Mechwarrior: Dark Age #27

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

‘‘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.’’

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.’’

‘‘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.

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.

‘‘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.

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.’’

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.’’

‘‘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.

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.