Masters of War

by Michael A. Stackpole

  He lifted his chin and affected not to hear them.

  Saville raised his hand. “And now, the people you have waited for. The Belligerent Belles who sent the Wolves packing. Colonel Anastasia Kerensky of the Wolf Hunters and Colonel Verena of your very own La Blon Djinns.”

  The multitude exploded in an orgy of emotion. They leaped up and down. Some unfurled flags, and others held up signs. They screamed for women who, a month ago, they’d not have known or cared about had they seen them on the streets wearing signs proclaiming their identities.

  Anastasia and Verena emerged together, their arms linked. Then they raised both hands and waved furiously. That just heightened the frenzy. One woman fainted. Men and women screamed that they loved them. Parents held children aloft so they could see, and flowers in bunches arced in at the platform.

  All of this registered on Alaric, but only distantly, for as Anastasia stepped to the fore, he got his first glimpse of Verena. La Blon’s gentle sunlight made her face glow and her blue eyes shared the cerulean hue of the planet’s oceans. Though her face was fuller than Anastasia’s—or my mother’s—it made her no less beautiful. In fact, coupled with the well-concealed surprise and the hint of a rosy blush, it gave her a soft innocence that caught Alaric completely off guard.

  He looked away quickly, not certain why, but he couldn’t risk that she would see him staring at her. Something about her, though, drew his eye back. As she stepped forward, looking very smart in a black uniform trimmed with blue and gold, he admired the strong fluidity of her gait. She calmly clasped Anastasia’s hand and raised it, sparking another cheer.

  Baron Saville invited her to speak, but she shook her head to decline. The crowd roared, insisting. Anastasia patted her on the back, almost seeming to shove her forward, and Alaric recognized that move. She wishes to see how Verena will handle this situation. It is a test. Anastasia tests everyone constantly.

  Verena took her place at the podium and the crowd grew quiet. “Citizens of La Blon, thank you for this welcome. I have been told of your courage and generosity and spirit, and here it is. Thank you. It is an honor to serve you.”

  She glanced back, waiting to see if Anastasia or Saville would rescue her, but neither moved. A resigned smile flashed on her face; then she turned back to the crowd. “I have no prepared remarks. The reason for this is simple—words count for little in war. I am not an orator, but a warrior. Your warrior. The Djinns and I will serve you, serve to keep you free and safe, whether here or elsewhere. This battle with the Wolves is one that rages throughout the Ninth, but working together we have stopped them, and will continue to stop them. Thank you again for this welcome. I shall not forget it or the wonderful people for whom we fight.”

  She bowed and backed away from the podium. Saville allowed the people to cheer again before stepping forward to fill the vacuum. He announced that the defenders of the Ninth would be meeting on La Blon to plot out strategy, and that La Blon’s role in the defense of the Ninth would never be forgotten.

  The cheering and applause continued as GIN security personnel cleared a path along a red carpet at the base of the platform. Led by the baron, the guests descended to the ground and walked toward an odd-looking conveyance. Members of the public reached out on all sides, fingertips clawing to touch the visitors.

  Adoring expressions melted into hatred as he passed, but not universally, and Alaric wondered at those who did not loathe him. Are they the most sane because they refuse to hate, or so far beyond rational they do not realize they should hate me?

  After a short walk they mounted the steps and entered the cabin of the cylindrical vehicle that would convey them to the city of Fathnine. The plush appointments rivaled those of the baron’s DropShip, but were limited to the thickly padded seats and some expertly carved cabinets. The top half of the cylinder consisted of clear ferroglass, allowing an unobstructed view of their surroundings when everyone was seated.

  The baron waved them all to seats, then sat and buckled himself in. A pilot slipped into the cockpit at one end; a similar cockpit existed at the other end as well. The vehicle started forward and Alaric realized that the multiwheeled bed on which it moved was separate from the cylinder itself.

  Saville smiled. “This is called a Cylcar. I think you’ll find the journey most interesting.”

  The vehicle moved into a station and pulled parallel to a track fitted with a chain down the middle. A crane reached down, plucked the cylinder from the wheeled vehicle and deposited it on the tracks. A moment later the cylinder jolted as the chain caught; then it started forward toward a dark tube. Once the cylinder was entirely within the tube and had been plunged into darkness, the interior of the cylinder pressurized.

  A second later it lunged forward. It emerged from the darkness in a clear tube, then plunged into the ocean and rapidly descended. Their ears popped and people gasped or laughed.

  Alaric stared, mouth agape, as the water shifted and darkened. The sun sent shafts stabbing down into it, and silhouetted schools of fish cut through. The tube snaked along the continental shelf, weaving its way through coral reefs and forests of kelp. As they passed through, lights came on outside to splash color into the deep.

  “It is breathtaking.”

  Verena was sitting next to Alaric and had spoken. “I have seen nothing like it before.”

  The two of them fell silent, and he was happy for it because his heart started pounding in a way he’d never experienced before. There was something about Verena—he felt close to her, a sort of kinship. While he found her physically attractive, it was this more ephemeral link that made him want her. And yet, he could not identify the feeling, or understand its strength.

  The Cylcar sped on, then turned and the tube descended off the shelf and down a steep drop. Alaric looked up through the ceiling and shook his head in disbelief. In the distance a network of glowing tubes and clustered domes glittering with lights covered the ocean floor. He’d seen similar sights on many worlds when flying into a city at night, but for so much to exist beneath the sea—it was difficult to grasp. And despite the speed at which they traveled, the domes were not growing larger very quickly. They were still a long way off, which meant the cities were positively huge.

  Baron Saville unfastened his safety belt and dropped to one knee in front of a cabinet. “We’re still an hour out of Fathnine. May I offer any of you a drink? It’s our native brandy, made from sea grapes. I assure you it’s most delicious.”

  General Bingham accepted and everyone followed suit, save for Alaric and Verena’s aide, a dark little man to whom Alaric took an instant dislike. They glared at each other for a moment, and then Saville moved between them. They broke off their stares, neither being able to claim victory, but each continuing to glance sidelong at the other.

  The general swirled the light brown liquor in a bulbous glass, then offered a toast. “To the success of our conference and the war against the Wolves.”

  They all raised their glasses and drank, and then Verena glanced at him and lowered her eyes. “Nothing personal was meant by that.”

  “I took no offense.” He looked at her openly, then nodded. “You defeated Bjorn on Baxter. Were you the one who killed him?”

  Verena shook her head and stared down into her glass. “He almost killed me.”

  “The little man did not kill him.”

  “Kennerly, no. His lance killed others. My lance killed Bjorn. I did not know that was his name until now.” She sipped again, let the brandy linger on her tongue, then swallowed. “We ambushed him.”

  Alaric caught a note of uncertainty or regret in her voice, but could not decide which it was. “You would have had to.”

  Verena’s head came up. “What do you mean?”

  “Bjorn was not an original thinker. A great fighter, perhaps, but not much of a tactician. He thought in one dimension, perhaps two. I do not believe he even recognized other dimensions.”

  She shook her head. “I am not certain I follow w
hat you mean by dimensions.”

  Alaric nodded. “There are physical dimensions that resolve themselves into aspects of range, how much strength can be deployed at a particular range, and how terrain affects attack and defense. Time is also a dimension. Morale, unit training and the status of equipment and supplies are more dimensions. There are almost too many to name, but you understand the concept.”

  “Yes.”

  “Bjorn had a grasp on the physical dimensions, but failed to reconsider things as they changed over time. Had he marched across a beach at low tide, he would be surprised when high tide blocked his path. Perhaps he was not that simple, but . . .”

  “I see.” She frowned. “Is courage a dimension? Because that is one he saw.”

  “Almost too well.” Alaric smiled slightly. “It was for him the overarching dimension. Soldiers with a strong heart could overcome any obstacle because, in his mind, obstacles were merely manifestations of fear. Hostile terrain is a matter of fear. Not enough missiles, you fear you will run out. So it goes.”

  “You get into an ambush, you attack and make them fear you.”

  “Precisely.” The Wolf watched her face. “How often did you see him do that?”

  “Just once. He pursued our commanding officer and killed him, and would have kept coming, but his Star was in jeopardy.” She smiled weakly. “It occurred to me that his behavior was similar to a story about Genghis Khan. He had one warrior who was valiant, could ride hundreds of miles without rest, never complained about the cold or hunger. The khan’s men wanted to make this man a general, but the khan refused. He said that this man would expect of his subordinates what he did himself, and no other man could live up to that.”

  “That describes Bjorn accurately.”

  “Then how was it that your khan let him lead an invasion?”

  “For that, I have no answer.” Alaric shrugged. “How did you set your ambush?”

  “I do not believe, Colonel, you wish to answer that question.” Anastasia leaned forward in her seat. “Your answer might contain operational details our friend could find useful.”

  Only the sloshing of her brandy betrayed Verena’s surprise.

  General Bingham nodded. “Quite right, Colonel, though I fear the baron has made certain that everyone in the Ninth knows how we have beaten the Wolves down to the tiniest detail.”

  Saville laughed and hoisted his glass. “I have, and have done well with it. I had my brokers buy stock in Karnak Food Distributors, maker of the rations Verena reported eating the night before the battle. They’ve had to put on a third shift in their factories to handle the demand for their products. We’ve cut a licensing deal here to manufacture and relabel a few items to give the citizens what they want. War may indeed be hell, but it can also be hellaciously profitable.”

  Everyone laughed politely, and then Anastasia leaned forward again. “Alaric, we sold your ’Mech to the baron here.”

  “I am well aware it is gone.”

  The Wolf Hunter’s eyes narrowed. “Colonel Verena will be piloting it as commanding officer of the Djinns.”

  Alaric wasn’t certain what reaction Anastasia hoped to provoke, so he gave her none. He just looked at her openly as if asking for further enlightenment. She remained silent.

  “I am sorry it is your ’Mech.”

  Alaric shook his head. “It was never mine. It belonged to my Clan, and now it is the spoils of war. You are welcome to it, entitled to it.” He flicked a finger against her glass and it rang with a crystal chime. “I hope it will serve you better than it did me—though truth be told, I failed it.”

  Verena looked in his eyes, but could not read his emotions. Then she drank, draining her glass, and extended it to the baron for more.

  21

  Fathnine, La Blon

  Former Prefecture IX, Republic of the Sphere

  5 February 3137

  Though it was hardly palatial, the home given over to Verena for her stay on La Blon was the most beautiful place she had ever lived. The architecture seemed to flow up out of the seabed, and mimicked the columns of coral that could be seen outside the dome that formed the estate’s rear boundary. Native stone and marine motifs decorated the building, with white wainscoting and vaulted blue ceilings. Murals of seascapes decorated the walls, all of which flowed like stones long since softened by the caresses of countless waves. Giant shells formed basins for sinks and tubs, and lights were hidden in pearlescent globes.

  She walked into the central grotto, marveling at how a small fountain at its heart reflected dancing lights onto the walls. Toward the back an iron staircase spiraled up to the tower rooms. The furnishings, while not quite as elegant as those in the Royal Crown, fit the home perfectly. Pillows dominated, inviting visitors to rearrange things to make themselves feel the most at ease.

  She turned as Kennerly followed her into the room. “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”

  The man hesitated and his mask slipped. “I don’t believe I have. There is serenity here.”

  “Yes, serenity, exactly.” She sat on a low couch and leaned back into a mountain of pillows. “If I ever get a vacation, I am coming back here.”

  Kennerly’s face closed again. “Have you forgotten that you live here now? You’re a big hero. You could probably have this place for the asking.”

  Verena laughed, refusing to let him spoil her mood. The brandy warmed her belly and she felt very good. “I will bear that in mind.”

  Kennerly laughed, too, but it carried no joy or warmth. “Please tell me you are not taking to heart all that was said?”

  “The baron? Hardly.” She sat forward. “He was telling the people what they wanted to hear. He has no clue about the reality of what happened on Baxter, and I do not believe he wants to know the truth. Why that look? What is it?”

  “It’s not him I was talking about. It was the Wolf.” Kennerly managed to spit the word out as if it were as vile as murderer or pedophile. “He filled your head with pretty imaginings, didn’t he?”

  Verena stared at him. “No. We talked about the Wolf we killed on Baxter. We talked about warfare.”

  “And you found it all enlightening.”

  She frowned, but bit back her initial response. “His perspective on war was enlightening. He talked about the dimensions to warfare, beyond considerations of terrain. He talked about all the variables and how Bjorn had a hard time dealing with them all. That is why we beat him. I see it now.”

  “’Dimensions of warfare?”’ Kennerly shook his head sadly. “That brandy must have been very special.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There are no dimensions to warfare. People try to shade it, try to paint these stripes of gray in there, to try to make sense of it. And that’s the problem—you can’t make sense of war.”

  “What are you talking about?” Verena ticked off points on her fingers. “Sun-tzu’s Art of War talks about all the different things you have to bear in mind. And Napoleon had his book of maxims. And Von Clauswitz and Musashi and Hasek and—”

  “Forgive me, Colonel, but you can’t possibly be that dense.” Kennerly rubbed his temples. “Every work you cite was written by a victor to explain how he had won, or was written by a loser to show others how to avoid his fate. And what do they all have in common? They seek to apply rules to something that inherently defies them. Von Moltke is oft quoted as saying that no plan survives contact with the enemy. What does that mean? It means rules go right out the door when the fighting starts.”

  “Kennerly, you cannot deny that some rules are true. It is common wisdom that you want a three-to-one advantage over your enemy when attacking a fortified position.”

  “That is wisdom, but not a rule, not a law. The defenders are not going to count up how many attackers there are and suddenly decide to lay down their arms. If they are fighting for their lives, they will fight until they die.”

  “Which is why Sun-tzu says one should always leave an enemy an escape route.�
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  “Which is patent nonsense as well. Wars are won by destroying the other person’s ability to wage war. You destroy his factories, his soldiers, his transports, and his will to fight. That is the only way to win, and everything else is after-the-fact rationalization that only serves to delude the stupid.”

  The warm glow in her belly from the brandy had completely died. “What brought all this on, Lieutenant?”

  “You, your conduct.” He shook his head. “I watched your face as you spoke with the Wolf. You reacted with wonder at his words. You thought he had unlocked a grand mystery for you. Even tonight, you will be dreaming about past battles, slicing them into countless dimensions. You will quantify things that need not be quantified. You will make significant things that are insignificant.”

  Her stomach tightened. She’d already begun to think the way he was describing. The back of her mind had been running analyses, and little insights were popping into her brain like bubbles rising through champagne. “What concern is it of yours?”

  “Good. You acknowledge I’m right. There might be hope for you.” Kennerly’s eyes glittered. “The concern is this. I’ve signed on to watch you, and I have been thinking you will fail, and fail spectacularly. You have that written all over you. But I had hopes, slender hopes, that you might actually grow into the job. When you spoke to the crowd, just for a moment there was something there. You touched on the key even though it seems clear now that you didn’t realize it.”

  “What key?”

  “No, no, no.” Kennerly waggled a finger at her. “The key isn’t something I can give you. If I did, you’d treat it the same way you’re treating the Wolf’s insights. You’d take it apart, twist it around, see if you could break it. You’d weigh it against the wisdom of all the warriors you’ve studied, and you would fail to see it is the one truth that unites them all. I thought you had it, but you missed it.”