Bred for war

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Francesca studied the results. There was no correspondence between the two samples. There was no way the two of them could be related. The man claiming to be Joshua's father was a fraud. With a cotton ball, a school science kit, and some patience, she, Frantiska Jirik, had saved the Free Worlds League from the greatest threat to its sovereignty it had ever known.

  Confident in this historic contribution to the nation of her people, she encoded her data and prepared the cipher sheet she would leave in the dead-drop for pickup and delivery back to Atreus. That done, she destroyed the rest of the science kit equipment and threw it away in scattered dumpsters well away from where she lived.

  Then, stopping only to have an abridged confession heard at St. Andrews, she returned to the hospital and continued her volunteer tasks. It made her feel good to be so close to Joshua, to help him if he needed it. And though she never spoke to him when their paths crossed again, she believed he instinctively knew that in her he had a loyal friend.

  15

  Lot who desires peace prepare for war.

  -Vegetius, De Re Miutari

  Charleston, Woodstock

  Sarna March, Federated Commonwealth

  21 July 3057

  Riding high in the cockpit of his Warhammer 'Mech, Larry Acuff felt as if all was right with the world. Despite being tightly strapped to the command couch, with medical sensors stuck to his bare flesh and a heavy neurohelmet grinding down on his shoulders, he felt free enough to fly. Gloved hands manipulated the joysticks on either arm of the couch, bringing the 'Mech's twin crosshairs together over the computer-generated image of a Crusader. A gold dot pulsed to life in the center of the crosshairs, indicating a target lock, and Larry jammed his thumbs down on the firing buttons for the PPCs mounted in the Warhammer's arms.

  Though humanoid in shape, the Warhammer had PPC muzzles where other 'Mechs had hands. From each of these a jagged blue beam of energized particles sizzled free. The particle projection cannon's synthetic blue lightning stabbed in at the Crusader. As the beams neared the target, they united and cored into it. The holographic image in Larry's cockpit showed the beams converging on the Crusader's left hip, boring their way in through armor to melt the ferrotitanium leg bone and amputate it.

  The targeting image had been painted by the computer over an old powerline tower, and the twin beams sliced through its supports as if they were no more than spider webs and tissue paper. With a shrieking groan, the tower wavered, then slowly toppled to the ground. As it hit the external microphones picked up the resounding thud and transferred it to the speakers in Larry's helmet. The computer image likewise fell, and the real-world dust cloud served as a dissolve matrix for the computer to use in erasing it.

  "Nice shooting, Deuce." Phoebe's congratulations broadened the smile on Larry's face. "You learn how to fuse those beams on Solaris, or was that luck?"

  "Pure luck—one in a million. In keeping with everything else on this run, too."

  "Four ninety-five out of a possible five hundred ... I don't think that was luck."

  "Had to be luck, Ace. I never did that well back when I was training on this course."

  "Larry, that was seven years ago." He heard Phoebe laugh gently. "You've fought the Clans and you've been dueling on Solaris since then. It's all the practice that's made you better, not luck."

  Larry thought about that for a moment. It was true that he had seen a tremendous amount of combat since the last time he was in a 'Mech on Woodstock. The learning curve for BattleMech combat was fairly steep, and all the training in the world couldn't prepare a warrior for the utter chaos of the battlefield. Those who couldn't handle it became casualties, while those who could went on to the next battle. "You're probably right, Phoebe, but I wouldn't mind a little luck from time to time."

  "I'd trade a ton of armor for a dollop of luck. Ready to wrap it up?"

  "Are we done already?"

  "Larry, all you needed to requalify was to shoot three seventy-five. You were done on the tenth target. These other five have been for the range record."

  "Really? Did I break it?"

  "Yeah, with target group thirteen, the Savannah Masters. You smoked them."

  Blake's Blood! Back when he was still in training on Charleston, a recruit had needed a score of three twenty-five to qualify for duty. The Clan War had raised the standards a bit, hence the fifty extra points he'd needed today. His skill had improved, but Larry hadn't really known how to measure the improvement because his matches on Solaris were one-on-one 'Mech bouts. Compared with his best score of seven years before, he'd progressed from a status of adequate to that of an elite warrior, and the thought started a warm fire burning in his belly.

  "I'd never have expected to break the record. As PR officer, I don't have to publicize this, do I?"

  Phoebe laughed. "I thought we'd do a press release and send it to the Clans. That would make them think twice about going back to war, don't you think?"

  "I think fighting computer simulation targets has little resemblance to fighting the Clans."

  "I was there, remember?"

  "Sure." Larry frowned as he turned his Warhammer around and followed Phoebe's Marauder II back toward the hangar. "Would you want to fight them again?"

  Larry heard nothing but the static of dead air over his headphones for a moment or two before Phoebe came back tentatively. "I'd fight them again, but I don't know that I want to fight them again."

  "I saw some Elementals on Solaris," Larry said, referring to the giant, genetically bred infantrymen of the Clans. "Taman Malthus, the one who helped Kai free us prisoners, came to Solaris to watch Kai defend his championship. They're still pretty frightening, even when they're friends. Even so, I'd be first in line if the truce ended tomorrow."

  "It's marriage that's got me thinking differently. Before George, my future was in the army. Now it's our future, not just mine."

  "Makes things complicated, doesn't it?"

  Phoebe's nervous laugh resounded through his neuro-helmet. "Which comes first, self or the state?"

  "In the Draconis Combine it's the state, definitely. Ditto the Clans, I gather. Elsewhere in the Inner Sphere, though, I think that question gets answered on an individual basis. Of course, the way you put it makes it sound cold and impersonal."

  "Larry, the state generally is cold and impersonal."

  "Without a doubt, but only if you see the state as an institution. We've both met Prince Victor. He's not cold or distant." Larry's Warhammer moved from the hilly precincts of the targeting course and started across the ferrocrete to the Reserve's hangar. "To me the state is everyone and every place I know and love. If duty calls me to defend them to the point of death, well, I'm willing."

  "Easy for you to say. You don't have a wife."

  "And you've refused to give me the visiphone number for your best friend. How can I give her a look if you won't?"

  "Larry, she's happily living in sin with one of George's buddies."

  "So I'd call when he wasn't home."

  "You're incorrigible."

  Larry brought his Warhammer around to the hangar stall designated for it. He initiated his shutdown procedure, then picked up the thread of their talk. "I think you'd be out there fighting again, Phoebe. Once it's in your blood, there's no cure."

  "I used to feel that way, Larry, but now I think there is an antidote."

  "And that is?"

  "True love. Something about love and life makes playing around in death's domain a lot less tempting."

  "Doesn't mean you wouldn't be there, Phoebe." Larry unbuckled the straps holding him to the command couch. "Having George just means you have one more thing to fight for. No greater reason to fight than to protect your family."

  "Wars have been fought over less."

  "And likely will be again in the future." Larry undid his helmet's chinstrap. "But if we're lucky, it won't be during our lifetimes."

  Marik Palace, Atreus

  Marik Commonwealth, Free Worlds League<
br />
  Thomas Marik felt empty. Like a hollow terra cotta figure, fragile and vulnerable, as if he'd shatter into a billion pieces if he breathed. Everything inside of him had torn loose and been crushed down into theblack hole of dread and despair centered just below his heart.

  He didn't even feel pain.

  Standing alone on the balcony, he did not need to glance again at the slip of paper Precentor Malcolm had brought him. The message had been as simple and eloquent as it had been brief: No match.

  My son is dead, and Victor Davion has killed him. As those words linked themselves into a sentence, the rational part of him fought that verdict. He knew as well as anyone that Joshua had been as good as dead the instant the doctors diagnosed the leukemia. Only sheer desperation had made him accept Hanse Davion's offer of treatment at the New Avalon Institute of Science. It had been the only shred of hope.

  Sophina had urged Thomas to make a second child with her, one who could provide a marrow match for Joshua, but he had refused. His father, Janos Marik, had produced ten children. Two had died of leukemia at ages twelve and eight. The rest—except for Thomas, his brother Paul, and his sisters Theresa and Kristen—had died in the various internal struggles and wars that had plagued the Free Worlds League. The strife ended only in 3036 when Thomas appeared before a stunned Parliament to reveal that he had survived the bomb blast that killed his father and brother a year and a half before. Janos Marik's family proved that large families and sibling rivalries caused significant problems. he had feared giving Joshua a brother or sister. If that child was unsuitable for donating marrow, she would forever be in the position of having failed the task for which she'd been conceived.

  The alternative, a child who did provide the marrow needed to save Joshua's life, would have been worse. If that child had been the least bit proud or ambitious—and what child would not be when, just by the fact of being born, he had saved his older brother's life?—he would resent the fact that Joshua stood to inherit the throne. If the cancer returned, would the new child refuse his brother more marrow to deny him the chance to become Captain-General? Isis had done so when approached to save Joshua's life, then laughed in Thomas's face when he found himself in the absurd position of threatening to punish the person who would become his new heir if she did not help his current heir.

  And now she is my heir and in the thrall of Sun-Tzu Liao. Thomas knew he had other choices: Paul, Kristen, Theresa, or their offspring, but he knew they did not share his goals. Though seeming to favor one or the other of them—Paul's daughter Corinne, for example—might upset Sun-Tzu Liao, events had moved to a point where Thomas could not indulge himself in such a game, no matter how much pleasure it would give him to throw a scare into Sun-Tzu.

  Victor Davion did not kill my son, but he has denied him the dignity of death he would have been accorded here. This act, substituting another for my dead boy, is beyond barbarism It is a profane deed that mocks my son and his life. For this, Victor will pay, and pay dearly.

  Bits and pieces of a plan began to build itself inside the emptiness in his soul. Each element was like an ultra-thin membrane settling into place in a matrix growing inside Thomas. Though any one strand was too delicate to stand up to pressure, and even though arranged like a house of cards, the structure did not collapse. On this Thomas could build his vision of the future.

  Behind him, hovering like a shadow in the entrance to his office, Precentor Malcolm cleared his throat gently. The sound irritated Thomas so much that he wanted to turn and throttle the man, but doing so would have upset the crystalline lattice coming to life inside him.

  "If I may, Captain-General, I would like to express my own sorrow at learning that you have lost your son."

  "Thank you," Thomas replied faintly.

  "I also wish to say that I stand ready to help you relay the orders that will visit justice upon the malignant dwarf seated on the throne of the Federated Suns."

  Thomas's head came up, though he still did not turn to look at Malcolm. "You believe I should avenge myself on Victor Davion?"

  "There is a saying—'Revenge triumphs over death.'"

  The Captain-General came around slowly, his shoulders hunched. "You are a fool, Malcolm."

  "Pardon me, sir?"

  "Do you know who you quote?"

  "The Blessed Blake."

  Thomas angrily waved that answer away. "That quote is from Francis Bacon, and your use of it is out of context and inappropriate. It is wrong. You are wrong."

  The Precentor's brown eyes became ringed with white as Thomas's fury backed him into the door jamb. "I did not mean to offend," he stuttered.

  "No, no, of course you did not, but you did offend. If you know what this message contains, then you have also read the messages I sent out. How many other people know what I have sent and what I have gotten back?"

  Malcolm shied from the question. "There are things I cannot ..."

  "Tell me? I am Thomas Marik, Precentor. I am the man who Precentor Blane has hinted at naming ComStar's Primus-in-exile. You might have secrets from others, Malcolm, but certainly not from me."

  Thomas pulled himself to his full, considerable height. "This is not information I want just for its own sake, but vital information I must have. I do not know how far this story has traveled, or how likely is the chance of a security breach. Without knowing that, I cannot prepare to repay this unkindness done to my son."

  "But you just said I was a fool for thinking you would revenge yourself on Victor Davion."

  "And you were." Thomas opened his arms toward the night sky, to its billions of worlds and stars, including those of the Federated Commonwealth. "It was not Victor who visited this indecency upon my son, but the Davion arrogance that nurtured him. His father, Hanse Davion, held my son hostage to win my assistance in producing materiel for his war with the Clans. How could someone raised by such a man understand the pain a father feels at the loss of a child? I blame not Victor, but the man who sired him."

  "But you will punish him."

  Thomas nodded slowly. "I cannot punish Hanse, but Victor must learn from his father's mistake. This punishment will take time to engineer, however. Border raids and demands for reparations will not suffice. My first duty is not to salve my wounded soul by killing FedComs—my duty is to liberate my countrymen from the yoke of a nation that could permit this obscene behavior. That liberation will take time and planning."

  Thomas saw the light of comprehension come on in Malcolm's dark eyes, but he knew the Precentor couldn't guess at even a fraction of his plans. "You are now my liaison with Word of Blake, Precentor Malcolm. Send a message to Blane over my signature—he will ratify this decision. You will bring me the information I want, when I want it, without question. It will be complete and you will not comment upon it unless I so request. Everything you learn will be in these reports."

  "But you have SAFE and the rest of your intelligence apparatus for preparing reports like that."

  "Yes, but they have resources you do not, and vice versa. Each of you will verify the other." Thomas smiled and barely felt the scars tugging at his mouth. "And the first thing you will do is prepare me a dossier on my enemy."

  "Victor?"

  Thomas shook his head and remembered his own family. "No, Victor I understand fairly well. The person I want to know now is Katrina Steiner."

  "Katrina Steiner. I understand." Malcolm bowed his head to Thomas. "Do you require anything else of me?"

  Thomas was about to dismiss the man, when another crystalline thread slid into place. "Yes. Sun-Tzu's message to his operatives on New Avalon. Do you still have a copy?"

  "I do."

  "Could you still send it?"

  Malcolm thought for a moment, then nodded his head tentatively. "Davion intelligence compromised the code sequence used to create the message. The Maskirovka agents on New Avalon never actually got the key to the cipher."

  "You could send it to them again, yes, in lieu of whatever key they are supposed to rec
eive in a given week?"

  "The Maskirovka only changes codes on a monthly basis, but, yes, we could make the substitution."

  "Good. Be prepared to send the key and the message out quickly." Thomas clasped his hands together in satisfaction. "My plans may require providing a distraction for Victor Davion, and employing Sun-Tzu in that capacity may just kill two birds with one stone."

  16

  Diplomacy without arms is like music without instruments.

  -Frederick the Great

  Tamar

  Wolf Clan Occupation Zone

  8 August 3057

  Phelan Ward, Khan of Clan Wolf, stood beside Natasha Kerensky as the ilKhan took his place at the high bench in the Grand Council chamber. Neither Phelan nor Natasha wore their enamel wolf masks, though they did wear Clan leathers in gray and black, respectively. Ulric also wore gray and his helmet, which he solemnly removed and set beside him on the bench.

  "I, Ulric Kerensky, being ilKhan in this, the sixth year of the Truce of Tukayyid, do hereby convene this meeting of the Wolf Clan Grand Council. As was determined at our conclave of twelve June thirty fifty-two, we are yet governed under the Martial Code handed down by Nicholas Kerensky. This matter will be despatched in a manner fitting."

  "Seyla," chanted each Clansman and woman present. Their voices came almost in unison, the ancient oath uttered with an accent completely foreign to normal Clan speech.

  Had the Grand Council been called in time of peace, it would have been convened in the Grand Council chamber on Strana Mechty, the Clan home world far from the boundaries of the Inner Sphere. Each of the thirty-four Khans of the seventeen Clans would have been required to attend in person. Because the Marital Code required the speedy resolution of important questions, twenty-two of the thirty-four Clan Khans only appeared via video monitors. The twelve other Khans, all from the Clans that had participated in the Inner Sphere, had come in person.