To Ride the Chimera Read online

  The political analysis on the noteputer Oshaka had given him spoke highly of MP Claireborne. Though she was not presented as actively involved in any of the groups wrestling with the captain-general over points of domestic policy or military adventurism, it took no leap of genius to guess that she was an architect of the loyal opposition.

  And the loyal opposition has sussed my potential role in the political future of Oriente. Frederick smiled grimly. First an expensive gift filled with “unbiased” information to influence my thinking and now warmly welcoming social events to influence my sentiment. Obvious ploys, which means there’s probably much more going on below the surface.

  He considered simply typing his acceptance of the invitation into the noteputer. There was no doubt in his mind the machine was as bugged as the house. Anything he typed or accessed would be transmitted to Oshaka’s agents.

  If he was going to be a player in the game of Oriente politics, he was going to need to develop a secure base and secure information-gathering assets of his own. Establishing an independent household was going to require all of his skills and most of his resources, but it was an essential that he should already have addressed.

  Letting his eyes rest on the artfully manicured garden, Frederick Marik considered his options.

  7

  Dormuth

  Mandoria, Marik

  30 September 3137

  Talar saw ovKhan Petr Kalasa’s expression falter as his eyes met Rikkard Nova Cat’s. Nothing overt—a flicker Talar would have missed had he not been watching for it.

  Then the Sea Fox leader was across the threshold of the Spirit Cats’ command center, hand extended to grasp Rikkard’s. An unusual courtesy—or perhaps a display of alliance.

  Reading levels of meaning—being aware there were levels of meaning to be read—was new to Talar. A skill he was working to master.

  Talar stepped back as the leaders exchanged greetings, his report on restructuring the Touman less important than whatever had brought the ovKhan to speak directly with the Star colonel.

  As the leaders talked he took the measure of the Sea Foxes who’d followed Petr Kalasa into the room. A woman of uncommon beauty with surprising violet eyes that met his gaze with equal appraisal, and a powerfully built man half his age who seemed more interested in the room itself than its occupants.

  The room deserved attention. When the mountain of rubble above them had been a luxury hotel rising thirty stories into the sky, this had been the nexus of the physical plant: everything from security cameras to thermostats had been controlled from here. Converting it to a military command center, and later the heart of the Spirit Cat enclave, had been a simple matter of connecting new datalines to existing terminals.

  Beyond the door through which the Sea Foxes had entered was an underground ballroom of exquisite beauty, while at Talar’s back was the office Star Colonel Rikkard used as his personal study. The room where Star Commander Janis had died; where everything had changed.

  The beautiful Sea Fox with the compelling eyes and the young Sea Fox of heroic proportions were clearly his opposite numbers; junior lieutenants there to perform whatever errands their ovKhan required. Warriors, but neither dressed nor poised for combat, they projected courtesy, interest and no more than the usual tension of being in the presence of powerful leaders. There was no threat in this visit.

  Talar was self-aware enough to be amused at his own diligence in emulating Rikkard in weighing the elements around him. Mere months ago he would have scoffed at the notion of wanting to be anything like the Star colonel.

  Before the conquest of Marik, Rikkard’s hesitation had always seemed an integral part of the man. When not in combat. In unaugmented combat Rikkard had always been a flawless master who made the most demanding techniques seem effortless. The disconnect between that disciplined prowess and the apparent trepidation with which he approached everything outside the Circle of Equals had been…troubling.

  Star Commander Janis had seen Rikkard’s hesitation as doubt, as weakness. Talar, in the days when he had followed Janis, had believed Rikkard to be haunted by doubts in even the simplest decisions. The confidence of his Star commander, her certainty, had stood in sharp contrast to the Star colonel’s questioning of all he saw. He had followed Janis, believing her surety a sign of the truer heart; the clearer vision.

  What he had not understood—what Janis had died not understanding—was that her boldness had not been courage, but the reckless bravado of ignorance.

  Talar had not grasped this truth in any flash of insight. Indeed, when his Star commander had died by Rikkard’s hand in the Circle of Equals, he had believed all hope of Spirit Cat survival on Marik had died with her.

  It was only through the forging of the new alliance, and the weeks following the victory made possible by that alliance, that he had come to appreciate that Rikkard had always seen more clearly than any who followed him imagined. Their leader’s hesitation had not been the doubt of a coward, but the caution of one finding a path through dangerous ground.

  “Indeed?” Rikkard asked.

  His Star colonel’s sharp tone snapped Talar back into the moment. He was peripherally aware of the Sea Fox woman’s appraising gaze as he looked to Rikkard.

  The fugues we mocked so often, he thought. Journeys into understanding.

  “She is not dead, though her older brother is,” Petr was saying. “Murdered in his sleep.”

  The ovKhan’s disgust at such cowardice dripped from his words.

  “She’s in a coma. The Oriente doctors believe her spine and brain stem are irreparable.”

  She? Oriente?

  Talar glanced reflexively to the wall at his left. Against the far side of that wall, at the juncture where it met the floor, Lady Julietta had lain. Had landed. Though the spheroid woman was already down when Talar entered the Star colonel’s office on Janis’ heels, it was clear Rikkard had hit her.

  He’d never spoken to the ambassador of Oriente, the daughter of Oriente’s leader. But what he had seen of her had appeared by turns to be both hopelessly bovine and pompously brittle—a woman of no consequence terrified of every shadow. He had stood with his back to her in the Circle of Equals. He had not been in a position to see her face; to see what was in her eyes when Rikkard paused above Janis’ crippled body and looked to her.

  Even if he had been able, Talar would not have looked at the spheroid. His eyes were fixed only on his Star commander, struggling to regain her feet as Rikkard ignored her to consider the foreign woman.

  Rikkard’s stance had shifted—a transfer of tension that pulled Talar’s eyes to his face. There had been—something he still did not fully understand in the Star colonel’s gaze as he reached down to catch Janis’ flailing arm; to steady her one last time. The final blow had been swift and merciful, ending the Star commander’s life between one heartbeat and the next.

  For a long moment after, there had been silence, no one moving as Rikkard had swayed, his eyes shut.

  In retrospect, Talar realized the beginnings of the change in Rikkard had been apparent at Irian. Though in truth, the signs of any beginning are clear only when one has seen the ending. But even with no knowledge of the ending, the tipping point—the moment of fundamental change—had been clear in Rikkard’s eyes as he stood holding the wrist of his lieutenant, dead by his hand.

  Now the Sea Foxes brought word that Lady Julietta, the catalyst of Rikkard’s epiphany, was in a coma. Worse, the backward spheroid physicians were helpless in the face of her injuries.

  It took no spirit vision to anticipate Star Colonel Rikkard’s next commands.

  Talar glanced to the communications tech. She leaned forward at her station, head turned to keep her eyes on Rikkard even as her finger rested on the TRANSMIT key. Reading the screen in front of her, Talar saw she had already dialed the medical center.

  * * *

  OvKhan Petr Kalasa considered as he strode toward his ground car. Around him the rubble was, if not cleare
d, at least orderly. Scaffolding and cranes rose from the street. Mandoria was being rebuilt, though no effort was being made to restore the ornate architecture visible on some of the older buildings. Dormuth was being made simpler, stronger—changing to reflect the new order.

  Just as the man he had just left had been changed. Though Petr doubted anyone would claim Rikkard Nova Cat had become in any way simpler.

  Petr had heard the gaze of a Nova Cat mystic described as the “far look.” Until now the phrase had meant little. But in Rikkard…Throughout their brief conversation, Petr could not shake the sensation that Rikkard’s eyes had been simultaneously focused on Petr’s eyes and on some horizon point infinitely beyond him. The effect was unnerving.

  And yet the Star colonel had none of the otherworldly affect Petr had always associated with mystics. To the contrary, he now radiated a health and vitality he had not possessed when traveling aboard Voidswimmer en route to Marik. Rikkard’s handclasp had been firm, his conversation succinct and on topic. Nothing to indicate anything other than an ordinary man, alert and on task.

  Except his damn eyes.

  The nod ovKhan Petr gave his driver as he entered the passenger compartment of the ground car was distracted.

  The vehicle was a luxury model of local manufacture, but it reflected none of the unnecessary ornamentation that marred Marik architecture. The vehicle’s lines were clean, its construction uncompromisingly solid. The luxury was in the quality of the materials from which it was constructed and the craftsmanship with which those components had been assembled.

  The car came to life, its ICE a satisfying rumble barely perceptible within the cabin. There was room enough for his long legs and those of Etgar and Sonja in their rear-facing jump seats. He could think of a half dozen markets where a car of this quality would be appreciated.

  “Is it drugs, then?” he asked.

  Warriors both, Etgar and Sonja had shown a mental facility that indicated bright futures. If their practical judgment and personal instincts attained the potential their test scores indicated. He had no doubt both whelps appreciated the honor and opportunity inherent in his personal interest in their education.

  “If the Spirit Cats are using drugs, it is nothing anyone has ever hinted at.” Sonja repeated common knowledge.

  “More like a trance,” opined Etgar.

  “They do not appear as sleepwalkers,” Sonja countered.

  “They?” Petr asked.

  “The MechWarrior who was giving the report when we arrived,” Sonja said. “He seemed to drop in, then out of the same state.”

  “I meant trance like an aerospace jockey or a ProtoMech pilot,” Etgar said. “When the information from augmented sensors is flowing through them. As I understand it, some develop an affect like Rikkard Nova Cat’s even when disconnected from their augmentations.”

  “You are describing hyperfocus, multiplex thinking.” Petr glanced between the two. “And that requires genetic predisposition, years of training and drugs.”

  “I do not believe we were witnessing a drug effect.” Sonja’s tone was thoughtful. “Could this be related to the training and genetics of the Nova Cat mystic caste?”

  “I had that thought as well,” Petr admitted. “But there have been no recorded exchanges between Rikkard’s Spirit Cats and the Nova Cat Clan. To have mystics spontaneously appear seems unlikely.”

  “Drugs, then,” Etgar decided.

  “Not drugs.” Sonja returned to her original assessment. Then added: “It would take a blood screening to be sure.”

  “Then acquire a blood sample,” Petr said. “Knowing what makes a Spirit Cat a Spirit Cat can be useful information.”

  “How will I acquire a sample of Rikkard’s blood?”

  Asking for necessary information instead of pretending knowledge or expressing doubt, Peter noted.

  “Not in combat,” Etgar said before the ovKhan spoke. “He’d kill you.”

  “If half the tales are true, in unaugmented combat Star Colonel Rikkard could kill all of us,” Petr said before Sonja could respond to the barb. “The young man, however—the MechWarrior with the similar aspect—he will be more approachable.”

  “Approachable?”

  “We will be transporting Rikkard and members of his senior medical caste to Oriente,” Petr pointed out. “No doubt his aide will also make the journey. Make friends with the young man.”

  Petr smiled slightly. “I’m sure an opportunity to collect bodily fluids will present itself.”

  8

  Temple of the Heart of Spirit

  Siendou, Unaffiliated Worlds

  14 October 3137

  “Lucumi,” she identified herself. Friend.

  The ceremonial guard—a man she’d known since they were childhood initiates—nodded his recognition and stood aside, inviting her into the hounfour temple with a graceful sweep of his arm.

  The broad corridor wound like path through a great forest. The polished pebbles of the floor, like tiny cobblestones, none bigger than her heel and many smaller than her thumb, were cool and solid and comforting against her bare feet. The ceiling glowed softly green, recalling sunlight filtering down through dense branches stretching a hundred meters above her while the walls, dark and irregular, called to mind ancient forests. The path was dim, but it was the dimness and warmth of sanctuary that embraced her.

  A pair of rough-hewn torches marked the entrance to the temple itself. Beyond them the corridor broadened into a great circular room, with torches spaced evenly around the walls. She knew the torch fires were fed by gas jets, their flammable mixture balanced to create yellow flames that danced in the gentle breezes, but the effect exactly emulated burning rushes. She recognized them not as counterfeits, but as reverent images.

  Breezes that flickered the flames and wafted her ceremonial gown first against her, then away were also elements of the natural world created by artfully hidden fans and vents. The walls were the thatch and adobe they appeared to be, but the jungle did not lie beyond them. The temple was encased within a greater structure of block and concrete. A strange deceit, to hide a temple within a fortress built to mimic a mundane warehouse. Particularly on Siendou, heartland of Sevi Lwa, their sister faith. Here in the center of civilization, hounfour dedicated to Olorun and Obatala were found in every town. But the secret Coeur du Vodun—Heart of the Spirit—had to be shielded from the uncomprehending eyes of unbelievers.

  Beneath her feet the stones of a hundred worlds, tumbled smooth enough to prevent injury but uncut, unshaped, were fit together in intricate mosaic. Streams in the true colors of nature seemed to spread away, leading the eye in all directions yet always back to the great pillar in the center. If one did not see the pattern, the floor seemed a random wash of color. But if one looked with understanding, one saw the veve, the sacred patterns of uncounted spirits woven together, interlocking into a unified whole.

  The poteau-mitan, the massive pillar holding up the central vault of the temple, the point from which everything flowed, was the trunk of an ebony tree brought whole from the sacred forests of Terra. Of such size four men with arms outstretched could not have encompassed it, the great tree was surrounded by concentric altars hand-carved from a dozen woods, illuminated by handmade candles.

  Father Pauli stood to the left of the pillar, facing the altar of—she could not be sure from the entrance. If he seeks guidance in struggle, Oggzn. If influence, Oshzn. Both seemed likely and neither her concern. She pushed the thought from her mind, focusing on her own spirit’s path as she approached the great pillar.

  After completing his devotion, Father Pauli moved with unhurried grace to join her before the altar of Obatala, mother of creation. He stood in respectful silence as she lit the taper she had made at a candle already on the altar and placed it, with her prayer, in its proper place. When she had completed her respect, she turned to find him smiling at her.

  Though Father Pauli was four times her age, his parchment-pale skin was unlined s
ave for the crow’s-feet radiating from the corners of his upturned eyes. His hair, still as dark as her own, was gathered at the nape of his neck in a thin ponytail that hung between his shoulder blades—testimony to a Draconis thread woven through the tapestry of his heritage.

  Without speaking, the priest extended his hands, palms like pale leather turned up, catching the torchlight.

  In equal silence she laid her naming blade across his hands. Seven heavy silver crescents, linked to form a necklace but which could, with a twist and push, lock together into a single blade. Without closing his fingers over the shining metal, Father Pauli examined the sacrificial weapon, tilting and angling his hands; blossoms of light ran along its every edge like liquid fire.

  She knew the blade would find favor. Ogun had been with her as she’d created it, guiding her; possessing her as her ti bon ange, little guardian angel, had danced free in the rippling heat rising from the hand-heated forge.

  Father Pauli smiled again. Approval, and pride in his pupil, was plain in his eyes. Pressing the ball of his thumb to the cutting edge, he christened her naming blade with his own blood.

  She felt the sting of welling tears, but neither blinked nor brushed at her eyes. For her priest and mentor to take the cut meant for her…He elevated her, raised her more than she deserved.

  “There is a task I must fulfill,” she said, breaking the silence in her need to make plain her path.

  “What task?”

  “I must complete the mission I failed,” she answered. “I must kill all of the bokor-woman’s brood.”

  Father Pauli regarded her for a long moment. At the edge of her vision she was aware of his thumb slowly tracing the planes of her naming blade, coating the knife with his blood.

  “Why must you do this thing?”

  “It is an ebo.”

  For the first time Father Pauli frowned.