Mechwarrior: Dark Age #27

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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 control of the situation, just because I cannot face him without anger as a shield. Fear rushed blood to her face.

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.’’

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 . . .

‘‘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.

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.’’

‘‘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.’’

‘‘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.’’

‘‘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.’’

‘‘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.

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?’’

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.

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.

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.

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.