BattleTech, page 15
“As you wish, Warden-General. I will be in touch.”
Nikol watched Torrian Dolcat leave. She trusted the spymaster with her life, but there still existed an intangible barrier between them. He had been her mother’s spymaster, even back when Jessica Halas-Hughes was merely the leader of the Oriente Protectorate, trying to re-form as much of the shattered Free Worlds League as possible. Torrian and Jessica had a lot more shared history than he and Nikol ever would. He, like her, would also be striving for revenge. But what lengths would he go to? Would he see imperfect evidence as confirmation of fact? To avoid confirmation bias, she would have to salt all of his advice in this matter.
Nikol closed her eyes to steady herself, then gave Kirkland an honest appraisal. “So, Wil, set all the politics and intrigue aside for now. What do you think of all of this?”
“Off the record?”
She nodded.
“Let’s go talk in private for a moment.” Kirkland helped her from her seat and waved her into a side room, where he closed the door. He took the chair beside her and heaved a long sigh.
“I think it’s too neat. Too clean. Bomb goes off, and we’ve immediately got a suspect. We chase him down, and he calls out an enemy long, long dead, then dies by his own hand. We easily corroborate his identity, find his residence, pin the whole thing on him. Open-and-shut case. No reason to waste time on chasing down further theories unless we want to dig deeper into motives and methods. But you want to know what haunts me about this whole affair?”
“What?”
He retreated into himself, looking at some faraway scene. Then he manipulated his noteputer and handed it to her. “Take a close look at that body-cam footage.”
Through the fever haze, Nikol watched the flatvid of Carsten Valentini being shot with tranq darts, then falling backward. Then, his hazel eyes did a peculiar thing, where they opened and quivered noticeably, even at this video resolution.
Kirkland leaned over her shoulder and pressed the pause control. “There. That face Valentini makes just before his mouth starts foaming? It’s terror. Naked, abject terror. I’ve seen that face before, on combat casualties.” His fingertip tapped at the frozen image on the screen. “That right there is the look of a man who realizes I am going to die and knows he can do nothing at all to stop it. It’s the look of a man who realizes something has gone horribly wrong.”
Nikol squinted in confusion. “What are you saying?”
“When Amur PD searched Valentini’s residence, they found no manifesto, no confessional, no bomb-making materials, nothing at all that might link Valentini to the crime. This could mean a couple of different things. Maybe he kept all of the planning in his head or was extremely efficient at destroying every trace of the evidence. Maybe he was working with an accomplice who held all of the evidence. But if you slash away all of the overcomplicated explanations, then you get to the simple answer: Carsten Valentini didn’t do it.”
Nikol stared at him. “What?”
“Someone’s been going through a lot of trouble to make it look like he did,” Kirkland said. “Could be that his accomplices hung him out to dry, hoping we’d take the bait, close the case, and let the real culprit off scot-free. But for such a catastrophic event, there has to be motive. Partners. Some sort of support. No way did a stooge like Valentini orchestrate something like this alone.”
“If you don’t think he was directly responsible, then how do you explain him naming House Selaj?”
Kirkland tapped a finger to his lips. “Now that—that is the one wrinkle I cannot quite account for. This might be an attempt at misdirection, to get us chasing smoke. But we can’t discount the idea that there could be some merit to it.”
“Theories. Theories. More theories.” Nikol crushed fingers and palms against her face to rub away some of the ache in her fever-addled brain.
“I understand your frustration. I feel it too. And I am doing everything I can, using every asset at my disposal. But there is something else I want to speak with you about.” Kirkland sighed. “Warden-General—Nikol—I cannot in good conscience continue this investigation into your mother’s murder. After my mistakes with your father, and now with this, I must humbly beg you to accept my resignation as commander of the Ducal Guard.”
Nikol felt like the floor had vanished beneath her. She was tumbling in free fall, with no support, no safety net. No way to stop herself from plummeting, no one to catch her. She knew some of that stomach churning was her illness, but most of it was not.
“I will let Torrian and Amur PD take over my part in the investigation, and—”
She closed her eyes for a moment to steady herself, then snapped them open. “Absolutely out of the question.”
Kirkland leaned away from her. “I don’t understand.”
“You were my rock when Father died, when Mother retreated away from life. I cannot lose that rock, especially now, with Mother gone and the rest of my family scattered to the winds. I cannot accept your resignation. I want you to find out who is really behind this. I want you to help me mete out justice for this crime, for me, my family, and this whole nation.”
The general comported himself like a professional in response to her declaration, his face guardedly neutral. But she had known him long enough to see the strain and grief of her denial writ in his body language. Here was a man dragged down by two separate tragedies he felt personally responsible for, yet he had not fully succumbed to the quagmire of despair. She saw the small fire her words had lit beneath him—mere sparks catching on kindling—but it burned brightly enough for her to believe he would devote his every waking moment to her mandate.
Kirkland nodded. “All right. Then let’s get back to work and nail the sonofabitch who did this.”
23
REGULAN STRATEGIC MILITARY COMMAND HEADQUARTERS
REGULUS CITY, REGULUS
REGULAN FIEFS
7 MARCH 3148
Lester Cameron-Jones wandered down the corridor alone and in a daze, as though his polished boots moved of their own accord. Elation and horror warred within. He wanted to float on blissful clouds, but the dark storm of reality weighed him back down. Did a victory still matter if it came at so high a cost?
General Marshdale… Lester shook his head in utter disbelief. The son of a bitch did it. He actually pulled it off.
Jessica was dead.
And not only that—she had died in such spectacular fashion. Most assassinations were either subtle or small-scale affairs. A silenced bullet from a sniper rifle; poison from a dart, a meal, a drink; a lone gunman shot down within moments of the attempt, whether successful or not. But this—collapsing an entire wing of a mansion—this was assassination on a scale that no one could possibly miss. One could only wish such a fate for the worst of their enemies. Jessica, may she burn in hell, deserved that and more for what she had done to House Cameron-Jones. His dear Emlia would certainly dance with glee upon hearing this news.
And yet—
This was categorically not what Marshdale had proposed. This bordered on incompetence. Dereliction of duty.
He took a single break in his stride to compose his features before throwing open the doors leading to the assembled RSMC High Command with as much violence as he could muster. The doors swung out hard enough to boom against the walls, and all conversation ceased. Every eye focused on him. The chamber fell into a silence befitting a graveyard.
“Captain-General—” General Marshdale rose from the table to speak, but he got only halfway up before Lester slashed an infuriated hand at him and cut him off.
“Sit down, Fred. Don’t say another word.” Lester leaned forward, pressed his palms flat on the table to steady his growing rage. “Now I want you—all of you—to tell me why I shouldn’t strip you of your ranks and throw you in prison right this instant.”
No one in the council chamber spoke for several long seconds before Marshdale spoke up. His formerly roused dragon had seemingly shrank back in on itself in fear. “Your Grace, I do not know what happened. My asset promised me that—”
“Enough!” Lester closed his eyes so hard that they ached. His teeth ground together in his clenched jaw. “What in the name of all that is holy you were thinking?!”
Marshdale flinched. RSMC meetings often involved Lester getting worked up over one thing or another, but never had he needed to so pointedly direct his ire at a chief of staff.
“Your Grace,” the general foundered. “If you can just let me explain—”
“Jessica is dead, and that’s all you cared about, wasn’t it?” Lester stabbed a crooked, arthritic finger in the general’s direction. “You didn’t even consider whether the blame would point directly back at us, did you? You didn’t even consider collateral damage. When you suggested removing Jessica from the picture, I specifically asked you for a clean death. One that would look like an accident, or natural causes, or—at the very least—something that cannot be traced to us. But instead I get an international incident to clean up, and all of the fingers in the Free Worlds League will soon be pointing at us, if they aren’t already.”
Marshdale shook his head. All of the members of the High Command looked at each other in utter confusion. “Captain-General, I don’t understand. We sent our assassin—”
“No.” Lester’s trembling hand clenched into a fist. “Spare me the details. What I want to know is whose brilliant idea was it for the assassin to claim glory for House Selaj? Who gave the kill order that resulted in the deaths of Andurien envoys?”
The room became silent as a tomb once more.
“Someone tell me so I can cashier them right this instant,” Lester snarled. “Otherwise I’ll just start sending you to firing squads one at a time, until I find the culprit.”
The chamber descended into chaos. Everyone blamed everyone else. The shouting rattled Lester’s brain. With a furious set to his jaw, he wrenched his auto-pistol from its holster and fired three shots into the ceiling.
The reports killed all noise in the room.
Sentries standing just outside the door rushed in to investigate the gunfire, their sidearms drawn.
“At ease, gentlemen,” the Captain-General said, waving at them to stand down, but not relaxing his still-smoking pistol. “You may return to your post. No one is in danger here—at least not yet.”
Once the bewildered guards returned to the hall, Lester refocused his wrath on the members of the High Command, then inhaled. Exhaled. “Let me frame this a different way. You all seem to have zero conception of how serious this issue is. Jessica is dead, but at what cost to our nation? The League is already blaming us for her death; they are our sworn enemies, after all. But how am I to answer Duke Humphreys—our ally!—when he inevitably asks me why I authorized the killing of eighteen Andurien diplomats?! Which one of you will claim culpability? Who will admit to your stupidity and volunteer to be the sacrificial lamb for Humphreys to rake across his coals? It will not—cannot—be me. I had no knowledge of this boneheaded scheme until the courier arrived in-system today with the news out of Oriente.”
Shock paled the usually impenetrable mien of Gustav Salazar, one of Lester’s closest confidants. “Your Grace, what you ask of us is impossible.”
Lester’s pistol trembled with unmitigated fury. “Gustav, contradict me again, and it may well be the last time you speak. Choose your next words very carefully. I am not above tearing your tongue out of your mouth with my bare hands. Now, try not to treat me like an imbecile this time.”
Gustav blinked, composed himself, and spoke slowly, deliberately. “Captain-General, we cannot claim ownership of the kill order because no one here at this table issued it.”
“Then who did, Gustav?” Lester blew air through his nostrils when the SAFE Director did not immediately reply. “So let me see if I understand what you are all saying. Either one of your subordinates—someone not in this room—gave the kill order without your permission, or someone else got to her first. But who? What motive would Chancellor Liao have against her? None. They may have had differences in the past, but their relationship never hinted toward murder. Their daughters are even friends, according to our intel. Archon Steiner—she would aim her sights on Fontaine Marik for stealing her worlds, not Jessica. And Humphreys would not even contemplate sending Andurien envoys to treat with her if he was not truly serious about negotiating a ceasefire with her.”
He paced before the conference table, looking at every petrified, hesitant face in turn.
“So, gentlemen, who does that leave? House Selaj, which is centuries dead? The Word of Blake, also more than half a century in the grave?” He scoffed. “The ancient enemies of the Free Worlds are either fabricated or incredibly patient, and my money is on the former.”
Lester stopped at the middle of the table, captured every eye present. “I want a head on a platter for this, and I don’t care if it’s all of yours. So either tell me who is responsible, or so help me, I will make public examples out of each and every one of you. Do you understand?”
The words struck the desired chord, for he had never seen Salazar and Marshdale—both of them stoic, unflappable—lose their composure like that.
Marshdale was first to speak. “Captain-General, by all that is holy and sacrosanct, I swear to you we are telling the truth. I sent the plan I devised—the one we all agreed on—to my asset on Oriente, funneled funds to the appropriate accounts, and told them to wait for my confirmation. But I never sent the order. The asset verified the transfer of funds, and there has been no response from them since. Our asset must have either misunderstood my orders or twisted them to their own ends, and I honestly do not even know if they are still alive.” As he drew in a deep breath, his eyes trembled like a man facing a headsman’s ax. “So the fault here is mine. I should have been more explicit in my orders, or perhaps gone with a different plan, a more reliable asset. Whatever punishment you deem appropriate, I am prepared to face it with dignity.”
Lester fought to contain the whirlwind raging in his head, and focused his wrath on a single target. “General Marshdale, you are hereby relieved of command and stripped of all rank.” He activated the intercom on the table. “Guards! Escort this man to the stockade. I will deal with him later.”
He stormed past the sentries and out of the council room, unable to even contemplate military strategy in such a fiery, foul mood. But politics? Politics often thrived on anger. And one resounding political question tormented him with a perverse kind of glee: Will I gain more political cachet from handing Fred over to the damnable Mariks, or to the Anduriens? What will be a more fitting punishment for him?
He would have to consult with his dearest Emlia in that regard. She possessed a far more devious and vindictive spirit than his own.
His every bootstep on the marble floor echoed like a gunshot in the ancient hallway. Never trust others to do what I should myself. It should have been me.
He should’ve been the one to pull the trigger. He should’ve ensured Jessica’s death on his own terms. Now that opportunity was forever lost.
24
HALAS MANOR
AMUR, ORIENTE
ORIENTE PROTECTORATE
FREE WORLDS LEAGUE
13 MARCH 3148
Through all of the somber pomp and circumstance surrounding a state funeral, a wave of sobering déjà vu bowled Nikol over. Aside from the roster of guests and some of the ceremonies, the whole scene struck her as so much like her father’s funeral that the knife of remembrance stabbed her in the heart all over again. Less than two years since her father’s untimely death, and yet it felt like only a matter of weeks had passed.
But the salient difference? The lavishly decorated transpex coffin paraded slowly through the streets of Amur in mournful public celebration held her mother.
A team of morticians had done incredible sorcery with restoring Jessica’s appearance. All of the bones in her legs and pelvis had been completely pulverized when the explosion collapsed vast timber beams in the manor, so most of her lower half was a fabricated reconstruction based on her known measurements. A sheet of Marik-purple brocade, draped across her from the waist down, concealed any irregularities in the work. But even the real and visible part struck Nikol as false. Maybe it was the embalming process, the deathly pallor introduced by mortuary cosmetics. Maybe it was the fact that many of the fractured bones in Jessica’s skull had required mending. Either way, the peculiar face in the coffin felt like someone else’s mother, not hers. Nikol wanted to believe her mother was still in the other wing of the manor, still treating with Andurien diplomats, still fighting tooth and nail to ensure the safety of every citizen of every world in the nation she had founded with her own two hands.
A visual sweep of the vast assembly space showed the many people who had flocked to Jessica’s funeral. Dignitaries and nobles from all across the Free Worlds League and beyond had exercised their executive privilege to take command circuits—a chain of JumpShips intended for making long trips in a short time—to Oriente to pay their respects. Each representative present showed Nikol who stood alongside Jessica and her legacy. Fontaine Marik had come from Tamarind-Abbey, bringing her elder brother Christopher, which had led to a tearful reunion. Elis and her husband, Prime Minister Michael Cendar, had come all the way from the Rim Commonality. The Sea Foxes had also sent a delegation. And most importantly, several MPs had arrived from Atreus to lend support—but Fletcher Grandin and Conall Stewart, Adamina’s father, were notably absent.
Adamina said Conall was too old and frail to make such a long trip, but Speaker Grandin had no viable excuse Nikol knew of. Jessica had embarrassed Grandin in Parliament, so he had likely remained on Atreus to spite her memory.
