Ideal War

by Christopher Kubasik

  As he turned toward the red-haired woman, she caught his eye. The tip of her tongue appeared between her lips. Hsiang caught Masters' expression, and said, "You like, eh? My wife. Ha!"

  "Ah. Yes. Very lovely. A pleasure to meet you, Madam."

  As they shook hands she pressed the tips of her long red fingernails against his wrist. "The pleasure is all mine," she said smoothly.

  He disengaged his flesh from her nails and turned back to Principal Hsiang. "I'm honored, sir."

  "All for you. It cost me ten thousand Marik bills."

  "Your wife?"

  "The party."

  "I'm honored."

  "Good."

  "And well you should be," said a new voice. The man who had been arguing with Precentor Blane now appeared next to him with disturbing abruptness. "Adept Starling. First-Assistant to Precentor Blane. Principal Hsiang can be very generous, but he only lavishes such attention on people he truly believes deserve it."

  Hsiang bowed his head in false humility. "I'm honored," Masters said yet again. "You should be," said Hsiang's wife. "I am."

  "Good," said Starling. He eyed Masters up and down. "So, Sir Masters, to what do we owe the honor of your presence on Gibson?"

  "To whom," Masters corrected him. "I am here at the command of my liege. He asked me to come to your lovely world to help your forces bring a swift peace to Gibson."

  "We have the matter well in hand," said Starling. "The war is well on schedule. It will be over within three months, with or without your help."

  Masters stared at Starling. "Sir, if I didn't know that you and your people were on the world of Gibson as guests of my liege, I'd think you were being rude."

  "Not at all. Just prideful. A failing among religious zealots. Or hadn't you heard?" said Starling. Hsiang laughed three sharp barks, and his wife gave a wry smile. "What faith do you practice, Sir Masters?"

  "I no longer follow the religion of my parents, but they raised me a Catholic."

  "I have a theory regarding cases such as yours. Would you like to hear it?"

  "As I'm sure it would please you to speak it, certainly."

  "The old religions are kept in motion these days through inertia. Yes, the old Terran religions—Christianity, Judaism, Buddhism, Islam, and others—have survived down the centuries from their in-the-mud origins. But they were written without the knowledge of what humanity would one day create, that we would one day become symbiotic with machinery."

  Masters blinked. "Are you referring to biocomputer interfaces? I've heard of some experimental work being done along those lines for BattleMechs. ..."

  Starling gave a soft, condescending chuckle. "Oh, no, no, no. Nothing so elaborate. I refer only to the fact that . . ."He paused in thought, his eyes looking upward. "Well, if you were to walk through this city, you would see only objects that are made by man. In fact, given the peculiar nature of the Old City, you would not even see the natural horizon. The limits of our vision are contained by the massive and impressive Old Walls. We are all, right now, standing in an environment almost entirely manmade. Even the air we breathe was arranged by human hand."

  "We have a park," Hsiang said in a sad and disappointed voice.

  "True enough. A park. There is a grove of Gibson's lovely trees standing at the center of the city. Planted and arranged by people. Perhaps the only organic spot in the entire metropolis."

  "And what has this to do with religion?"

  "Well, to the Word of Blake, everything, for our faith exists in the space between humanity and machinery. What does it have to do with the old Terran faiths? Very little. And that's my point. If you look at the imagery in the old religions, they speak of gardens, trees, flowers, animals, deserts, rivers. What has any of this to do with us, the human race, which travels through the cold, empty distances of space?" He laughed loudly. "In the New Testament, Jesus ascends to the heavens—not his spirit, you might recall, but his actual body. Well, where did it go? Did it travel sublight? If so, it is still floating in a straight line through the Milky Way Galaxy after three thousand years, with hundreds of thousands of light years yet to travel. Or did the Christian God have a jump drive back then to snap his son to 'heaven' as soon as Jesus cleared orbit?"

  Masters shrugged, not sure where the discussion was going.

  "You don't know? Well, neither does anyone else. And why not? Because a body floating up through the heavens doesn't have the same meaning anymore. When we float through the heavens it's in our faster-than-light ships. The first idea is simply false. We don't think that way anymore because we've learned the truth about the nature of space, physics, biology. The old religions have tried to shed as much of their extraneous baggage as possible, but their roots are still mired in the past, a past without technology, a past without science. How familiar are you with the history of the Christian Church?"

  "Not very, I'm suddenly afraid to admit."

  "Well, some time ago on Terra, the Church promoted the belief that Terra was the center of the universe. The idea was, apparently, that the rest of the universe was simply for show. Well, after a great deal of experimentation, calculations, torture, and excommunications, the Church had to admit that it had made a mistake. So it rewrote its beliefs to keep up with the times. My point is that these religions cannot keep rewriting themselves fast enough to keep up with reality. Just as the Church held onto its beliefs long after the time to give them up had passed, so people today cling to the old faiths. But with time, Word of Blake will claim the souls of the Inner Sphere."

  "Aren't both ComStar and Word of Blake too exclusive to attain such goal?"

  "The time has not yet arrived. The time is getting closer, however. The split in ComStar is the beginning. The signs are here. And we have your liege's hospitality, and the hospitality of Principal Hsiang, to see ourselves through to the fruition of our faith." He nodded to Hsiang, who again returned the nod.

  "You are here to help us, to aid us at the orders of the Captain-General," the little man said. "What do you need from us?"

  "All I need now is to get out into the field. I've got a bed waiting for me at Castle Dystar, and with some sleep, I'll be gone in the morning."

  "Excellent!" cried Hsiang. Then, with the same enthusiasm, he asked, "It is so terrible outside of the city. Are you sure you would not prefer to stay here?"

  The question caught Masters off guard, but he said, "No, I really want to get to the battlefield. I'm looking forward to it. That's my job."

  "Most of my commanders live here," Hsiang said happily.

  "And they do a fine job," Starling added quickly. "But other soldiers must be in the thick of it. Correct, Sir Masters?"

  "Exactly," said Masters slowly. He looked down at Hsiang. "Why are your commanders here?"

  "Brave men must be ready to defend the Principal, don't you think? If the city is taken, there is nothing left."

  "Ah." Things were getting a bit strange now, but Masters was simply too exhausted to pursue the matter. "Well, if you'll forgive me, all this talk of rest has reminded me of how tired I am. Thank you very much, Principal Hsiang. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Hsiang. First-Assistant Precentor Starling."

  After each had said goodnight in turn, Masters made his way across the ballroom to the large double doors leading to the helipad. As he went, he could not shake the feeling that three sets of eyes were boring into his back.

  He stopped and bid the Countess goodnight. Her hand rested on the arm of a young soldier in the Loyalist Gibson forces. She smiled to him, as if to say she'd exchange the boy for him in a moment, but he smiled back, shook his head, and continued on.

  Back outside he found Maid Kris speaking with a man in overalls stained with dirt and grass. Seeing Masters approach, the man suddenly assumed a mask of humility and slumped his shoulders. Turning sharply Maid Kris caught sight of Masters, but she neither greeted nor acknowledged him. She said a few more words to the man, who then walked off into the shadows of the trees, throwing Masters
a slightly idiotic smile as he went.

  "Who was that?" Masters asked her.

  "Is it your place to question to whom I speak?"

  He put up a hand and said, "I'm sorry."

  She decided to tell him anyway. "That was Cao, one of the palace gardeners."

  "But more than that."

  She looked at him, her eyes cold and steady. "I wouldn't know what you're talking about."

  "Maid Kris, despite your hostility, I believe you may be the only person here whom I can trust. Everyone else . . ."He waved his hand, unsure of exactly how to express it. "Precentor Blane is fighting with his first assistant. Both Blane and the countess claim to have little knowledge of the war. Hsiang looks like a pimp. . . ."

  Maid Kris laughed loudly.

  "What?"

  "Nothing. That is exactly what many of us think of him. Maybe I might like you after all. After a while."

  He dropped his tone. "Maid Kris, I need help now. I think you know what's going on. There are layers of-"

  "No," she said firmly, and looked away.

  He grabbed her arm. "We don't have time for this."

  She turned quickly, facing him, and he thought she might call for help. But when she spoke it was in a voice full of quiet anger. "Let go of me or I'll kill you."

  He didn't know if she could do it, but he was certain she'd try. He let go of her. "I'm going to the war tomorrow."

  "And?" She kept her eyes on him, wary of any movement he might make.

  "I'm here to find out what's going on. Won't you help me?"

  "You say you're here to find out? Then go to the war. See the war. You'll be the first person to leave these walls and do that. Go see the war, and you'll understand more than I could possibly tell you on this night, on the grounds of this palace, under the spell of romantic dance music. Go to the war, go to the killing, and you'll know what I know. If you are what you claim to be, noble knight, you will see more than enough."

  She turned and walked back to the party. He saw her body change, the tension released from her shoulders and spine, the fighting spirit soften for courtly presentation. Whoever she worked for was very, very lucky.

  Masters continued on toward the helipad. How had she phrased it? "Go to the war, go to the killing." Yes. Tomorrow he'd be back in his 'Mech. Finally home and where he belonged.

  Part 2

  KILLING

  9

  Nagasaki Valley, Gibson

  Principality of Gibson, Free Worlds League

  23 January 3055

  Masters' Phoenix Hawk strode across the countryside, the low morning sun casting the 'Mech's shadow long and thin across a sea of yellow grass. To the west rose terribly blue mountains, craggy and tall. Ahead, to the north, lived a vast forest of giant trees covered with yellow leaves.

  With his early start, Masters would reach the Nagasaki Valley and meet up with Precentor Martial Arian by early afternoon. Though it was his 'Mech that did the actual walking, he felt that his being expanded to fill out the metal form of the machine, and that it was actually he who walked—but he walked as a giant. The technology did not do this; his neurohelmet did not connect sensation from the 'Mech to the pilot. It was Masters' imagination at work.

  Inside the cockpit the red, green, and blue lights of the rocker switches and controls washed colors over his face. He wore the MechWarrior's typical piloting clothes, the shorts and cooling vest that was all one could stand in that heat that built up inside a 'Mech during battle.

  Walking along and taking in the terrain, Masters decided to reconfigure his weapons. Though his own experience was mainly in 'Mech combat, he knew that the Gibson Freedom League depended on guerrillas working their way through forests. That meant he had to change his strategy a bit. On his first weapon trigger, a blue thumb-button on the joystick, he aligned his extended-range large laser with his short-range missiles. That would let him chew up trees and remove the guerrillas' cover. He then set his pulse laser and his machine guns to the green thumb-trigger. He'd use these to sweep over exposed guerrillas and remove smaller trees and remaining debris. His anti-missile system he left on his red finger-trigger. Unless he met Countess Dystar's renegade 'Mechs, he probably wouldn't need them.

  He glanced at his display, currently set for long-range. Jen had loaded the programs for the terrain around Portent and the Nagasaki Valley, and he watched computer graphics of forests and rivers roll by on the screen as he traveled northwest.

  When a red blip appeared from the west edge of the screen, he punched a button and got an ID. It was a Loyalist-controlled Earthwerks T-420 hovercraft, currently used by the First Squad out of the lance outpost Masters was going to command. The former lance commander, Captain Verner, had been killed two weeks earlier in a surprise raid.

  Masters touched the glowing radio stud on the console. "First Squad H-craft, First Squad H-craft. This is Phoenix Hawk One."

  The speakers in the neurohelmet crackled to life, producing a rich and jovial male voice, somewhat muffled by the whine of the hovercraft's engines. "This is First Squad H-craft. Pleasure to have you planetside, sir. Sergeant Jacobs here, though most folks call me Chick. Ah, there you are. We weren't picking you up right away. Good to have you here, though. We'll attach to you as soon as you arrive."

  Masters glanced at his display. The blue blip had grown close now. "Just out of curiosity, First Squad H-craft, what are you doing out here?"

  "Phoenix Hawk One, we lost a patrol out around here last night. Picked up a fierce firelight over the comm, but then nothing from them. Now we're just trying to help the wounded and claim the bodies."

  "How many soldiers?"

  "Twelve in the squad. Haven't heard from any of them."

  "Want some help?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Just tell me where you want me to look."

  Chick gave coordinates, and Masters accelerated his 'Mech toward the area. Once there he slowed down and began a careful search. The trees in this forest were so large that the lowest branches were at cockpit level, and he could maneuver his 'Mech easily around the thick trunks. The branches grew long and twisted and around each other in maze-like knots. Huge yellow leaves, twice the size of a hand, grew from the branches. Every once in a while a leaf floated from a tree, releasing white spores as it wafted one way and then another. Under these great trees stood smaller ones and extensive underbrush.

  Masters wandered through the forest in his Phoenix Hawk, twisting his 'Mech's torso and head every so often to look left and right. After forty minutes he saw a patch of forest floor that had been chewed up by grenade blasts. He thought he might be in the area of the fight, but didn't want to call Chick until certain.

  Just after passing around a thick group of trees, he saw the bodies—two women and one man, their chests cut open by machine gun fire. He saw that they wore the gray-green fatigues of the Loyalist army. "First

  Squad H-craft. This is Phoenix Hawk One. I think I've got your dead here."

  "How many, sir?"

  "Right now, just three. There may be more in the area."

  "Sir, if you don't mind me saying, just stay in your tinman and wait until we get there."

  "Right," said Masters, but he paid no attention to the warning. He popped the canopy and dug an Imperator submachine gun out from behind his seat. Taking the gun, he climbed down the 'Mech to the forest floor, where he looked around and listened. Hearing a scraping noise to his right, he turned and saw a dark rodent scurry across the dirt. The animal paused briefly for one moment, looked Masters in the eye with its soulless black pupils, then rushed up the tree trunk. It disappeared into the vast maze of the tree's yellow leaves.

  Waiting a bit longer, he heard nothing else, and so walked toward the bodies on the ground. Closer now he saw white maggots roiling within the revealed guts of the corpses. The eyes of the soldiers looked up, their stare blank and unseeing. He saw too that bits of flesh had been taken out of the bodies, the work of forest scavengers.

  As
an officer Masters had often confronted death or, for the sake of the group, been forced to send soldiers on missions that promised almost certain death. But he had never become used to it. He knew some soldiers who did, having learned to turn off all feeling once in awhile, becoming nothing more than BattleMechs without pilots. But few could accept a shredded corpse easily. Even the corpse of an enemy, once emptied of a soul and no longer a threat, had too much in common with the living observer to be dismissed completely.

  He found the ruined bodies before him particularly distressing. A 'Mech battle usually involved a few dozen 'Mechs at most, the damage being kept to a minimum because of the machines' heavy armor. In 'Mech combat the true test was of the soldier's piloting skill under pressure, not a soldier's random fate: would he or would he not get caught in a hail of bullets when rushing for cover in the middle of the night?

  Masters stepped away from the bodies, scanning the ground for more soldiers, his ears alert for the approach of danger.

  The six pairs of legs dangling two meters off the ground caught his attention out the corner of his eye, and for one desperate moment he hoped it was only that he'd spooked himself into seeing things. But when he looked back, the reality pierced his eyes: six corpses hung by their wrists from belts wrapped around the low branches of a small tree. Someone had spread the corpses out along the trunk like macabre ornaments. The heads lolled forward over the ruined bodies, and their uniforms and flesh, ripped open with automatic fire, were now no more than meaty pulp. He saw within the bodies clearly.

  Masters lowered his gun, his muscles suddenly very weary. He had never seen such a sight. Before him stood the work of madmen. Psychotics. Not soldiers.

  Shocked, his hands trembling, he stepped toward the nearest suspended corpse, a black woman, the small sharp features of the right side of her face still perfect in horrible contrast to the ruined face on the left. He felt an overwhelming need to touch her, to know that the body before him actually existed, and was not some perverse creation of his thoughts.