Ideal War

by Christopher Kubasik

  "Go ahead, boy," said Masters.

  "It's from Dame Boyer."

  Masters stood. Was he going to see her after all?

  "She wanted you to know she waited, but could wait no longer. She hopes to see you again soon."

  He fell back in his chair. "Thank you for bringing word to me."

  "You're welcome, Sir Masters." The boy left.

  "A missed opportunity," Thomas mused. "All the more terrible because you can imagine how perfect it would have been

  "Oh, shut up and pour me a glass."

  Thomas laughed and did just that.

  * * *

  Masters and Precentor Blane sat silently in the DropShip's cabin, looking out the viewport into the vast stillness of space. They were days out from the Atreus system now, and stars filled the port on their side of the ship. Without the hindrance of atmosphere, the stars shone sharp and clear, like brilliant grains of sand scattered against an infinite black beach.

  "It's beautiful," Precentor Blane said.

  Masters nodded agreement.

  "It's the only place in the universe that's really quiet."

  "I've thought the same thing."

  "If only life could be like this. Clear, clean, precise. If only we could set up equipment and know everything there was to know about our lives, the same way I can determine each star's spectral class, the speed at which it's moving, and so on."

  Masters remembered the countess' strange discourse. "I'm ambivalent about the quiet, actually. It's nice to come to—to think, relax. But I much prefer the mess of life."

  Precentor Blane turned to Masters and gave him the bug-in-the-room look once more, and then his face softened. "Yes. Of course. We all view the universe from different perspectives." He turned once more to the stars.

  Masters decided to try to build a better relation with Precentor Blane. If he was going to Gibson, he'd need as many allies in high places as he could get. "I'm sorry about the troubles ComStar is having these days, Precentor," he said.

  "Yes, the schism. ComStar has existed for several centuries, growing stronger and stronger with each passing year. And now, it's finally cracked. To be expected, I suppose. People change. Organizations change. The core of ComStar wants to remove the 'mystical' trappings that the blessed Blake gave us. I can't understand why some people think that by giving up ritual, things will improve. For those of us who trust Blake's vision, who want to remain true to the old ways, there was nothing to do but leave."

  "Well, the Free Worlds League certainly appreciates your settling here. Between Word of Blake's strength and the money and technical information the group brought with them, your presence will be a great boon."

  Precentor Blane looked down at the book on Masters' lap: Le Morte d'Arthur. "A good book?"

  "Wonderful."

  "What language is that?"

  Masters turned the book over and looked at the cover. "The title is Old Terran French, though the book was written in English."

  A woman's voice came over the cabin's speaker.

  "Attention crew and passengers," the voice said. "We will be jumping to Gibson space in one minute."

  Precentor Blane closed his eyes and lowered his head. After a moment he touched the wall of the cabin with his fingertips. Masters could not help but stare, and when Precentor Blane looked up again he met Masters' gaze. "A prayer of supplication," he said.

  "Oh."

  "I thanked the ship for traveling this far, and wished it well through hyperspace." Masters didn't know what to say. Precentor Blane obviously caught the look of confusion, for he went on to say, "When True Believers do this, we are not asking for the machinery to work. Contrary to what popular opinion says of us, we know that all machinery works without prayer. But we want to respect the machinery made by human hands. Since technology is a fundamental part of our life, we believe that paying respect to it is paying respect to ourselves. If we do not use technology with respect, we lose respect for ourselves."

  The lights dimmed and the two men looked out the viewport. The stars changed. Without pause, they had traveled to the edge of the Gibson system. The two men looked at each other and smiled. Few travelers were so jaded that the miracle of hyperspace failed to make them giddy, or sometimes even physically sick.

  Masters thought back on Precentor Blane's words. The ideas appealed to him, for he saw his relationship to his 'Mech in a similar light. He couldn't use his BattleMech as only a machine of war. That was exactly the path his mother had warned him against. "Precentor, if you don't mind me asking, when we were in the Captain-General's office last week the two of you began to discuss whether the progress of technology should be restrained. ..."

  Precentor Blane raised his hand. "I know you mean no offense, but I do mind. Such matters are of intense debate within the ranks of the True Believers. Our schism has separated us from the core of ComStar. But Word of Blake has yet to fully form. There are many debates raging within our ranks. My assistant and I are constantly at each other's . . . ears. Constantly talking and trying to prove our points."

  "So there may be more schisms."

  "Perhaps, but I hope not. I would not want us to follow the path of the Catholic Church. The Reformation, then counter-reformations, one splinter group leading to another. But there may be no way to prevent it."

  "Is that why you wanted all the Word of Blake emigres with you on Gibson."

  "It was one of the reasons. We had a solid base on Gibson, a good relationship with the government. And yes, I did not want the True Believers dispersed. I believe that if our movement is not to simply fall off the tree of ComStar and become a rotted fruit, we must remain unified."

  "Interesting that you use the metaphors of a fruit and tree—living things. I would have thought all your imagery would be based on machines."

  Precentor Blane smiled. "I know. It would be simpler for all outsiders if we followed a stereotype of using only mechanical allusions. But things are a bit more complicated than that. Technology does not exist without the human spirit first envisioning it. Without human flesh, organic life, there is no machinery."

  * * *

  During the days of travel through the Gibson solar system to the planet Gibson itself, Masters re-read passages of Malory's book.

  With that came Merlin on a great black horse, and said unto Arthur, 'Thou has never done, hast thou not done enough? Of three score thousand this day has thou left alive but fifteen thousand, and it is time to say Ho! For God is wroth with thee, that thou wilt never have done, for yonder eleven kings at this time will not be overgrown, but and thou tarry on them any longer, thy fortune will turn and they shall increase. And therefore withdraw you unto your lodging, and rest you as soon as ye may, and reward your good knights with gold and with silver, for they have well deserved it; there may no riches be too dear for them, for of so few men as ye have, there were never men did more prowess than they have done today, for ye have matched this day with the best fighters of the world.

  He looked up from the book. God is wroth with thee, that you will never have done.

  How much is done, Merlin? How much is enough? How do we keep God pleased with us, being only human, unable to sustain peace for very long at all?

  All his life Masters had read about warfare, searching for ways to win. He had learned that on ancient Terra, in an era when technology was no more than the ability to make pots, warring tribes used to remove the feathers they wore for accurate hunting of game. This change made the war between humans much less lethal, for these primitives made a distinction between hunting game and fighting humans. War was a dance, with much sound and fury, but only a bit of death. When a warrior was downed, both sides departed the battlefield, one side to celebrate, one to mourn.

  A good 'Mech battle was like that. The number of ruined 'Mechs could usually be counted on one hand. And the combat was carried out with respect. You could see your opponents on the battlefield. You knew you were fighting someone, not sending out random bits of me
tal to smash into some unknowing soldier.

  He closed the book, and looked at Precentor Blane, now fast asleep on the bunk opposite him. A new generation was coming up, spurred on by ancient secrets once held safe by ComStar and the True Believers. Soldiers had new toys to play with as technology in the Inner Sphere made its slow climb back up from the near-Armageddon suffered generations past. Little academy cherubs incubated in a time of peace knew only that war existed and was reportedly glorious. They wanted a piece of that. But they didn't know about the beast of war, the creature that could crawl through a population's spine and turn them from a people at war into ghouls craving blood and flesh.

  Outside the cabin viewport the world of Gibson came into view as the JumpShip maneuvered into orbit. They approached from the night side, over the continent of Jakarta, where the Word of Blake immigrants had settled and where most of the war was taking place. Across the dark orb the lights of cities glowed like distant stars.

  The DropShip separated from the JumpShip and descended toward the planet. It fell toward the city of Portent, the world's capital, the ship's bottom burning bright white. It fell quickly, and then touched down.

  * * *

  Precentor Blane and Masters walked along the passages of the DropShip. "I'll get my Phoenix Hawk off the ship and meet up with you outside," Masters said.

  "Fine, fine. I'll arrange for our transport to the Principal's palace."

  "The palace?"

  "Of course. There's a party tonight. In your honor."

  "I didn't know anything about it."

  "A surprise."

  Masters hated surprises. "I'd really rather get out in the field. Get to work."

  "One night, Sir Masters. The countess, Principal

  Hsiang, countless useless functionaries—they'll all be very disappointed. Come now. Let the people see their first real Knight of the Inner Sphere."

  Masters couldn't argue that point. It was vital that the Knights make themselves known. They must become a palpable presence. "Very well. But first I must get my 'Mech off the DropShip."

  "Meet me by the Officers Staff Pool. I'll have a car waiting." Precentor Blane looked at him awkwardly, as if unable to say something. "Welcome to Gibson, Sir Masters," he said finally. "It will be good to have someone here I can trust."

  "You trust me, sir? I would never have guessed."

  "There is much I must keep secret from you. But you are a friend of Thomas, and thus I know you are trustworthy." With that Blane turned and headed off.

  Large crates filled the DropShip's massive cargo bay, and workers used forklifts to move the crates off the ship along a ramp to the starport's tarmac. At the far end of the metal cavern stood Masters' Phoenix Hawk. The 'Mech still shone with its fresh coat of red and silver paint, the new colors of the Knights of the Inner Sphere.

  Closer still he saw Jen working up in the Phoenix Hawk's cockpit. Jen was his Tech, one of the best he'd ever had. " Morning, Jen!"

  She looked down, a smile for him on her tanned and wrinkled face. He couldn't see her eyes clearly at this distance, but he knew they sparkled with that peculiar, calm wisdom of hers. "Morning, Sir Masters."

  He began climbing up the ladder hanging down the leg of the 'Mech. "Anything wrong with him?"

  "No. Just wanted to give him a final tune-up before you took him out. Better now than having me run out with my tool kit in the middle of a battle. I also put in the communication codes for the Word of Blake and Gibson Loyalist forces."

  He climbed up to the edge of the cockpit and watched her replace a few of the older wires. "Did you arrange for a ride out to the base?"

  "Yes, though I won't be going out to the Tactical Operations Center, since I found out you're going to be stationed at a 'Mech lance outpost with a platoon of infantry attached. I'll be waiting for you there after you meet up with Arian."

  "A 'Mech lance outpost?"

  "They're keeping the units spread out and small," Jen said, without diverting her attention from her work. "It seems there are few large-scale engagements." She stopped and sighed and looked up at him. "It's the new war, Paul. The new ways leading to the old ways."

  "Well, I'll see what I can do about that."

  "I know you will."

  "We've only been here ten minutes. You found all this out already?"

  "That is, I believe, why you keep me around."

  He laughed. "Right. Well, I've got a party to go to tonight ..."

  "Looks like this knight business certainly has its perks."

  "Anyway, I won't be going out to the outpost until tomorrow. Go on out there and scout the situation for me."

  "Yes, sir. And have a good time tonight."

  "I doubt it."

  * * *

  When Jen was done Masters slipped around her and into the cockpit, while she began her descent down the ladder. The cockpit was in near darkness, the only illumination coming through the tinted faceplate, which filtered the cargo bay's light considerably.

  He picked up his neurohelmet and pulled it down over his head and shoulders. The device allowed the 'Mech to use a pilot's own natural sense of balance to stay upright. The machine's gyros would serve for typical movement, but for quick maneuvering, the human ear was the best thing going. It also acted as the 'Mech's security system. After the computer verified his access code, the console controls lit up. The control panels washed the small cockpit red, blue, and green, and the screens before him flickered to life.

  He placed his left hand on the throttle and pushed it forward just a bit. He felt the engines revving up and the grinding of the myomer bundles that mimicked human muscle. The left leg lifted, moved forward and came down with a heavy thud. The right leg did the same. Shocks ran up the 'Mech, and although the stabilizers mitigated most of the vibrations, Masters felt clearly the forty-five tons of walking metal beneath him. He smiled. He loved this.

  He looked down and saw the cargo crews stop their work to stare up at his 'Mech. On their faces he saw amazement and not a little fear. He turned the 'Mech toward the door of the cargo bay, thinking how good it was to be a MechWarrior.

  7

  Portent Starport, Gibson

  Principality of Gibson, Free Worlds League

  22 January 3055

  Masters brought his Phoenix Hawk to the BattleMech security area, where he left it before joining Precentor Blane at the Staff Car Pool. The Gibson sky glowed yellow overhead. In the distance long, dark clouds raked the horizon. The air was warm, but a tinge of cold evening air had begun to gather.

  A black limousine with two small flags mounted on either side of the hood awaited him. The first banner showed a red chimera on a blue field, the flag created when Gibson broke off from the Principality of Regulus and joined with the worlds of Molokai and Clipper to create the Principality of Gibson. The second flag belonged to Word of Blake. It displayed a sword, pointing down, with a new version of ComStar's symbol incorporated into the sword's cross-hilt. Masters could see that a bond had developed between Hsiang's government and the True Believers, and it had formed quickly and with great strength.

  A chauffeur stepped out of the car and opened a door for Masters. The man wore a black uniform and his eyes shone with a light that caught Masters off guard. He held the door carefully, as if it were the hand of a small child, something to be nurtured. A True Believer, Masters thought, even more ardent in his devotion than Blane.

  Masters slid into the back seat where Precentor Blane sat pouring himself a drink from the bar. "Ah," said the rotund man.

  "I'd like to change before the party."

  "All been taken care of. A room is waiting for you at Castle Dystar, where the countess invites you to spend the night as her guest. You'll be able to dress and clean up there, and then be taken to the party at Hsiang's palace."

  "Quite an itinerary."

  "I imagine everyone will want a little piece of you, Sir Masters." Precentor Blane winked.

  The car started up and drove through the narro
w streets winding through the star port. Masters watched avidly out the window, noticing that the local populace wore a grab-bag mix of clothes from Terran cultures pre-dating Kerensky's Exodus—men in dashikis, women in turbans and dirndl dresses or kimonos. He'd heard that the various groups among the Gibson population had clung tenaciously to their ethnic Terran heritages and it seemed to be true. If he remembered correctly, the people of Gibson had broken away from the Principality of Regulus when the Regulan rulers wanted to impose Hinduism as the state religion. Even the Gibson Hindus had balked at the idea. "I noticed the Word of Blake flag on the car along with the Gibson flag," Masters said, turning away from the sights.

  "Well, yes," Blane said, nearly coughing up his whiskey.

  "The second flag is usually the House Marik bird of prey."

  "Not our idea, actually. Hsiang suggested it, and then implemented it before we could respond. He said it's for the duration of the war. He's really quite fond of us. The arrival of the Word of Blake emigres makes Gibson a very important world, and will probably make it very rich."

  Masters nodded. The situation disquieted him. He began to understand why Thomas wanted him here. For three hundred years, ComStar had controlled interstellar communications through their sole monopoly of the hyperpulse generators that sent messages across the vast distances of space. Now the splinter group, Word of Blake, had that power in the Free Worlds League. If there was anything dangerous brewing that involved Word of Blake, Thomas might not hear about it until it was too late. As of yet, nothing seemed particularly wrong. But that didn't mean it would stay that way.

  * * *

  By the time they left the starport, night had fallen over Portent, and stars glittered above. The limousine passed through an industrial district, then drove up a ramp to an express causeway where it picked up real speed. From the elevated road Masters saw the city's lights form an almost perfect, huge disk. The swift limo was at the edge, driving in toward the center.