By Temptations and by War

by Loren L. Coleman

  “And the Light of Ijori is yours?” Michaelson asked. “I hear they were responsible for my DropShip delay. Lit a fire or two.”

  “And made off with over fifty thousand stones’ worth of military equipment. That hasn’t hit the headlines yet, but it will. Our planetary administration leaks like a sieve. I really do wonder if the Cult of Liao and Ijori Dè Guāng aren’t working more hand in fist than we think.”

  Against the entire Republic infrastructure on Liao, that still didn’t seem like too much trouble. The last time something like this had happened, Ezekiel Crow had talked the situation out with no further loss of life. Michaelson was about to (carefully) say as much when a sharp rap at the door heralded the arrival of refreshments.

  A lieutenant showing off crisp military bearing paraded in with a serving tray, paying as much attention to detail in one of his most menial duties as he might spend reviewing soldiers or cleaning his side arm. The tray was set quietly on the Legate’s desk, two coasters proffered, and tall, sweating glasses placed on each. Ice tinkled softly against fine glass. The lieutenant removed himself as carefully and precisely as he had arrived.

  “Good kid,” the Legate said in praise after the door clicked shut. “Be a good officer once we rub off that academy seriousness.”

  The first taste of the citrus-spiked soft drink sat easily on Michaelson’s tongue. “We were like that once,” he said, relaxing for all of three seconds.

  But that recalled times when he had been that same lieutenant, full of strong thoughts and ideals and ready to save the world. Ideals were dangerous things. The taste of naranji turned rancid at the back of his throat, and he braced himself back to alertness. He could never afford to relax. Never.

  He took a second sip, more for form’s sake than anything. “These situations, Legate. They sound like insect bites.”

  “But we have to scratch. And it’s getting worse the longer we’re cut off from Terra and the Exarch.”

  Michaelson swirled the ice in his drink. “I thought Liao was a focal point for the new courier system.” A series of planned JumpShip routes and times that picked up some duties from the lost HPG network. “The Solar Express, they’re calling it.”

  “The system is far from complete. With HPGs on Genoa and New Aragon I have an adequate chain of communication with Prefect Tao. A good thing too. The hùn dàn Confederation has the entire border stirred up.” He calmed himself with visible effort. “Still, intelligence seeping our way from Terra . . . that is in shorter supply.”

  Now Michaelson was beginning to see what this was about. One of the red flags he’d tripped with customs had been his forged military documents, which placed him on leave from the Hastati Sentinels. “You want to know what is happening on Terra,” he said.

  “We need to know,” Ruskoff stressed. “We have rumors of troops massing on the Confederation’s side of the border, and every indication is that Daoshen is coming. If we aren’t going to see any support from Terra and Prefecture X because they’ve buttoned up against the next Steel Wolf assault, that’s something we’ll need to take into account.”

  So he had hurt Liao again, without even knowing it this time. Well, Michaelson had come to restart his life and make good on past mistakes. What better place to start than gaining the ear of the Planetary Legate?

  “I’ll tell you what I can,” he promised.

  This time, he would do it right.

  Chang-an

  Qinghai Province, Liao

  After his interview with Major Michaelson, Viktor Ruskoff caught a VTOL to the White Towers District of Chang-an where the Governor’s Palace anchored Liao’s administrative center. It truly was a palace, once a summer escape for Confederation Chancellors and other family members of House Liao. As the rural area developed into a modern city, and then an urban sprawl, great care had been kept to maintain the palace grounds and several public buildings separate from the city. A great wall surrounded the entire district, creating a hidden city within the capital.

  The VTOL settled on a wide expanse of park in back of the lofty structure, rotors still thumping overhead when the Legate jumped out. Ruskoff knew his way through the Governor’s Palace, having been a fixture around the capital for longer than Anna Lu Pohl had held the top political office. He found her taking a meeting in one of the many executive suites. Extremely tall, despite her Asian heritage, Governor (Mandrissa) Anna Lu Pohl favored Han-inspired gowns that harkened back to the Capellan culture she shared with so many among Liao’s population. She sat down with several aides as they poured hard-earned data into her. Governor Lu Pohl also had an insatiable thirst for detail.

  “Trouble?” he asked, seeing the stormy expression that piled up her dark eyebrows. For all her aristocratic background and political training, Anna Lu Pohl wore her emotions on her sleeve.

  “Trouble,” she affirmed. “Messages from New Aragon.” She lifted her chin in a simple, regal manner. “If you would all excuse us.”

  Everyone left save the Governor’s chief of staff, who was immune to all but the most direct command. Gerald Tsung was tall and broad shouldered, and looked like he belonged in a uniform rather than his Mao-tailored suit. He had a sharp mind, and Ruskoff often suspected that he created as much policy in the Liao government as did Governor Lu Pohl.

  The Legate sat, nodded a stiff greeting to Tsung, then focused back on the Governor. “Should we teleconference with Lord Governor Hidic?” As the political head of Prefecture V, also making his capital on the world of Liao, Marion Hidic often consulted on local matters. It also helped, in Ruskoff’s mind, that Hidic was less tolerant of Capellan intrusions than the Liao Governor.

  “Marion is on his way here,” she said abruptly, giving Ruskoff an idea as to the seriousness of the latest news. The same data would be making its way through channels to his office. As usual, politicians found ways to shortcut procedure. “What did you learn from this Ritter Michaelson?”

  “I’ll forward my report as soon as possible. Briefly, though, Exarch Redburn got off lucky. Northwind took the real pounding, and the Highlanders were on hand to soak up more damage for him, too. I think mostly it was the shock that fighting came at all to Terra.”

  “Which leads us to the big question,” Gerald Tsung said. “Can we count on help from Terra and Exarch Redburn?”

  The soldier in Viktor Ruskoff wanted to speak up at once in support of the Exarch, the political and military leader of the entire Republic. The rational man inside him deferred. Damien Redburn was not everything Ruskoff looked for in a leader, and the Legate owed The Republic an honest evaluation to the question.

  “No. We can’t.”

  “Thank you, Viktor,” she nodded. “Shí-fen găn-xiè.”

  Her accent was polished, proudly Capellan. Another reminder that Anna Lu Pohl had gained her governorship on a People First campaign, proving that one could be loyal to the old culture and stand for The Republic at the same time. Viktor Ruskoff still had his doubts about that.

  As did Shun Tao, the Prefecture’s ranking military officer. Tao’s relocation to New Aragon made sense, but he counted on Viktor to play watchdog on Liao as well as keep a lid on the Ijori Dè Guāng terrorists. As the previous day’s firebombing and thefts proved, the latter was more difficult than the former.

  Or so he thought then.

  “Has Prefect Tao sent new word regarding the problems on Menkar or on Wei?” These two worlds were the hardest hit with pro-Capellan demonstrations and borderline uprisings.

  Governor Lu Pohl nodded. “He has. And a number of other worlds, besides. Lord Governor Hidic did not deign to transfer the holographic message to us, though I expect him to bring it so that we may all watch in his presence. But we have the gist. Gerald?”

  Tsung passed over his noteputer. “I expect you will get more detailed intelligence than we normally see. The Governor appreciates being kept completely informed.”

  “Of course,” Ruskoff promised.

  Unless Tao ordered him to wit
hhold data from the Governor, he was obligated to report at her desired level of detail. The military generally worried about things other than a turf war being fought between planetary and prefecture leaders . . . especially when it came to real war.

  “Is this confirmed?” he asked.

  “We see no reason not to assume so,” Gerald Tsung said evenly. He stepped smoothly into the conversation as Governor Lu Pohl rose and glided gracefully to a sideboard to pour herself a glass of plum wine. “We expect general dissatisfaction to rise by thirty percent once the news breaks. Increases in vandalism, protests, and labor strikes.”

  Anna Lu Pohl returned to her chair and the conversation carrying her small aperitif of rich, dark liquid. “Ijori Dè Guāng activity will likely double in the short term, trying to capitalize on events.”

  Damned if they wouldn’t, Ruskoff knew. “With your approval, I can increase the military presence around Chang-an and our larger cities. Soldiers on the streets might discourage civil unrest as well.”

  “They might also engender a great deal more resentment among the pro-Capellan population,” Tsung warned.

  Governor Lu Pohl considered the arguments, then gave her Planetary Legate a simple nod.

  Ruskoff rose, noteputer still in hand. He didn’t have time to await Marion Hidic’s arrival. Best to start things moving right away. This was going to place a great deal of pressure on his troops, their families, and the entire world of Liao. As if they needed any more. He glanced over the noteputer screen once again, reading down the list of worlds. Wei. Palos. Foot Fall. Shipka. They had done it.

  The Capellan Confederation had invaded The Republic.

  8

  School Daze

  News from the front lines is sketchy at best, but this much we can say for certain: Wei has fallen! In a dramatic turn of events, the local population stormed the capital and staged a public coup d’état. Possibly recalling the Terror Campaign they faced in 3061, Wei has thrown open its doors to welcome back the Capellan Confederation.

  —Damon Darman, New Aragon Free Reporting, 27 May 3134

  Yiling (Chang-an)

  Qinghai Province, Liao

  30 May 3134

  Rain stormed down from a dark unruly sky, pounding the Conservatory campus with the fury of the Confederation unleashed. Under the covered park, where he and his friends often took their lunch in bad weather, Evan Kurst sat on one corner of a cement-formed picnic table, elbows resting on knees and feet on the bench. He stared out into the gray curtain, trying to picture what was happening on worlds light-years away: BattleMechs on the march, cities in flames.

  The Capellan ensign with its fist and sword hoisted once again above the capital on Wei.

  “I’m tellin’ you, it’s happening.” David Parks stuffed half a burrito into his mouth, talking around the food. “Tracy Fox already got her letter offering early graduation and an immediate position with the Principes Guard.”

  That was the latest buzz, of course. Call ups. Advancement. Heightened training schedules. With the fall of Wei and a second assault wave already hitting Foochow and Menkar, everyone was certain that the border fighting would impact the Conservatory with dramatic results.

  Evan glanced down at Jenna, who huddled between his feet and Mark Lo. She did not look convinced. “Tracy is top of her class. Early graduation was bound to be offered.” She smiled with bitchy sweetness. “Elemental blood will out.”

  A popular turn of phrase, and not always complimentary. Infantrymen descended from Elementals, genetically bred warriors introduced by the Clans, almost always did better than their naturally evolved cousins.

  David winced as the barb struck, since his own claim to Elemental bloodlines had done nothing more than mark him for jibes from his friends. “Yeah, but the Principes? Not the Triarii Protectors? I hear the Guard took heavy losses on Palos, which is why they are looking at direct recruitment.” Sitting on the far side of the table, he had to reach across to slap Lo on the shoulder. “Back me up, Mark.”

  Mark Lo sipped a grape-colored power drink. He had weight training right after their shared lunch and rarely ate anything heavier than a creatine-laced shake. “I think David might be right.” Though he couldn’t refrain from adding, “This time.”

  David ignored the addendum. “And the fact that she made it off world at all—you know it’s her campaign work for Marion Hidic.”

  “Now that’s ridiculous.” Mark jumped back in fast. “Political leanings have nothing to do with military postings.”

  “You keep telling yourself that. But when was the last time any student who signed up for Capellan History and Culture was posted anywhere but to the local militia? Oh, that’s right, you don’t take that class, do you?”

  Neither did David, but only because he hoped for an off-world assignment himself. Evan felt a slight stir in his gut, though, as his and Jenna’s next hour put them both in Professor Rogers’s auditorium for Capellan History and Culture.

  It was popular mythology that any Conservatory cadet who signed up for CH&C was automatically pigeonholed as anti-Republic and would be blacklisted from any fair military placement. Likewise, being civic-minded enough to support a legitimate political campaign showed what a good Republic citizen you were—or would be—and boosted you along your career path. Discrimination, certainly, of the very kind The Republic claimed it stood against. But who was going to hold the military responsible?

  “The Conservatory only started offering the course again thanks to the efforts of Ezekiel Crow.” Jenna sounded thoughtful. She forked up the last few bites from her bento bowl. “I wonder if the course is tainted more than ever now.”

  “Not you, too,” Mark said. “Whatever happened to Crow on Northwind and on Terra, what he accomplished here was a good thing.”

  Evan wasn’t so sanguine. They were referring to the campus uprising of 3128, when a strong minority in the cadet corps and regular student body took control of the Conservatory in protest of discriminatory campus policies. Most of those protestors believed that Capellan culture should be celebrated, and taught, as it had in the years following the Conservatory’s founding. Those privileges had been suspended after the Confederation assault of 3111, the Night of Screams (or the Massacre of Liao, if you accepted Republic propaganda). In its place had come classes on citizenship and moral philosophy.

  3128 stirred up a lot of mixed feelings. The Legate fired on student positions, and had been on the verge of launching a full assault when the Paladin Ezekiel Crow arrived. Crow talked the students into ending their violent standoff. His compromise on behalf of the standing authority was to allow true Capellan history, unvarnished and fully credited, to be taught, and that the students be given more liberal rights to assembly. Legate Kang resigned two months later and the people had celebrated the Paladin’s idea of justice.

  Now Crow had betrayed everything the Knights, Paladins, and The Republic stood for by abandoning The Republic on Northwind, on Terra. His name was no longer celebrated. Invoking it was more often an attempt at black humor. Crow, come to pick on the bones of The Republic.

  David certainly wasn’t going to defend the fallen Paladin. “Yeah,” he said. “Crow accomplished something good here. He made it easier for The Republic to pick out old-school Capellans.” Then a sharp gust of wind caught his burrito’s wadded wrapper and scooted it off the table. He went after it.

  Another gust sent David chasing over to the next table. Jenna pulled her hands up into her parka sleeves and hunched in closer to Evan’s legs, trying to hide from the damp touch of approaching winter. Evan sat up, thrust his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. “He might be right,” he said to Mark, quietly, needing to say something just then.

  Mark nodded glumly. “Yeah. But I’m never gonna tell him that.”

  David didn’t need anyone’s encouragement. Returning with wrapper in hand, he clambered up onto the cement bench and yelled out, “Would all Capellans please raise your hand and wave at your nearest
military recruiter?”

  A few nearby students laughed. Others started guiltily. Still more frowned—whether at David’s lack of tact or his pointed example, Evan couldn’t be certain.

  David jumped back down, straddling the bench. “I guess I don’t have Hahn’s knack with people.”

  Evan didn’t feel much like laughing today, but he still chuckled. Even Mark managed a weak smile. “Hahn would be a touch more . . . subtle,” Evan finally offered as critique. “Not everything can be assaulted like a fortified base.”

  “Better than filing endless paperwork just for a right that most other Republic academies enjoy.”

  Hahn Soom Gui was filing paperwork, in fact. Preparing for another pro-Capellan rally. Evan often wondered if his friend actually hoped to commit career suicide with regard to the military, so he could run on Governor Lu Pohl’s next People First campaign drive. He knew that Hahn had rebuffed efforts from the Cult of Liao to recruit him into their underground political movement: too small for his tastes, apparently.

  “To each his own,” Evan said evenly. “Honeyed words, spoken at the right time, can often shake a world.”

  Jenna elbowed him in the knee. “Confucius say, man get farther with kind word and gun, than he can with kind word alone.”

  “Master Kung said no such thing,” Mark said, laughing, the tension draining out of his face. Jenna stuck her tongue out at him. “Though it does sound close to something you could pick out of the writings of Lao-tse.”

  Kung fu-tsu? Lao Tse? Evan leaned over Jenna. “You’ve been reading,” he said, eyes narrowing in mock severity. “I thought that was forbidden to infantry.”

  “That—right.” Mark stone-faced the entire cabal. “Big—men—no—need—books. Got—big—gun.”