By Temptations and By War mda-7

by Loren L. Coleman

  Evan let his gaze wander up the massive machine, from the bell-bottom flare of its jump jets to the dark visor of ferroglass. “I’m not taking her into battle today,” he promised. “Just a short patrol.”

  “You don’t know that, sir. Just try to bring her back in one piece.” Tech Sergeant Spore walked over to a gantry and powered up its cradle.

  She was right, he didn’t know. No one did. He nodded his thanks, climbed into the cradle and gripped the steel rail with both hands as she lifted him to the level of the BattleMech’s head. Dogging the hatch shut behind him, Evan quickly stripped down to a pair of tight-fitting shorts and field boots. He stored his clothes in a locker built into the back of his command chair, trading them for a cooling vest. He buckled on the vest and slid around, into the chair.

  A series of toggles warmed up the fusion engine and all control musculature. A coolant line fed out of the base of his chair, and Evan inserted it into the snap-lock fitted at the lower edge of his vest. From an overhead shelf, he pulled down a neurohelmet, made certain it was his, and then snugged it on for a good fit.

  A cable spooled down near his feet. Evan picked it up, checked for tangles, and threaded it into the restraining loops on the front of his vest. The cable’s plug locked into a helmet socket just beneath his chin. It was the last link of the neuro-feedback system that fed his own equilibrium into the massive gyroscope. He flipped one final set of toggles, and the fusion engine thrummed to life with a deep, muted roar that vibrated up through the deckplates.

  “Startup sequence complete,” the computer’s synthesized voice whispered through the gear built into his neurohelmet. The voice was asexual, though Evan thought he detected just a hint of feminine current running beneath the surface. A cadence like Jenna’s lilting tone. “Proceed with primary security protocol.”

  “Kurst, Evan. Cadet. Identification: LCMA-77-EK.” He waited while the computer checked its security logs, compared his identification and voiceprint and mental signature to the record physically stored on a circuit board.

  “Identification confirmed. Proceed with secondary protocol.”

  Because voiceprints and even brain wave signatures could be faked with the right equipment, BattleMechs were coded with a verbal key that only the MechWarrior knew. Some cadets strung together a list of nonsense syllables—fa-la-do-do-ray-ti-la and so on—since stealing another’s simulator code (and then using it to crash sim-grade averages) was just one more game played among the student body. Evan had memorized a passage from Lao Tse’s Tao Teh Ching.

  Wú yán shèn yì zhī, shèn yì xíng. Tiān xià mò néng zhī, mò néng xíng.

  “Authorization confirmed. Full access granted.”

  Throttling into his first heavy steps, rocking with the wide-legged gait of the Ti Ts’ang, Evan strode for the open bay doors even as he whispered the translation of the key back to himself. “My words are easy to understand. And my actions are easy to perform. Yet no other can understand or perform them.”

  Verse seventy, on Individuality.

  “Now let’s see what there is to see,” he said in a stronger voice as he broke out into the Liao sunlight. A blue speck brightened on his head’s-up display, and the BattleMech bumped forward as if it had been tapped on its right shoulder by a heavy hand.

  “Mind if I tag along?”

  David. Evan glanced out of the ferroglass shield at his right side, saw the Fa Shih battlesuit perched on his right shoulder-guard with magnetic locks sealing it to the ’Mech. “I guess I don’t have much choice,” he said, voice-activated mic picking up his words and broadcasting them on a secure band. He steered straight south, intending to take a run along the lower picket line. “Not unless I want to scrape you off with my hatchet.”

  At least the infantryman glanced up at the four-ton hatchet. “That would not be cool. Especially since I was kind enough to give you a lift earlier. You’re just returning the favor.”

  “So I am,” Evan said, remembering the breakneck pace at which David had pushed the hoverbike. He throttled into a run, pushing the Ti Ts’ang forward at better than ninety kilometers per hour. Metal-shod feet pounded the ground with earthshaking force.

  Outside, David hunched down to strengthen his magnetic grip. “Can’t you smooth it out a bit?” he asked, voice vibrating.

  “Sure can.”

  And Evan stomped down on his pedals, cutting in jump jets and hurtling sixty tons of BattleMech and two passengers skyward on jets of fiery plasma. David’s yell was mostly exhilaration.

  But not all of it.

  19

  Paths Into Future Glory

  “We have heard our brothers, our sisters, calling out for a return to Capellan ways. For too long we have denied them. For too long we have capitulated to a government created by treachery, by threats, and by force of arms, which sits in stewardship of Liao, one of our most blessed worlds. Father, we return for you.

  —Chancellor Daoshen Liao, Public address, Sian, 1 July 3134

  Celestial Palace

  Zi-jin Chéng (Forbidden City), Sian

  Sian Commonality, Capellan Confederation

  3 July 3134

  On one of the Celestial Palace’s restricted floors, Agent Michael Yung-Te paused just outside a darkened doorway, bowing his head as if in prayer. His dark eyes remained open, though, as he searched with every sense for warnings, for danger.

  The supports on either side of the door were thick, red-grained and exquisitely carved with the semblance of a sleek tiger clawing its way up toward the top. The tiger’s stripes were detailed in gold and, when looking closely enough, one saw that each small crescent was actually a dadao sword—some rough edged, some with fresh blades. He couldn’t see the heavy teak lintel up at the top. Didn’t need to. Everyone knew what was carved there.

  Liào Su¯ n Z˘ı. Yì Guó Zhī Fù.

  Sun-Tzu Liao. Father of the State.

  The corridor’s blue-tinted light fell into the room, framing an irregular rectangle on the hardwood floors, but adding very little in the way of illumination. Darkness held sway here, pushing back against prying eyes. Not a sound came from within. Michael would have to step into the doorway, but he hesitated. Being summoned into the Chancellor’s presence provoked uncertainty enough in anyone, even an agent of the Maskirovka. Sent to summon Him, to remind the Chancellor of an audience he should be giving, that was for court functionaries who were better suited to gauge the Chancellor’s moods and risk his wrath. Daoshen the Inscrutable, His Celestial Wisdom, God-Incarnate of Sian, kept his own counsel. He was not a man to be hurried along.

  Some believed he was not a mortal man at all.

  Michael did not know what to believe. He’d heard many of the whispered legends. Assassins plucked out of closets by the Chancellor’s own hand, left broken and dying. A farmer on estates bordering one of the Chancellor’s rural retreats, trapped under an overturned combine; Daoshen Liao freed him with a demonstration of superhuman strength. Divining the future, the reading of minds, a channeling of his father’s spirit… nothing was left unattributed to the Great Soul of the Confederation.

  Michael Yung-Te had already languished in the shadow of the Chancellor’s disfavor for eight long months, for no other reason than his assignment to oversee the interrogation and confession of the traitor, Mai Uhn Wa. And now he was being asked to put his face before the Chancellor again?

  As if his question had been spoken aloud, the whisk of sandal against wood shuffled out of the darkened room. Michael tensed. The God-Incarnate of Sian was indeed spending time in his father’s old office, one of several rooms preserved in the memory of the great Sun-Tzu Liao.

  “You were sent for me.” Daoshen’s voice drifted out on a harsh whisper, rough edged and violent.

  How the Chancellor knew of Michael’s presence the Maskirovka agent could not tell. He cast no shadow into the room, and his approach had been as quiet as only a trained agent moved. “I was sent, Omnipotent One.” Truly divine or merely godlike in
his authority, one always—always!—awarded the Chancellor his due honors. “I do not mean to disturb your meditation.”

  “The representative from Jacob Bannson. The ambassador from the Oriente Protectorate. They await audience.” It was not a question. “They are in the antechamber to my parlor, together?” They were.

  “So it is my understanding, Heavenly Patience. They do wait together.”

  “Step inside, Michael Yung-Te.”

  Maskirovka agents were disciplined and very well trained. There were not many polygraph devices that they could not subvert. There were not many secrets they could not learn… and keep to themselves until demanded of them. Still, Michael felt naked as he stepped past the threshold and into the room, shuffling immediately to one side, out of the light.

  The shadows had a clammy touch. He smelled perfumed oils and a touch of dust common to unused rooms. His eyes adjusted, and he saw a desk, a terrarium, a display curio filled with treasures collected by the Ascendant Sun-Tzu Liao. Michael found his eyes drawn back to the desk, where Daoshen’s father once sat and planned such events as the Xin Sheng movement of 3062, and his retreat from Sian during the Jihad. It was here that he made his decision to return to Liao after the Night of Screams. The trip where, according to all belief, he ascended to a godhood of his own.

  But where was the Chancellor? The room stood empty. Or did it?

  “You fall back into the shadows, Agent Yung-Te.” Daoshen shuffled forward from near the curio, as if materializing in the room. Like a dark spider spinning its gossamer web, Daoshen Liao remained just this side of invisible. As if the light dared not approach him. “That is a good skill for one of the Mask. But it does not hide you from my eyes.”

  “Nothing is hidden from your eyes, Celestial Spirit.” The Maskirovka helped make that so, but Michael still wondered. “This unworthy one meant no insult.”

  “You have read reports of the fighting?” Daoshen asked.

  Did he know that Michael was one of a dozen agents that helped prepare the Mask’s Daily Report, assigning levels of risk to the State in each of a hundred different ventures and events? The report was not so timely without working HPGs, but a command circuit of JumpShips ferrying news from the front put Sian only a few days behind any major advance or setback.

  “I have read reports,” Michael agreed. Straight from the hand of Strategic Director Isabelle Fisk. But he sensed that the Chancellor was looking for more than mere affirmation. “We proceed well along the Algot front, especially where we rely more heavily on our own supply lines and have no worries with regard to a bordering Prefecture.” Along that border, The Republic of the Sphere fetched up against a small piece of Confederation space and then a protruding thumb of the mighty and much despised Federated Suns. “The fighting on Menkar has turned particularly desperate for The Republic.”

  “Signs, Michael. Read the signs. Desperation is a judgment. Why Algot? Why Menkar?”

  “That is where our forces are strongest. That is where Prefect Tao comes to find us.” Shun Tao. Michael had been responsible for a biography and threat assessment of the man only a year ago, before he was assigned to the traitor. Before he lost Daoshen Liao’s favor.

  “What is of supreme importance in war is to attack the enemy’s strategy. Next best is to disrupt his alliances. Afterward, to attack his army.”

  It took Michael a moment to realize the Chancellor was quoting. “Li Ch’uan?” he asked.

  “Much older. The Art of War, by Sun Tzu. His namesake.”

  His gaze flicked to the desk. In a way, there were three people in the room. Was Daoshen Liao seeking approval? Was Michael?

  “So, has the enemy attacked our strategy?” the Chancellor asked.

  “No. They engage our troops. Both there, and on the Liao front.” Of course, Republic news still referred to it as the Gan Singh theater, as if the small force landed on Liao did not constitute a real threat.

  “And our alliances?”

  Bannson. Michael was not privy to all dealings, but he knew enough to realize the Chancellor had struck a deal with the industrial giant. “As yet, they seem to be unaware of our connection with Jacob Bannson. Of course, he operates very carefully, which has led to our slowed advance on Liao. We depend on him too much.”

  Michael immediately wished he could recall those words. His role was to report, not to counsel. Daoshen Liao let a long silence speak for him. Then, “Bannson’s caution may hurt us,” he agreed. “Imagine what would happen should the Dynasty Guard and McCarron’s Second be isolated on Liao for any length of time.”

  “They would take heavy losses. The Hussars and the Armored Cavalry would demand blood.” A dark thrill shook Michael as he was allowed to glimpse a piece of the political machinery working so far behind the scenes.

  “And the Warrior Houses,” the Chancellor whispered. “After all, the stillborn rebirth of House Ijori could hardly go unnoticed.”

  The traitor again. The Maskirovka agent had learned of Mai’s divine goal to raise up one of the fallen Warrior Houses. His quest for that boon had led to a direct betrayal of the State, a failure in policy and a refusal to answer for it. Either should have cost the man his life. Michael’s mood darkened. Instead, Mai Wa had been freed to pursue his dream again, sent back to Liao where his—

  Sent back to Liao.

  A cold pit opened up in Michael’s stomach. This was more than a glimpse. He knew then that the Chancellor had indeed summoned him here today, now, for a reason. Daoshen Liao pulled back a corner of the curtain, allowing him see the plans within plans and the machinations that fueled them. Soon the Confederation would have tokens in place on Liao representing three of the strongest Capellan military forces. Should they be threatened, wounded—destroyed!—Bannson could be held accountable, put fully in the Chancellor’s power, and the following bloodlust would make the Confederation all but unstoppable. Then Liao could be retaken. No quarter accepted or offered, the Confederation armed forces would sweep through Prefecture V.

  And beyond?

  Next best is to disrupt his alliances.

  Right now a representative from the Oriente Protectorate was sitting in a room, unattended, with Bannson’s man. Bannson—Daoshen—the world of Liao. Bannson—the Oriente—New Canton and Prefecture VI. Two interlocking circles. How far did the Chancellor’s reach extend? Michael trembled with a thrill of power. What was truly beyond the God-Incarnate of Sian?

  “The signs are all favorable,” Daoshen intoned in a deep whisper, as if reading the other man’s mind. “I know that Liao will be ours again. I know that my father watches over all to ensure this will happen. And you, Michael Yung-Te, will carry my messages forward to put the final pieces in place.”

  Even the gods, at times, required mortal servants. Michael bowed, then sank to his knees and fully prostrated himself before his Chancellor. “I am not worthy of this honor. I serve the Confederation.”

  “See that you do,” Daoshen Liao said, dismissing the agent, His messenger, with a final command. “Your full orders await you on the Celestial Walker. Take them forward.”

  Michael rose and stepped into the spilled light, then backed his way from the room. His mind was already on the Confederation’s eventual victory, wrapped about his return to the graces of the Chancellor’s service. He had not lost favor in those months as Mai Wa’s minder. He had never been forgotten. His was a powerful future, following one of the Chancellor’s many divined paths. And in the end, he would see justice done.

  Mai Uhn Wa would not be allowed to succeed. He would die in one last service to the State.

  Michael Yung-Te now believed.

  20

  Vanguard

  Even though Wei’s lunar New Year is a month past, the people are just now beginning their festivities. Parades and nightly displays of fireworks thrill the crowds. Cargo DropShips filled with Confederation delicacies arrive alongside military transports and logistics vessels. It is a world celebrating its relief.

  —Au
thorized Press Release, Governor Fowkes, Wei, 9 July 3134

  Overland Orchards

  Paragon Province, Liao

  Prefecture V, The Republic

  10 July 3134

  Wading through a bramble of spike-topped trees, Viktor Ruskoff slammed his throttle forward against the upper stop. His Zeus limped onward, eating up six meters in every stride as it pushed for speeds nearing sixty kilometers per hour. Naranji tree limbs snapped off as the eighty-ton BattleMech brushed past row after row, leaving smears of greenstick splinters down its legs. His machine’s left arm, amputated at the elbow, swung just above the dead canopy. Scattered machine gun fire pecked and prodded from thicker parts of the orchard, which the Legate ignored.

  The Zeus broke through to a dirt road, passing between orchard stands, and Viktor throttled back as a new threat icon popped on his HUD. Half a klick along the road a Po II heavy tank crawled forward on chevron treads. A flash of electrical storm and a dark blur, and a Gauss slug shattered armor across the Zeus’s right leg. Then the Po spun and powered into the next orchard, hiding from the assault ’Mech’s return fire and no doubt calling in support on its position.

  Wrong again. The Po II immediately backed out, turret wheeled over, and struck at him a second time. A new Gauss round hammered into the assault ’Mech’s left side, raining shards of fractured armor around its feet.

  The number of Viktor’s guesses being proven wrong were beginning to mount up. He’d guessed that he could move forces and supplies up to Qinghai from Paragon Province without alerting the Second McCarron’s Armored Cavalry. And then he’d gambled that a pair of BattleMechs and a mechanized infantry company would be enough to run vanguard on the convoy.