child, combatants always exchanged banter, boasting. But here, there was only the whisper of well-placed feet and then the slap of flesh against flesh and the sharp intake or exhalation of breath; the echoes in the bare-walled room made it all incomprehensible.

“Here it comes, my lady,” Tilson whispered, voice barely audible, though for the briefest instant his lips brushed her ear. She ignored the quick thrill up her spine, as the sound of a flurry of impacts announced a shift in the balance of the fight; her stomach clenched at the audible snap of a bone breaking. She carefully opened her eyes and took in the strange tableau: she and Tilson on the floor against one wall; a woman (Janis?) on the floor, holding her shoulder and writhing in pain; Rikkard looming over her, his breathing ragged; a group of Spirit Cat warriors lining the opposite wall. Absolutely claustrophobic! How they’d fought in such confinement was beyond her.

“What say you, Janis? Accept defeat.”

“Never. Never again,” she hissed between gritted teeth, her eyes widening until even at this distance and angle Julietta wanted to lean away from the fiery flames of such hatred. To be the target of such animosity . . .

“Yield.”

The sorrow in the word clutched at Julietta’s throat.

“Never!” Janis hissed again, and struggled to stand.

Rikkard stood looking down at her, his shoulders slumped, the very essence of defeat echoed in every line of his posture. Like a wounded horse, Janis thrashed to regain her feet, but apparently the shattering of her shoulder bone was too much. Rikkard’s head lifted and his harrowed eyes found Julietta’s, and the black abyss she looked into brought an itch to the back of her eyes that she knew might never go away. And she knew what must be done. What a leader must do, despite the horror . . . and for the first time, gazing into the eyes of an alien Clansman, Julietta was forced to face the realization that she might not have what it took to lead a nation.

Is this what you have known all along, Mother? The itching spilled into tears that tracked hot trails down her cheeks; propriety forgotten, she pressed herself into Captain Tilson’s side, though she could not tear her eyes away from Rikkard.

Almost quicker than she could follow, though she stared directly at him, Rikkard heaved the entire weight of his body into the blow that struck Janis’ neck, killing her instantly.

Julietta began vomiting and couldn’t stop.

An emptiness seemed to fill the universe.

Rikkard Nova Cat, the blood of the kill slicking his fingers, stood over the dead body of Janis. He didn’t hear the vomiting in the corner, or see the rest of those in the room. Instead, all he saw was the red of his failure spreading in a slow pool . . . and haunted, piercing eyes. Slowly, painfully, he closed his eyes.

I have failed.

The mantra marched with painful clarity through his awareness, stripping him to the bone.

I have failed.

Stripping away all his self-delusions of the glory to be found in achieving sanctuary for the Spirit Cats.

I have failed.

Stripping him and leaving him a newborn, as though recently decanted from an iron womb, ready to be filled once more.

I have failed.

It might have gone on forever, until Rikkard died standing in that spot, but a light in the darkness within pulled at him. Eyes he thought he recognized demanded he give them heed.

“Does it call to you?” Kev’s words undulated along the waves of darkness from that distant point of light. “Why do you come here?”

The light disappeared, then suddenly engulfed him with shocking clarity. His vision was filled with a canteen of earth . . . his canteen . . . sand taken from Mallory’s World. Kept always in his cockpit.

Strength.

Ian Davion.

Is this how you felt? Were you stripped from your throne and of all your glory and power until nothing remained but strength? Strength to do your duty and save your command?

His eyes slowly opened and rested upon those around him. While most held their disillusionment at the death of their commander, they universally held the loss of hope. These warriors have given up believing they will live to leave this world. Given up hope that this could possibly be our sanctuary.

For a moment, as though peering through the dirty cockpit viewscreen of a departing Davion Mech Warrior, Rikkard thought he saw Ian’s ’Mech turning back, placing itself in the tight confines of the canyon like a dam to protect his fleeing men. A dam that would only break with his death, once they were saved.

Abruptly he knew those eyes; knew where this vision of Ian Davion originated. Knew those haunting, strength-filled eyes . . . though she didn’t know it. For an instant, right before the kill, he’d locked eyes with Lady Marik. And in those eyes, he found unsuspected strength. In that despicably timid woman’s eyes . . . his new clarity brought wisdom. For despite her obvious horror at dealing with him, and in the midst of a raging war, she did her duty. Despite the lifetime of hardships and disappointments writ large on her face—the brutal evidence of him striking her, the large welt already bluish and swollen along her left eye and brow—she did her duty.

Rikkard slowly nodded. It had come to this. Time for him to set aside all self-delusion. His speeches to Janis of finding sanctuary now rang as hollow as her needless death. All this time I wished to find sanctuary for the glory of claiming it. Now there is only protecting my command. Protecting these men. Protecting the Spirit Cats. To do my duty, despite my fear.

I will do whatever I must, my honor forfeit.

Clan Sea Fox CargoShip Voidswimmer

Zenith Jump Point, Marik

Marik-Stewart Commonwealth

OvKhan Petr Kalasa luxuriated in the aftereffects of the hyperjump, pitying those poor souls who could not stomach such brilliance. “Not all are destined to drink of the wonders of the universe.”

"OvKhan?" a comm tech asked.

Petr smiled and shook his head. “Nothing. Transmit immediately. I am sure Star Colonel Rikkard will find the news of Clan Wolf’s invasion of the Republic of the Sphere very interesting indeed. Despite the months that have passed since this news was fresh, and the distance from their current rampages to Marik . . . this is news all Clansmen must hear.”

"Yes, ovKhan."

The man immediately turned to his work, while Petr began cycling through electronic reports from his DropShip captains who wished to burn in-system and see what the waters of Marik might bring, despite the war they all knew still raged on the planet below. Petr denied all requests for now, replying personally to each. Through the harshest of lessons he had learned to deal fairly and equally with all those he shepherded.

"OvKhan."

Petr glanced up. “Tech?”

“We need to verify, considering the distance, but it appears that a DropShip has lifted off-world and is burning toward our jump point.”

“Really?”

"Aff, ovKhan. It is burning in excess of two g’s.”

“Really?” Petr leaned back in the floating command chair on the bridge of his CargoShip, the possibilities unfolding as he stretched his neck until the vertebrae popped satisfactorily.

“It would appear my captains were right after all . . . the currents bring interesting times indeed.”

25

Dormuth

Mandoria, Marik

Marik-Stewart Commonwealth

1 June 3137

The assault began at dawn.

A large force of ’Mechs, vehicles and battle armor— even several Stars of conventional infantry—hammered into the forward positions of the Marik-Stewart Commonwealth defenders entrenched in Dormuth. Major Chris Leger, the defending commander on the front lines of the brutal assault, immediately knew this was a last, desperate attempt by the Spirit Cats to smash the leadership of the Marik troops before the Commonwealth grinder pared them down so far that a militia with a lance of salvaged IndustrialMechs would be their undoing. He surmised (in the first of three fatally wrong conclusions) that the force could be no larger than a Cluster—though that scared him plenty. He further surmised (in his second mistake that day) that the Spirit Cats were likely and finally preparing an ordered withdrawal to the DropShips they’d been cut off from for so long, and this attack was simply a diversion. With that in mind, not only could no more than a Cluster be deployed in this assault, but their true focus would be in linking up with those DropShips and making sure that as many troops as possible could then be extracted from Dormuth to that new staging area and finally off-world.

The third and final error of the day could not really rest on his shoulders, as the Spirit Cats had scrubbed the last of the Commonwealth’s eyes and ears from the skies and near space of Marik, and the assault by Nikol’s forces in the Oceana system had annihilated all the reinforcement aerospace assets that might have allowed the defenders to reassert air superiority. But it was an error nonetheless, as commanders are supposed to anticipate the unexpected; an especially grievous failure of judgment, since the battle for Marik had turned into an endless war of surprises as each side struggled to topple the other through one ingenious military plan after another.

Major Leger immediately began his own ordered withdrawal, pulling back in the face of the onslaught street by street as he issued nontransmitted orders through a pony-express relay system using any civilian craft that could be dragooned into service; to date, they’d managed to keep the Spirit Cats at bay until the long-sought-after reinforcements arrived by shifting almost all communications to nontransmitted orders after it became clear the Clanners were cracking one too many burst transmissions.

The Marik defenders pulled back in good order as Leger waited for the pony-express-carried orders to marshal his rear and portions of each of his flanks’ troops. Worry didn’t set in until he traveled the entire distance of his allotted fallback and then even he could not ignore the facts staring him in the face down long weapon barrels; not only had no relief troops appeared from his rear or flanking deployments, but there was a terrifying number of Spirit Cat troops barreling down the long roads of Dormuth on his position.

Leger finished his retreat into prepared revetments and met the first wave of the Clanner assault. Though the Spirit Cat machines appeared as bedraggled as his own, with armor patches as prevalent as the spent ammo casings on the rubble-strewn streets and numerous weapon systems damaged or out of ammo—the sheer ferocity of the assault, combined with the numbers, almost dislodged his troops in that first, horrifying wave. With morale quickly eroding and the Spirit Cats setting up for a second attack wave while simultaneously sending smaller units of battlearmor and light ’Mechs through the barriers along their flanks, Leger made the only decision he could and broke radio contact.

Five minutes. Five minutes of a death-wail call for help that apparently went unheard; static filled all lines. There could be only one reason.

The general was dead.

As a third assault began and Leger’s entire front crumbled, strange glowing objects appeared in the bright, late-afternoon sky. As though mesmerized by an angel come to carry him home, Leger found his will to fight finally fleeing after the endless months, broken by the sure knowledge that the one person who kept them all going lay dead . . . somehow dead. He gazed upward, his ’Mech unmoving in the midst of the apocalypse as the Spirit Cats scythed through his forces, not a muscle twitching as the glowing lights resolved and the metal rain began and he started to laugh hysterically and continued for long, long seconds until an azure beam of charged particles reaved him from this life.

Chazwasl Starlord-class JumpShip

Zenith Jump Point, Marik

Marik-Stewart Commonwealth

5 June 3137

Nikol stretched her tired back and closed her eyes as her body floated in place in the command berth aboard the Chazwasl Starlord-class JumpShip. She knew her lack of decorum in that moment would horrify her oldest sister, since Casson occupied the same berth, but she didn’t care.

Too tired to care. You managed to stay alive, Julietta. Amazing. Since she’d been bracing for news of her sister’s death, Julietta’s miraculous escape—considering the scope of the fighting in Dormuth—should’ve left Nikol feeling relieved. Instead, she felt nothing. That disturbed her; she tried to chalk up her numbness to the shocking report accompanying her sister’s news that she lived.

“We have failed,” she said. The emotion that prompted she refused to let out, keeping her eyes closed until the sensation passed.

“What?” Casson responded.

“We’ve failed. All this work and the damn Clanners live. They live and even more Clanners are on-planet! “ She was shouting by the end of the sentence.

“Nikol.” Casson’s calm voice fished her partway out of her self-pity; she opened her eyes to see him floating past her field of vision. A flush crept across her features at the thought of the ludicrous image she must present to her subordinate, and she unfurled on the next rotation, allowing her foot to snag the armrest of her chair so that she could reel herself back in and latch herself down.

“What?” That did not sound petulant at all.

“First, you must always expect the unexpected.”

She couldn’t help roll her eyes at such a tired aphorism, but held her tongue at the look of reproof in Casson’s eyes.

“What’s more, you must respect a brilliant plan. And what the Spirit Cats have pulled off is brilliant.”

“What are you talking about? Mother was simply using them. They were supposed to annihilate themselves and take the Commonwealth defenders with them. Now we’ve got two Clans on-world.”

“You should respect their achievement; even our enemies can teach us. The fact that the Spirit Cats managed to hold on all this time is a magnificent testament to their drive. Their commitment. Their battlefield acumen. And then, contracting with Clan Sea Fox and offering the warrior merchants large tracts of Marik to serve as one of their clearinghouse worlds in exchange for military aid in putting down the last of the Marik defenders? Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”

“But it’s not their world. It’s ours!”

“We’ve not set foot on Marik yet. And as the saying goes, possession is nine-tenths of the law. They purchased Marik with their blood.”

“Rather than complaining about the situation, we need to figure out what we can we learn from it.”

She ran her fingers through her dirty hair and tried to ignore how nasty it felt as she bent her mind to the question. She finally nodded as the lesson became painfully obvious. “That if the Spirit Cats could survive everything they’ve been through in the past months—let’s even say win the planet, for the sake of argument—trying to extricate them at this point would be difficult.”

Casson bellowed a rare laugh that filled the berth with deep echoes. “Difficult doesn’t scratch the surface. Dormuth is now a ruin of mazes and tunnels that the Spirit Cats probably know like the backs of their hands. They’re wounded. But they’re a wounded animal in the corner. Digging them out would be suicide.”

Nikol nodded grudgingly. “Not to mention that Clan Sea Fox has settled in.”

“Exactly. Now that they’ve sunk their teeth into such a fine morsel as Marik to help them expand their mercantile empire . . . well, they’d likely be even more dangerous than the Spirit Cats. No, we have to face the fact that we may be able to plant a flag on Marik and call it a part of the Oriente Protectorate, but it’s a world with other owners. Owners I hope Her Highness can woo into bonds of fealty.”

“Defeat, then. Just as I said.”

“No,” Casson responded immediately. “Not defeat. Just a different type of victory.”

“Uh?”

“What was the ultimate goal of our mission?”

“To obtain Marik.”

“Yes, but there was a more important goal.”

She tipped her head to the side as she considered the larger scope of their mission, then said, “To deprive Anson of Marik.”

“Exactly. And when it comes to that objective, victory is victory, no matter how we achieved it.”

She nodded at the logic, her spirits rising slightly before they crashed hard under a new thought. “But will Mother think so?”

Neither had a response to that.

26

Amur, Oriente

Oriente Protectorate

2 July 3137

Jessica laid down the ornate pen and stretched her hand, hearing her aging tendons pop like the snap of moisture evaporating from wood in the baking heat of a campfire. No wonder, with this unusual summer heat. She contemplated unbuttoning the top button of her high-necked dress, but decided against the impropriety . . . her children would be here momentarily.

Her eyes snagged on the liver spots on the back of her hands as she rubbed away the strain of writing. They’re bigger now. Much bigger. She forced herself to stop and contemplate her own mortality in the ugly brown stains marring her once beautiful hands. She clucked her tongue. Hands that still have much strength . . . and much to do. She picked up the small pot of self-heating wax, dribbling a good-sized dollop of the red paraffin at the bottom of the page she had just signed. She waited a few breaths for the cooling wax to reach just the right viscosity, then reached for the seal.

Her hand paused of its own accord, drawing her gaze to the two seals that brooded on the desk like burning eyes in the early morning light filtering into the room. The one showed a stylized outline of an eagle against a circular shield, with a scroll across the top emblazoned with the word Marik: the House Marik family emblem. The other showed a more traditional eagle outline in flight, against a circular shield with off-center tabs: the house Halas emblem. Her fingers slowly clenched into a fist.

Even in my head I don’t capitalize house Halas! Memories flared from a lifetime of the struggle between her two halves. The real blood of house Halas that flowed through her veins and the blood of House Marik—the noble scions that ruled the Free Worlds League for centuries—that called to her, but upon which she held no real claim.

I have every right . . . when those who possess real Marik blood are so incompetent. So bereft of understanding the real Free Worlds League. Have forgotten what made us strong for so many centuries. Under most circumstances she would’ve reached for the Marik symbol, regardless of her endless internal struggle. But today, despite the desire, she knew subtlety was paramount. Instead, with the abrupt sure knowledge that moved mountains in her universe, Jessica seized the house Halas seal and imprinted it against the red wax.

The seal of my blood, Prime Minister Michael. The seal of a scion of the Free Worlds League looking for help to reforge our great House. She knew that a verigraph message would be far more secure. But the archaic use of a wax seal . . . the intimacy of her own hand signing each proposal and the feel of the wax emblem as each leader contemplated a response and ran fingertips across the embossed seal . . . in such modern times it was a subtle move. A move that some will recognize, right, Michael? But a move you will certainly appreciate for the effort required. Well worth the added risks of discovery.

She slowly leaned back, satisfaction showing itself in a soft smile as she pulled a handkerchief from her lap and dabbed away the sweat on her lip and forehead. (Her assistant swore she could feel a current of cool air every time she entered the room.) Her eyes moved carefully from the final prepared document for the prime minister of the Rim Commonality, to the blizzard of other documents destined for many worlds; all subtly prepared to receive their individual documents, carefully fine-tuned based upon various reports, the most important brought by her children.

Her eyes came to rest on a final document unfinished, unsigned. When will you return, Christopher? When will you bring me news of what Fontaine thinks? He is . . . uncomfortably important.

She closed her eyes on that thought, then heard the door open and close. Two pairs of feet scraped softly as they hesitantly approached, like children commanded to report for their punishment. A remnant of her fury at the encrypted message she had received days before when her daughters jumped in-system revived, but she’d tamped down that eruption of disappointment in order to consider all the permutations of how her plans might be affected. No, this moment was about testing her daughters. Their strengths . . . and their weaknesses, in the face of this strange change of fate. As always.

She opened her eyes and looked at two women who were dramatically changed from the daughters who had left her presence so many months ago. Jessica managed to hide her shock as she saw at once that seeing Julietta was almost like looking into a mirror. As though she’d aged twenty years in as many weeks, gray filled her hair until the black squealed its defeat, and a murder of crows had stamped a large, cruel track of wrinkles around her eyes. Most telling of all were the slumped shoulders, the defeated eyes.

Are you finally broken, my dear? Utterly broken? It did hurt. But not as much as one might expect. After all, she’d sent a broken daughter on a mission in the hopes she might be reforged. That she had not left her saddened . . . but not surprised.

When she turned her attention to Nikol, she saw a ramrod-straight back, a high chin and a defiant stare; a complete attitude marred only by a shadow of doubt only a mother could detect. Jessica nearly laughed.

I work at forging a daughter willing to face straight-on any punishment a ruler—much less a ruling mother—might assign. A daughter obviously ready to explain her victory despite the apparent defeat. And I should be angry? She suppressed her smile and managed a stern tone. “Well?”

“The flag of the Oriente has been planted on over half a dozen worlds, Mother,” Nikol immediately responded, her words rushed as though rehearsed half a hundred times. “The world of Marik is ours.”

Jessica slowly nodded, gazing back at Julietta to see if this . . . generalization . . . of events sparked anything. Not a flicker of response in the deadened eyes. She dismissed her eldest as she finally smiled at Nikol. “I am pleased with the outcome.”

Despite Nikol’s attempt to school her features, shock rolled easily across widened eyes and furrowed forehead. “What?”

“I am pleased with the outcome.”

“But . . . but.”

“Did we not achieve what we wished to achieve?”

“Of course.”

“Then we have achieved a great victory. And despite the presence of these Clanners on Marik, they will prove a boon. Our garrison on Marik need only be an honor guard. If Anson actually attempts to retake the world, they will show him a spectacular defeat.”

Nikol finally regained control of her features, and her response, when it came, pleased her mother all the more at the mental gymnastics Nikol had performed to keep up . . . and ask the hard questions. “But if we leave too few forces, what is to stop the Clansmen from claiming Marik completely for themselves? “

“The Spirit Cats might be of a mind to take such action, but if there’s one thing I’m confident of it is money and power. And the Sea Fox, despite all of their Clan trappings, are mercantile to the bone. We can offer them preferred rates as they expand into our Protectorate. Not to mention what we can offer them in the future.” She waved a hand toward the stacks of documents on her desk. “That is a fruit they will eagerly accept. And considering the condition of these Spirit Cats . . . they will have no choice but to accept.”

Her daughter nodded slowly. “And with no expenditure of forces on our part, Marik falls into our lap.”

“Exactly. At very little cost indeed, the home world of House Marik is now ours.” Jessica caught the quick flicker of eye movement as Nikol glanced at Julietta.

She was already lost, my dear. She was already lost. The two women locked eyes, and after a long moment Nikol nodded one last time

Jacob’s Escape, Union-class DropShip

Clipperton

Regulan Fiefs

Lester slammed a fist onto the table; the piles of data cubes and carefully stacked hard copies cascaded to the floor in an angry wave. “Where is the evidence?”

As though his exclamation drained the last of the vitality from his aging bones, he collapsed back into the chair, body sagging into every crevice like he was an old garment tossed carelessly to the furniture.

“It’s not here, my lord.” The timid voice of the useless lackey from the world’s CopSec barely scratched the surface of the depths of Lester’s frustration. “We’ve been over every scrap of material we seized from the cell. Every tissue sample from every body and we’ve come up with nothing. There’s simply no evidence that we can use to link this cell to anyone. They’re ghosts.”

“Of course they’re ghosts,” Lester retorted, but the fury of the last few days was truly spent, leaving behind melancholy. “She’s always been careful,” he whispered. “Always. Such ghosts could never lead back to her.”

“What, my lord?”

Lester finally glanced up at the CopSec; a short, timid little man with eyes too large for his head and ears that reminded him of a branth’s wings. How in the world did you rise to be Clipperton’s investigative liaison to my Department of Justice? Never a petty man, Lester would make an exception this time when he returned to Regulus.

“Nothing. You say there is no evidence?”

The other man shrugged noncommittally. “Nothing that we’ve found yet. Of course we’ll continue our investigation, but the fight to eliminate the cell . . . The damage was extensive, and the cell personnel obviously maintained a low thumbprint on their environment. Not to mention that even with the surprise of the assault they managed to destroy all of their data . . . it was rigged that way from the get-go. Even the weapons and gear cannot be traced. Ghosts. Very good ghosts.”

Lester’s distaste increased. “Say it. Can be traced nowhere but . . .”

The other man swallowed audibly, as though choking down a particularly unwholesome morsel before finding his tongue. “Except a Word of Blake cell. It all points to a Word of Blake cell.”

Lester nodded perfunctorily. “Dismissed.”

The other man hesitated only a moment before he quickly bowed out of the room.

Insufferable sycophant. The melancholy sank in further as Lester closed his eyes, ached with a decision he’d been putting off for too long. A decision he wanted . . . no, needed . . . to have evidence to support. My dear . . . what am I to do? I’ve no evidence at all . . . and yet . . . I know. I know!

The beautiful features of his wife swam behind his closed eyelids. “You do what you must, dear.” He could almost feel the warm breath on his ear as her soft, strong voice firmed his spine.

This was no Word of Blake cell. It was a masterfully crafted ruse. But she forgot. Forgot that more so than any other people of the Inner Sphere, the Regulansremember. They remember the horrors of the Jihad. Remember the long hunt and the extreme measures taken during those harrowing times to eradicate The Master and his mindless followers. Remember the subtle nuances of the Word of Blake and their machinations . . . nuances missing here.

He slowly straightened as the pain of frustration turned to the fire of resolve, despite the anguish of the decision he was about to make. Nevertheless, the fire quickly grew, becoming a beast.

You do not play with such fire without getting burned, my lady.

27

Mountain Retreat

Paltos, Atreus

Marik-Stewart Commonwealth

1 August 3137

Anson Marik stood perfectly still as a flurry of subordinates scampered around trying to decipher the deluge of information coming in via the courier JumpShip recently arrived.

Always an angry man, but usually able to blow off steam, he felt the pure malevolence inside him now burning at a temperature that matched the heat of any star. He knew that if he moved, he might strike a subordinate moving past him in the makeshift command room in the family’s mountain retreat. While he generally cared little for subordinates, able to replace them as needed, he knew it wouldn’t stop there. A mild fear actually tickled at the base of his spine of a fury so great he might not stop until a man lay dead. Until many lay dead and he’d bathed his arms in blood to quench the thirst of his rage. Through sheer force of will he kept himself unmoving, but his mind raced around in endless circles.

Thrice-damned ol’ man ignored me. Me! Ignored our pact. Went off on some damn fool errand within his realm and couldn’t even be bothered to rattle his little saber toward the Protectorate border.

That bitch. Stole my home world. Captured other worlds too weak to hold out and manipulated the tincanners into doing her dirty work. You failed me, Daniella. You failed!

Greedy Lyrans and their whore archon couldn’t wait a moment longer. Had to invade . . . Invade!

(His mind didn’t even register the news that the Lyran invasion fell across the Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey as well.)

The malevolence moved like magma below the cap-stone of a rumbling volcano and the fury turned white hot, until his skin burned and all vision swam away beyond the bright spark of that one emotion. Only a single thought kept it contained, kept the explosion from escaping . . . kept his hands dry of blood, this day.

They know how dangerous I am. They’ve conspired. All three. At once. They’ve come for me. But I’m not dead yet. I’m not dead yet and they’ll learn to regret that. As long as I’m alive, you’ll all learn to regret it. First the Lyrans, then you, ol’ man. And then you, bitch. Especially you!

Though he’d not spoken a word in the half hour since receiving the news, the occupants of the room shrank away from Anson as though he’d bellowed his thoughts at the top of his considerable volume, their bowels turned to jelly in fear of their leader’s too-bright eyes and face twisted beyond all humanity.

Amur, Oriente

Oriente Protectorate

Jessica’s eyes actually warmed as her son Christopher crossed the private room and kissed his mother on the cheek. Surprised, she hugged him for a moment longer than normal and an unexpected joy welled up.

“Mother,” Christopher said in a deeper tone than she remembered him having, taking a seat across from her at the small table.

She drank in his features, noticing the more mature look, the lines of responsibility that filled his face and even the carriage of his shoulders. While she expected such changes—hoped for them—she found herself surprised. Did you really change so much?

The dark, handsome man abruptly smiled and a strong hint of her irreverent young boy peeked through. She smiled in return, reassured. After all the changes to her children over the past two years, for reasons she could not quantify she knew a small measure of peace that her Christopher appeared to be the least changed.

“And how was your trip?” she said easily, beginning to pour some tea for the both of them.

“Long, Mother. Very, very long.”

“Just long?”

He laughed easily. “Oh, if you want details, Mother, I can give you details that would bore you out of your mind.”

“I’m sure, my son.”

“Then the only reason I’m here, in this place, is to report. The real reason you allowed me to ski off mountains and leap out of planes and play chicken with comets.”

On the verge of a nod, she paused to examine her feelings at having her son returned and surprised herself with her response. “Yes, the report is important to me. To us. To so many. But I am glad to see you, Christopher. Truly. Glad to know you enjoyed the trip. Glad to see you returned and safe.” She raised a hand in warning. “But never tell me about dodging the comets.”

Christopher smiled and examined Jessica’s face, as though searching for any hint of insincerity, before nodding slowly. “Thank you, Mother.”

“You’re welcome.” They both took sips of their tea, the act as ordinary as if they sat together and did this every day.

“Well?”

He laughed. “I knew you couldn’t wait too long, Mother.”

She shrugged in an uncharacteristic display of openness, as though a meek question mark. But she refused to say the words. That’s going too far, Christopher, even for you.

Her son surprised her once more with how quickly he moved from the light banter of mother and son to the deadly serious nature of his report. Not even a hint of your usual lightheartedness glinting in your eyes, my son? Perhaps you are changed more than I imagined.

“Fontaine is interested, Mother. He specifically mentioned that unlike Anson or Lester, you had the good grace to ask.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Interesting how such a small thing has garnered such support. Yet I can hear the ‘but’ in your voice, my son.”

He nodded gravely. “Despite the coalition nature of the Free Worlds League,” he continued, his tone and phrasing shifting slightly as though he were presenting a speech given him. “Despite our diversity and our penchant for divisiveness. Despite the failures of so many captains-general . . . the Marik name is likely the only beacon that can unite us. You may be the leader to start it, but if you want a rebirth of the Free Worlds League to be successful . . . to live beyond you . . . there must be Marik blood. Bring me Marik blood and you have my support.”

Her son finished the delivery hesitantly, as though unsure how his mother might react. A possibility she found distasteful in the extreme, it nonetheless was a possibility she had long contemplated in solitude, not even taking counsel with her beloved husband.

She picked up her tea and sipped, unaware of the strange look of fear in her son’s eyes as she contemplated all that had gone before . . . and what might still need to be sacrificed.

28

Amur, Oriente

Oriente Protectorate

15 August 3137

“Is this report accurate?” Jessica almost crowed. Though it was long expected, the timing could not have been more perfect. Standing in the private room off her bedroom, she wanted to twirl like a little girl at Christmas.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Torrian Dolcat responded, his white teeth flashing.

“When?”

“We’ve not pinned down a specific date, yet. But the news appears to be roughly a month old.”

“And all along the border? Including Tamarind-Abbey? “

“Yes, Your Grace. It would appear the Lyran Commonwealth is attempting to finish off what it started during the Jihad before Devlin Stone’s peace finally slowed its work. They’ve hit across almost the entire border. Give me a few more days and I’ll have more concrete information for you.”

“I’m sure you will. But this could not have worked better if the Lyrans and I had been in on it from the beginning. Anson will be completely tied down. We’ll be able to fully secure our gains. Perhaps even expand.” She breathed deeply with the excitement of the escalation of her plans until she could almost hear the screams of capitulation from the threads in the seams of her dress. And perhaps even Fontaine will capitulate. Anson may have pulled a fast one by secretly moving his capital to Atreus, but Tamarind is right on the border. Likely already lost. Fontaine will be primed to accept my bid. Perhaps I can even ignore his demands for Marik blood.

She nodded firmly. Yes, perhaps. Being hunted like a dog does wonders for what one is willing to accept. She smiled again, ignoring her spy master and forgetting their last anguished meeting, still resisting the urge to twirl.

The woman moved casually in the dark.

Having long prepared for this day, she knew the lay of the chateau better than half the staff and could walk entire sections blindfolded and half drunk. While she’d been tempted to try such a training exercise, she knew the unwanted attention being found drunkenly wandering the halls might bring would be disastrous.

Like a ghost drifting down lonely halls she walked, her white silk gown standing out like a beacon in the dim light of the long corridors. She smiled. Trivids always showed a man sheathed like a sea lion carrying more toys than a ’Mech, slinking from one darkened corner to the next and taking hours to arrive at his target. While that path worked, she preferred the easier route. The route that allowed her to live in the lap of luxury for long periods of time before activation might occur. If ever. Several times, yearlong submersions had been called off, allowing her to move on as though she were a norm.

And now? Activation had come and yet she didn’t need to skulk, or crawl on her belly through the filth of some sewage pipe, or any of a half hundred other unpleasant ways to gain entrance where you’re not wanted so enjoyed by men. No, here she moved as though she owned the place. Across long, long months her nighttime jaunts in her nightgown had been considered strange, then unusual, then odd, then normal, then the most devastatingly powerful weapon in her entire arsenal . . . boring.

When security grew bored, the night came out to play. In her case, in plain sight.

She cycled twice down the corridors before making the first commitment, just to make sure the bored guards hadn’t deviated from their normal schedules and were taking an unscheduled piss, or grabbing some quick flesh in a corner with a willing maid. Still, she moved to the door and opened it with only a slight hunching of her shoulders and a quick glance up and down the hall as though guilty. After all, he was a man still without attachments at his age and she was young and beautiful. Her lips curved smoothly at the bemused thoughts that would cycle through the guards’ brains and turn into court gossip weeks from now if they managed to catch a glimpse of her entering the room.

Now, having reached her first target and secure from an errant guard seeing her movements, she quickly slipped out of her nightgown and allowed it to pool around her feet. The man was a notoriously light sleeper and if he rolled over and opened his eyes only for a moment, a ghostly white nightgown would have him awake at a most inopportune time. No, the slick darkness of her ebony skin provided a perfect camouflage in the near pitch-blackness of the room and she slowly moved toward the bed. Eyes closed, she strained her ears to listen for any interruption of sleep (or the proximity of someone in the hall) and slowly slid each foot forward, just in case a shoe or some dropped object changed the mental path to her target.

Coming to the edge of the bed, she waited a full five minutes to ensure that she knew exactly how the target lay; then her hands found the unfashionably heavy necklace that a solid year of wearing ( my dead mother’s . . . she told me I must never let it leave my

skin) had turned boring as well. A subtle tug and it came free. Memorized hand movements economically assembled it into a dagger; after another long minute to verify that her movements had not disturbed the target from sleep, she struck, driving the blade into the base of the skull from the side, killing him instantly.

She calmly moved toward his private bathroom and extracted a silent-spraying cleaning agent deposited weeks before. She sprayed across the blade, her hands and arms and even her chest just to be sure as she stood in the shower. Five minutes not only ensured that the agent dissolved and sloughed off any blood, but also ensured that her stay in the room equaled approximately twenty minutes.

More than enough time for a man his age to have his way with a nubile young aide. She replaced the can, then carefully disassembled the knife into a necklace and replaced it over her head, then dressed and slipped back out, the carefully constructed look of mixed joy and shame (not to mention the slight sheen the cleaning agent gave her skin that appeared to be sweat) appropriately in place.

Another ten minutes of wandering and her obligatory bathroom stop and she slid into the next target’s room; this time with more alacrity, because the last thing she needed was some randy guard creating a scene because he saw her slipping into a woman’s bedroom so late at night. This time, her breath quickened slightly. Never more than a single target in one night.

A night to be remembered.

She performed the same actions with frightening precision, reaching the bedside of her second target only nine seconds later than her first after entering the room. Her hands once more wove in the darkness, pulling the blade from the necklace like an arcane magi fashioning a foci. She paused again and then struck . . .

Only to have her blade foiled off target by an unexpected presence at the neck. A long, frighteningly loud scream rent the silence as her target awoke to the feel of the hammering blade searing flesh along her neck and lodging in her spine. The woman tried to jerk the blade free, but succeeded only in snapping it.

Bitch! You broke my blade. My naming blade! She punched at the target’s head three times in quick anger, but knew her time was up and flew to the window, tearing it open and diving through the light screen into the night. Despite her disparagement of men and their need to slide through filth to prove they had accomplished a goal, she knew when and where such things were a necessity. And while she was good . . . very good . . . even she had a backup plan or three. She sprinted across the sculpted lawns until she found the right area, then dove into the bushes, ignoring painful scratches, as she hunted for the right place. Her hands found the stake and she pulled it up, digging furiously into the roughly piled loam as the house finally exploded into activity, lights and blaring horns and the sound of running feet mimicking an anthill that had been kicked. Below the dirt she found the hatch installed in the sewer line and opened it, then shimmied through and closed it. She ignored the effluvia of human filth that immediately swam into nearly every orifice of her naked body as she began to crawl toward the junction and the much larger tunnel that would lead her away from here. She knew she’d come out of this sick and with infections in the most painful places . . . but she’d be alive.

And in the end, while only two targets were hit . . . she’d sent the message.

Epilogue

Amur, Oriente

Oriente Protectorate

20 August 3137

Nikol drank sloppily from the bottle of water.

The small dribble down the side of her mouth went unnoticed. Why do I feel so empty? Why don’t I cry? Despite the age difference between her and her two older siblings, they were still family. And seeing Janos’ body, and the wreck of Julietta’s throat . . . her lips quivered at the memory.

After a showdown with her father over whether she was grown-up enough to see the devastation (how petty that all seemed now), she forced him aside and viewed her brother’s murder scene in its entirety—the splash of crimson life across the snowy white landscape of the sheets and elderly skin like a rash of boils; at another time, seeing her oldest brother half naked in sleep might have caused her discomfort, but the horrific scene left only hollowness. As did seeing her older sister damaged and lying in a coma.

A hollowness that she couldn’t fill.

A soft cloth touched the side of her mouth; she started as though seared and looked around into eyes full of horror and sorrow. Unlike her, Christopher had fresh tears glistening on his cheeks, his face filled with the emotions she assumed she should feel. Why don’t I cry? Why don’t I feel their loss as deeply as Christopher does?

The door to their private sitting room in the critical care unit of the hospital opened and closed quietly.

“Any more news, Doctor?” her father asked. “And please, in as plain English as possible this time.” Nikol peripherally recognized a new note of strain in his voice that carried through the sorrow. You’ve stayed calm and collected for five days, Father. Then you have a private meeting with Mother, and suddenly it’s too much?

“There’s nothing more to report, my lord. Her body appears to have survived the worst of the trauma and the first operation.”

“Will you be able to operate again to remove the last piece of the knife?”

“We believe so, yes. That’s what I’ve come to ask. She’s stabilized, though still comatose, and we want to schedule another surgery to see if we can’t remove the last bit of the blade.”

“Of course, of course. What are the chances of success?”

“Excellent.”

“What are the chances of her waking once the blade is removed?”

The doctor’s slight hesitation answered her father’s question like a shout and Nikol waited to cringe but didn’t, despite knowing what the words would be. “I’m sorry, my lord. But we just don’t know if she’ll ever wake again. The damage to her spinal cord and the base of her brain was significant. Even if she wakes up . . .”

“We might not want what wakes up.” Elis spoke in a voice as cold as the tiled floor of the room.

“Elis!” Phillip snapped.

Nikol raised her head at Elis’ stark words and the unusual flare of her father’s temper. She was shocked to discover her own thoughts ran along the lines of her sister’s remark.

“What?” Elis continued in that too-calm voice. “Isn’t that what you were going to say, Doctor?”

Nikol’s eyes slowly roved the room, the tense mix of fear, sadness, anger and a half dozen other emotions boiling almost visibly. The doctor, his mouth working to respond, stood frozen, his eyes flickering between Elis, her father and of course their mother sitting calmly in the corner.

“That does not mean—” her father began, only to be cut off by Jessica.

“Phillip,” she said, her voice almost as distant and devoid of emotion as Elis’. As mine? That thought disturbed her more than she cared to admit. Their mother raised her hand to forestall any further comments, then waved it in an offhand manner of dismissal to the doctor, who fled from the room, relief in every rapid movement of retreat.

“She is only stating the obvious, Phillip.”

For the first time in her life, Nikol saw a mild look of anger on her father’s face directed toward his wife before he veiled it. A sick sensation blossomed deep in the pit of her stomach, in a place where she couldn’t imagine further sensation might be born; an acid flavor bloomed at the back of her throat. In the moment that their parents locked eyes, Nikol shared a shocked look with Christopher, and though Elis refused to look in their direction, consternation invaded even her icy façade.

“Janos is dead,” her mother said with a finality that sent a shiver up Nikol’s spine. “And Julietta might as well be dead. Do you really want what might wake up?” Though her mother’s eyes stayed on Phillip’s, her tone and volume suggested the comments were pitched for the entire room. Including yourself, Mother?

Phillip’s shoulders abruptly slumped. He tore his eyes away from his wife, mumbled something under his breath and moved to lean against the wall, eyes staring blankly. The stunning, instantaneous transformation of her father into an old man managed to dent Nikol’s hollowness, though she still felt less than she knew she should have.

“We must face the facts of this. We must face the facts and we must overcome the consequences,” Jessica continued.

“How, Mother?” Christopher said. “They never found the assassin. And so far there are no clues. How do we overcome what we can’t resolve?”

Only the long trip to Terra and the endless lessons at her knee over the last two years enabled Nikol to catch the slight shadow that slid across her mother’s face, even as she responded. “We cannot let their deaths be in vain.”

You avoided the question, Mother. You . . . you know where this came from, don’t you? Or at leastsuspect. Who is responsible for this heinous act? Her mind kicked into overdrive, seizing on this puzzle to solve, rather than facing the endless emptiness.

“But what were they killed for?” Christopher practically shouted as he stood and began pacing, the adult forged over the last year falling away as he reverted for a moment to the impetuous, determined brother Nikol so loved.

“To stop us, my dear. We are trying to reform the Free Worlds League. And there are those who would prevent it . . . at any cost.”

“But who?”

“That is a question for another day. A question that will be answered. But on another day. Today there is a more important question that must be answered.”

“What?”

“We have come far and already sacrificed much. But now we begin to glimpse the level of sacrifice that will be required if we are to truly embrace our destiny. The blood that has been spilt . . . it demands that we forge on. That we take the next logical step.”

Christopher abruptly stopped, face draining of color as he stood staring at his mother. “No,” he whispered.

Their mother brought the full force of her charisma to bear on her family. Even a year ago, despite her knowledge that she was being manipulated, Nikol’s mother’s formidable charisma would have swayed and diverted her mind.

Now, sheathed in the emptiness she felt, Nikol realized Jessica had no power to affect her perceptions. Instead her mind, already seeking answers, sifted through the events, conversations and observations of the past two years, sorting for a pattern. The rest of the room moved in slow motion while she raced from clue to clue to clue, until she arrived at an answer that stunned her to the core and yet left her feeling nothing: it was the most logical response to the situation, after all.

You’ve put yourself in place to take advantage of events. It wasn’t me. It never was me. Or was it, and you’re moving with the flow, taking advantage as needed?

“Yes,” her mother answered, as the room abruptly snapped back into full motion. “If we are to capitalize on what we have accomplished. If we choose to honor the call of your siblings’—my children’s—blood, we must embrace that symbol.”

“No,” her brother responded, voice more strident.

Nikol glanced at her brother, slow surprise notching up her eyebrows. How did you figure it out, brother? Gone so long from Mother’s side, you can’t have seen the signs?

“Yes. There is a marriage proposal that has occupied my desk for long, long months.”

For just a heartbeat, Nikol fought back laughter. In this place, at this time, she knew it beyond impropriety. And yet a girlish squeal bubbled at the back of her throat, as her mother’s eyes bored into her like shafts of azure energy from a PPC. Her mother’s features slowly filled with surprise as Nikol kept her face under control.

You didn’t expect that, did you, Mother? You thought I’d come unglued. You thought I’d immediately be thinking of me. But I’ve learned well from you. The desire to laugh notched up at the bitterness of realizing how successfully her mother had remade Nikol in her image, as the continued emptiness created a void below her feet.

“You cannot mean it,” Christopher snapped.

“Cannot mean what?”

“You know what,” he responded, voice rising in scale and pitch.

Her mother contemplated Christopher—eyes flicking to take in Nikol—in silence before responding. “Yes, I do. And no, I don’t.”

“You’re not going to marry off Nikol to Frederick? “ Elis’ voice interjected.

Nikol giggled then, unable to stop it. Everyone in the room glared at her, confusion, worry and scorn coming from three different directions. You actually didn’t figure it out, did you, Elis? You, of all people. Always with your angles and you missed it? Even Christopher has it figured out. She giggled again.

Her mother finally spoke, verifying Nikol’s conclusions—and her calm, detached response to the announcement only proved her mother most effective in fashioning her replacement. Pride in her achievement of outpacing her mother warred with the realization that she would never be the same again.

“I have no plans to marry Nikol off to Frederick,” her mother finally responded, voice as distant as a star burning in the endless void, a mirror to Nikol’s own emotions.

“I plan to marry him myself.”

About the Author

Randall N. Bills began his writing career in the adventure gaming industry, where he has worked full-time for the last decade. His hobbies include music, gaming, reading, and, when he can, traveling. He has visited numerous locations both for leisure and for his job, including moving from Phoenix, to Chicago, to Seattle, several trips to Europe, and an LDS mission to Guatemala.

He currently lives in the Pacific Northwest, where he continues to work full-time (and then some) in the adventure gaming industry while pursuing his writing career—Randall has published seven novels and two Star Trek novellas. This is his eighth novel.

He lives with his wife, Tara, and children—Bryn Kevin, Ryana Nikol and Kenyon Aleksandr—as well as an eight-foot red-tailed boa called Jak o’ the Shadows.

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