By Temptations and by War

by Loren L. Coleman

  It also leant power to the arms. As Evan swung up his right arm and slashed back down, he gathered twice as much raw kinetic force behind the edge of his titanium hatchet.

  The blade bit into the Legionnaire’s left side, caving in armor and cutting deep into the internal skeleton. One severed strut punched through the targeting computer and skewered the physical shielding surrounding the ’Mech’s fusion engine. Sparks and flame mingled together in the wound as Evan again raised the hatchet overhead.

  Ax-wielding BattleMechs were dangerous, and the militia pilot wasn’t about to stand up against a machine that could decapitate it with one lucky blow. He broke away quickly, with Evan right behind, racing for the aid of the Thunderbolt. Both ’Mechs faced back down the Narrows when the second artillery round smashed into the ground next to the Thunderbolt, toppling the sixty-five-ton machine with a violent shove.

  Fa Shih and unarmored Ijori Dè Guāng fighters swarmed back en masse, racing for the fallen machine as Mai Wa calmly directed the artillery fire in a ground-pounding walk back down the valley highway. A follow-up round punched through the armor of the SM1 Destroyer before detonating. Another caught one of the hoverbikes, rolling the light hovercraft into a tumbling wreck.

  Evan heard metallic claws scrabbling at his Ti Ts’ang’s armored carapace, and knew he was in danger of being pulled bodily from the cockpit, tossed aside. But with nothing more to lose, the Legionnaire had turned to fight. Evan could have dropped to the ground for a flailing attack, tried to shake off the biting ants. Instead, he blistered the Legionnaire’s armor with his lasers and struck again with his hatchet.

  And again.

  The Ti Ts’ang shook again as more infantry landed on its back and shoulders, and Evan saw a Cavalier tumble past his cockpit shield. Then he poured his lasers into the earlier hatchet wound that had caved through the Legionnaire’s chest, pumping megajoules of deadly power into the smoking crevice. The Legionnaire trembled, and its head split open as escape charges blew away the canopy. The militiaman rode his command seat upward on ejection rockets, abandoning his ’Mech and the battle.

  But MechWarriors did not simply punch out in token surrender. They did it as a last resort. Evan overrode the Ti Tsang’s heat alarms and cut in his jump jets. Leaning back, he rocketed away from the fireball of plasma that blossomed at the Legionnaire’s heart. One of his lasers had cored through the reactor shielding, disrupting the fusion reactor. Golden fire bled out of the various hatchet wounds, filled what was left of the cockpit, and finally bulged out of every seam, vent and rivet as the reaction expanded out of control.

  The explosive shockwave caught Evan in the air and nearly tumbled his damaged gyro beyond help. He crouched forward, balancing himself for landing. It almost worked. He came down on his feet, always a helpful beginning, and managed to fight against a sprawling fall. The Ti Ts’ang ended up on one knee, hatchet pressed against the ground in a steady, three-point crouch.

  Evan closed his eyes and drew in a shallow breath. Reports of militia and Principes surrenders bled over one another as the loss of their two leviathans demoralized the convoy’s protectors. He let his breath whistle out through his teeth, as if straining what little oxygen he could from the scorched air, and then opened his eyes.

  A Cavalier infantryman stood on his cockpit “cheek,” claw arm fastened to the Ti Ts’ang’s brow and a laser barrel pointed straight into the ferroglass shield. Right at Evan.

  He didn’t remember the bore of those small, hand-mounted lasers ever looking quite so large, or so deadly.

  The battlesuit trooper cocked his head to one side, as if listening to the mist of molten ceramic composite that exploded next to his temple. Then he released his grip and tumbled backward. Evan heard metallic scratches at his left shoulder and glanced out to the side. A Fa Shih trooper clung there, laser still extended toward the front of the Ti Ts’ang’s face.

  “You looked like you could use one last helping hand,” David said, voice shaky, but strong.

  “Yeah.” Evan levered the Ti Ts’ang back to a standing position, careful not to dislodge his friend’s tenuous grip. “Always good to see a friendly face.” Even though he couldn’t, not through the Fa Shih’s reflective faceplate.

  And the way David turned away, hiding himself from Evan’s gaze, Evan was not to certain that he truly wanted to.

  The Conservatory’s BattleMech hangar was alive with lights, activity, victorious cheers and some silent crying. A few of the new veterans held court, relating their version of what had happened. Meanwhile, technicians worked feverishly to unload the convoy trucks, assisted by student and civilian volunteers. Other volunteers, including Evan, helped triage the walking wounded. Desperate cases were sent directly to the small field hospital. Several yards away, somber hands carried body bags and arranged them in a respectful line.

  Evan saw Ritter Michaelson waiting for him near the ambulance. The major had a bloody smear on the sleeve of his chambray work shirt and a haunted look in his eyes.

  As always, Michaelson held himself apart from the students, participating in neither the celebration of the Conservatory’s first military victory nor in the efforts to sort through and organize the salvage left behind by McCarron’s Armored Cavalry. Despite a heavy cost, the pro-Capellan forces had captured the damaged Thunderbolt and several vehicles, as well as ten cargo trucks loaded with supplies, munitions and spare parts. It was a stunning success.

  Michaelson didn’t seem to think so.

  “No prisoners?” he asked.

  Evan slowed, stopped. “No one worth the trouble. Better to let them go back to their units. Or, preferably, their homes.” Evan was bruised and battle weary. He wasn’t up for another argument with Michaelson. “We won’t force them to change their lives. We’re simply asking for the same courtesy.”

  “Very enlightened of you.”

  “I’m not a monster.”

  “You don’t have to try to become one, Evan. Believe me. The road to hell is paved with the best of intentions.”

  Evan massaged his temples. “That’s nice, Major. Do you have more platitudes for me now, or can we save this for later?”

  “Will there be a later? Ever since Legate Ruskoff’s visit, you’ve pushed your way forward like a driven man. Do you truly understand what you are doing?”

  More than ever. In fact, Evan felt exposed by the light of his own making. Ijori Dè Guāng. The Light of Ijori. Now that he had outed himself, that light shone brightly on the consequences of every decision, every action. It settled a huge weight on his shoulders. One that he might not be ready for. Evan found himself worried for his friends, fellow students and even for The Republic soldiers on the other side. They were also sons and daughters of Liao.

  Several were now wounded, dying or dead.

  That’s when Evan noticed that the ambulance was too quiet. No running engine. No medics. “Cadet-Sergeant Taylor?” he asked.

  Michaelson shook his head. “Internal bleeding. No one caught it in time.”

  A hollow feeling wrenched at Evan’s guts. “I was just coming to see him off. To—” To thank him. When the Destroyer needed slowing down, Taylor had been one of the hoverbike drivers to help pin it in place. He’d been thrown, caught by the force of an artillery strike, but insisted he was all right. He’d kept pushing other wounded men into the triage line ahead of him. Damn.

  “I saw him off,” Michaelson said, though the meaning changed when he said it. “He wasn’t alone.”

  “Thank you,” was all Evan could think to say.

  “You want to thank me, Evan, then come meet with Governor’s Aide Tsung. He’s an important man and he has the Governor’s ear. It has to be kept quiet, but I’ll make all the arrangements.”

  Evan shrugged. He began to turn away, heading back to the triage. “Bring him here.”

  “That’s not the way it works. If Governor Lu Pohl were to send her top aide to meet with you after the way you treated with Ruskoff, it might—”
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br />   “What?” Evan interrupted, rounding back on Michaelson. “Might confer some extra legitimacy? Don’t you see, Major, that’s what we need. Without it, we’ll be shuffled aside again.”

  The other man blew out an exasperated sigh. He rubbed one hand over his face, let it slide across the angry scars he’d earned on Terra. “There are worse things than falling back into insignificance, Evan. I wish I could make you understand. You make even a simple mistake now,” he said, glancing at the side of the ambulance, “and people die. It doesn’t have to be that way. Talk this out, Evan. Don’t let it go any further.”

  “Major, I know you mean well. But you’re living in the wrong age. This isn’t 3128 and you’re not Ezekiel Crow.” Michaelson recoiled as if he’d been slapped. “This one does not get solved by a political deal. It’s gone too far. We’ve made certain of that. Capellan or Republic—Confederation or Republic—it’s time for people to decide.”

  “You have no idea the kind of trouble you are asking for.” His voice was a whisper.

  “Maybe I don’t,” Evan admitted. “But it seems like you’re too willing to back away from the hard choice, Major. I didn’t give myself that option.” Or perhaps Evan had simply made his decision years before, when Mai Uhn Wa first approached him. And if that was the case . . .

  “Maybe I thought there was another choice, once, but I discovered the truth of that today when I pulled the trigger.” He shook his head. “You’re talking to the wrong man. There’s no going back now.”

  Evan left Michaelson next to the ambulance. He felt the other man’s disappointment, and his very real fear. Whatever was behind either feeling, it was his to work out, not Evan’s. Evan had his own worries to consider.

  No, there was no going back now. There was only deciding how he would go forward.

  22

  New Orders

  Lady Eve Kincaid, taking local command of Nánlù forces at the request of Lord Governor Hidic, handed McCarron’s Armored Cavalry a Pyrrhic victory today. A Cavalry Hatchetman was destroyed and several vehicles crippled during McCarron’s raid against the Mau-ti Supply Depot. The depot was also destroyed.

  —The Nánlù Daily Apple, 14 July 3134

  Chang-an Qinghai

  Province, Liao

  14 July 3134

  Ritter Michaelson shifted uncomfortably in the straight-backed chair, feeling trapped by his own best intentions. It was certainly not a new sensation. He kept the left side of his face turned toward Gerald Tsung, hiding behind his scars while Hahn Soom Gui presented the Conservatory’s case to Governor Pohl’s aide.

  Tsung’s working office certainly fit the man’s conservative style. Spartan. No photos of the family, no diplomas. No letter of appointment. Golden oak paneling added some character to the room, but no other art or decorations accented the space except a simple picture of Governor Anna Lu Pohl hanging next to the door. It was a room designed not to step on toes, Michaelson realized. Nothing existed except a demonstrated loyalty to the Governor herself.

  He could appreciate that. This kind of severe existence was how Ezekiel Crow had lived his life. No encumbrances. No reminders of his past, or what he currently risked whenever heading out for battle. Ezekiel Crow had owed his life to The Republic. Anything else—anyone else—was a dream.

  And as Ritter Michaelson? Did he owe any less of a debt?

  Hahn had been talking about the systematic discrimination used to influence the Conservatory’s martial programs. Now he presented the last of his papers, documents rescued from the administration offices. “Here’s the proof,” the budding politician offered, slapping the pages down on the corner of Tsung’s desk like a lawyer might produce damning evidence.

  Michaelson had already seen the documents—had helped compile them—and suggested to Hahn that they be the last evidence offered to Tsung. They contained personnel files on every student who applied for permits to hold on-campus demonstrations—Hahn’s name near the top of that list—and those who took Capellan History and Culture. Also loyalty assessments of any cadet on the aforementioned lists, and cadets who had simply been unfortunate enough to be born to residents and not Republic citizens.

  In short, the students had been right in their paranoia.

  Evan Kurst had been right, but he was still bound to self-destruct if he continued to take everything upon himself to decide. Michaelson saw so much of his younger self in Evan, so much of what had ruined Daniel Peterson. Maybe that’s why it bothered him that he had been unable to reach the younger man.

  Tsung gathered the pages up carefully, ordered them into a neat stack in the middle of his desk. Hahn handed over computer records on three data crystals, which Tsung set carefully atop the printouts.

  “Governor Pohl will be very interested in these.”

  Hahn smiled thinly. “As will Legate Ruskoff, I’m sure.” The accusation was easy to read in his tone.

  Michaelson hedged. “Nothing in those reports, or any, proves a tie to the Legate’s office. This looks more like a concerted effort on behalf of mid-ranking officers and a few Conservatory officials to ‘purify’ the military by controlling recruitment and academic training.”

  “Still,” Hahn intervened, “you can see why we do not trust Legate Ruskoff to look after our interests. This requires civilian oversight. We need the Governor’s personal attention.”

  Smearing Viktor Ruskoff’s reputation accomplished nothing. Michaelson had pointed this out to Hahn, who at least had been willing to listen after the disappointing interview with Evan Kurst. But Hahn was proving just as headstrong. Like Eridani horses taking the bits in their teeth, he and Evan charged forward, each along his own path. Over the last few weeks, Michaelson had watched Hahn fall into a one-sided rivalry with Evan, but hadn’t realized how damaging that rivalry could be. Now Hahn seemed determined to open a rift between the Governor and her Planetary Legate in a game of one-upsmanship, if for no other reason. And that was not going to help matters, Michaelson knew very well. It was one of the tactics he himself had used six years before.

  3128, when Legate Kang pushed cadets so hard to conform to The Republic mold that Confederation agents had managed to gain a stranglehold on the student body. Kang’s knee-jerk reaction cost two students their lives, and eventually cost him his position. Ezekiel Crow prevented a full assault on the Conservatory only by withholding proof of Confederation complicity, and undermining the Legate’s authority. It bought time for a political solution. A peaceful solution.

  Except that it hadn’t worked.

  As Crow, all he had truly accomplished was to further alienate the students. Giving them hope, but setting them up to fail.

  Best intentions. The paved surface to hell.

  And here he was, at it again. Trying to form a new bridge between the students and local government, trapped by his feeling of responsibility.

  Gerald Tsung stood, leaning against his desk. “I can assure you,” he promised Hahn, Michaelson, “the Governor will give this due attention. What she can do to strengthen your case. . . .” The shrug was heard in his voice.

  Hahn stood, shook hands with the Governor’s Aide. Michaelson stood as well.

  “Thank you for arranging this meeting, Major.” Tsung offered another handshake.

  Ritter Michaelson accepted it with a nod, and escorted Hahn from the Governor’s Palace without a word spoken until they reached the front steps. From the upper balustrade, they looked out over a wide avenue. People crossed between the palace and other buildings of the White Tower District. Everyone hurried, which was due more to the cold winter day than any burning desire to see bureaucracy done. Sections of the wall that cut the governing sector out of the heart of Chang-an could be glimpsed in between tall hedge trees.

  Hahn glanced back, taking in the Han-inspired architecture with a satisfied look. “I think we made progress.”

  “I warned you against that last bit. Legate Ruskoff is a good man.”

  “Maybe,” Hahn admitted carefully. H
e buttoned up his jacket, slipped on a set of red-tinted aviator glasses. Leading the way down the polished stone steps, he waved for a nearby rickshaw. No civilian cars were allowed inside the walled area, only a few military and government-registered vehicles. Cabs waited for visitors outside the gated entrance. “Maybe,” he said again. Then he lapsed into a determined silence, which Michaelson had no intention of breaking into until they were back at the Conservatory.

  He himself was never going to get there.

  The rickshaw driver was short and stocky. He delivered the two men to the line of cabs, turned, and raced for the corner where a dark sedan waited. Hahn had not been paying attention, but Michaelson was. He climbed out of the rickshaw, tense, and was not reassured in the slightest when the sedan’s window hummed down and Jack Farrell nodded a curt greeting.

  “Ditch the kid,” Farrell said. It was not a request.

  The rickshaw driver was gone, having been paid his money earlier and smart enough to know when his presence was not wanted. Hahn bristled at the rude dismissal, but Michaelson laid a hand on the younger man’s arm. “It’s all right. Take a cab and I’ll meet you at the Conservatory.”

  The sedan smelled of thick cigar smoke. At least it was heated. Michaelson pulled the door closed, but kept one hand on the handle.

  “You’re a hard man to follow.” Farrell put the car in gear and eased away from the curb. Traffic was fairly heavy and they crawled along at the pace of a brisk walk. “Xiapu to Chang-an, all in a few short weeks.” He turned far enough to see Michaelson with his one good eye. “You just can’t keep your head down, can you?”

  Michaelson considered remaining mute, then realized that it would keep him that much longer in the raider’s company.

  “What do you want, Jack?”