Threads of Ambition

by Loren L. Coleman

  Ty Wu Non looked to Jessup, who smiled thinly and nodded his agreement with the House Master's unspoken endorsement. Jessup had obviously known a few of the details, but not all. The older infantryman gave Aris a good visual bracing, and then caught the younger warrior with a weighty gaze.

  "You are in charge of the honor squad," he told Aris.

  2

  Home Guard Training Facility

  Hazlet, Nashuar

  St. Ives Compact

  8 August 3060

  The simulator pod was the next best thing to being there, Cadet Maurice Fitzgerald decided, relishing the realism as a simulated head-hit bucked him hard against his four-point restraining harness. Hazlet's Home Guard training facility was the best on Nashuar, and Fitzgerald always looked forward to his class' sim time. It also had the added bonus of making up for his average academic status, placing him in the front-running for a MechWarrior position.

  The enemy Dasher that had scored the hit against him attempted to disengage, its thin humanoid frame running off the side of Fitz' main screen and angling back out away from his position. A Clan OmniMech of impressive speed but very light armor, the Dasher was trying to use hit-and-run tactics against his larger Blackjack.

  "Bu zhe ci," he murmured, falling back on the Chinese his mother had taught him as his primary language. Not this time. He tracked left with a torso twist, working the foot pedals for a tight turn. As lead element for a lance, simulated or not, he wasn't about to allow a Clan scout 'Mech to report back on their position.

  As his targeting reticule caught up with the Dasher and burned the deep gold of hard lock, Fitzgerald triggered both his Blackjack's extended-range large lasers. From the ends of his 'Mech's barrel-like arms, ruby lances of coherent light stabbed across the field and into the fleeing enemy 'Mech. One lance of energy cored into the rear torso, carving away engine shielding. The second sliced through armor and the endo-steel skeleton beneath to amputate the right leg at the knee.

  The lasers' energy demand pulled a spike from the fusion reactor that powered Fitz' BattleMech, and even as the Dasher toppled over a wave of heat slammed through the cockpit of the forty-five-ton Blackjack. Fitzgerald's vision swam and he gasped for breath, his ragged breathing loud in the confines of his neurohelmet. Only the cooling vest he wore alleviated some measure of the distress. Heat sinks installed around the engine quickly bled off the excess, though it left him well into the yellow band on his heat monitor.

  And no time to cool down, he realized, as his head's up display painted a new threat coming in from his forward-left quarter. The HUD compressed 360 degrees of scanning ability into 120 degrees of vision, projected across the top of the Blackjack's main viewscreen, and Fitz was ahead of the other Nashuar Home Guard trainees in learning to read it. He could tell from the HUD coding that he faced a medium-weight Clan Omni-Mech even before glancing to the auxiliary screen to find a fifty-ton Clan Black Hawk profiled.

  The Blackjack rocked violently as the incoming Black Hawk sniped at him from medium range and scored several hits with its medium-bore autocannon. Fitz could picture armor raining down around the Blackjack's feet, his protection becoming so much litter on the ground. Slamming down on his pedals, he engaged jump jets. The Blackjack lifted out of the Hawk's line of fire on superheated jets of plasma, and the young Mech Warrior angled his machine in toward the Clan Omni.

  He landed rough, not yet accustomed to skywalking, and missed with a single laser attempt. Fortunately the neurohelmet linked his own sense of balance to that of the massive gyro that kept the Blackjack upright, and he held his footing with only the lightest adjustment on the control sticks. The Hawk, meanwhile, had run in across a patch of clear field, closing the gap, and while Fitz dealt with a new heat surge from his failed laser shot the Clanner rose on its own jump jets and sailed completely over the Blackjack.

  Leapfrog maneuver! Too late Fitz worked the BattleMech into a turn, his muscles straining to pull the control sticks past their limit. The Black Hawk carved into his thin rear armor with everything it had, its large pulse laser and autocannon chewing through his torso and left-side protection, leaving it open for smaller weapons. Ironically it was a machine gun, mounted on the Hawk more for protection from unarmored infantry than engaging another 'Mech, that found the ammo supply for his short-ranged missile systems. The magazine ruptured and blew through his internals as the Blackjack effectively disintegrated.

  The cockpit shook violently in the BattleMech's simulated death throes, the edges of the restraining straps digging into Fitzgerald's chest. Fortunately he was spared the neural feedback through his helmet that would accompany a normal ammunition explosion. His screens grayed out and then faded to black, with a simple message queued to one auxiliary monitor.

  Report to simulation debriefing at once.

  "Ma de dan!" Fitz cursed, slamming one fist down against his thigh. He unhooked his harness and safety equipment, shoved his neurohelmet up onto the ledge above the main viewscreen, and then climbed out of the simulator pod, still muttering over his bad fortune.

  * * *

  Fitz walked into the empty briefing room still clad only in the T-shirt, shorts, and combat boots that was normal garb for MechWarriors because of the high levels of heat buildup common in a 'Mech cockpit. He grabbed the first metal fold-down chair inside the small room and sat, tipping it back against the wall. The air-conditioned space felt good after the simulator's heat, though he knew that soon enough his sweat-damp clothes would turn chill to the skin. He swallowed dryly, mouth still parched from gasping the hot air. Part of him reveled in his spent condition, despite his performance, while another, more practical side worried over the effect today's performance would have on his scores.

  "You could have showered," was Commander Nevarr's greeting as he entered the room.

  Tall and muscular without running to heavy bulk, Nevarr looked every bit the Nordic hero with this tousled, white-blond hair and washed-out blue eyes. Soft-spoken and a bit hoarse, but able to make his voice carry, he habitually talked in short, easy speech, as if in practice for the battlefield, where all communication was clipped and to the point. Certainly he wasn't the average recruitment-poster soldier for the St. Ives Compact, which tended more toward Fitz' slender build, with or without the touch of Asian features that bespoke a Capellan heritage. Nevarr commanded the BattleMech company attached to Nashuar's Home Guard battalion, and personally oversaw the militia's training program. Somehow he got away with not wearing a uniform, dressing in a simple cut of black clothing that reminded Fitzgerald of a much older time.

  "The message said at once, Commander," Fitz said, straightening up in his chair.

  Nevarr grunted noncommittally, then grabbed a chair for himself. He sat, slouching forward as if some great weight rode on his shoulders. "What were you trying to do in there?" His voice was weary with frustration.

  "Engaging the enemy, sir." Fitzgerald knew the answer would not be accepted, but from his point of view it was the least-damaging thing he could offer.

  "Committing suicide was more like it." Nevarr leaned back, clasping black-gloved hands behind his head. "I expected you to take on the Dasher, though it tied you up longer than it should have. It was no match for your Blackjack. And its reconnaissance abilities presented a threat to the unit. The Black Hawk, though . . ." He paused, shaking his head. "That's a typical Clan support 'Mech. It rarely ranges out very far from its Starmates. If you see one, expect company soon. Another minute in the sim and two Mad Cats would've popped into your rear quarter." Nevarr frowned. "You were point man for a lance. You should've fallen back."

  Fitzgerald bristled at the advice, given to him as if it were holy writ, though he knew it was nothing personal. The commander talked to all cadets that way. "I felt I could take the Black Hawk and then pull back. I made one mistake, slipping into its jumping radius. If the two Mad Cats had shown up, I would've pulled back. Clanners don't use concentrated fire anyway."

  Nevarr rocked forward
again. "That's playing by the old rules. Many of the Clans have adopted a more liberal attitude these days. These were programmed to open fire at once." He caught Fitz' attention in a gaze of blue ice. "You made the wrong choice."

  Fists clenched but held to his sides, Fitz also felt the muscles tightening along the back of his neck and a warm flush creeping up to his collar. Nevarr knew how to cut into a cadet, without ever raising his voice or using profanity. What made it worse, he knew that Nevarr was right.

  When Fitzgerald held his silence, Nevarr nodded once and continued. "You aren't much of a team player, Fitzgerald. You take risks without hope of backup. That will get you killed out there. And worse, it will get lancemates killed. Now just what are you trying to prove? And don't tell me 'nothing' because I know better. I see it in the way you pilot your 'Mech."

  Fitz' muscles ached and his thirst left a metallic taste at the back of his throat, and now he began to regret not grabbing a shower before the debrief. Exhaling slowly, he dismissed the discomfort and organized his thoughts. "Just trying to prove that I'm good enough," he said finally. "You're testing eight of us from the Home Guard armor corps for two open Mech Warrior billets. I want one of them." He paused for the briefest moment, then surged ahead. "Commander, I want a billet in the St. Ives Lancers of even the Cheveux Legers, someday. I know I'm good enough. Or at least I could be. But I don't have the credentials to make the St. Ives Academy, and so distinguishing myself in Home Guard 'Mech duty is my only chance. From there, I could request transfer directly into the Academy Training Group." Fitz sighed. "I don't want to go back to the rolling pillboxes."

  Nevarr stared long and hard at Fitzgerald, rarely blinking, until the cadet began to grow uncomfortable. "I've reviewed your files. Your aptitude is high enough to qualify for the Training Group on St. Ives, yes. I also know that your maverick performance would have you at the bottom of your class. Or bounced back to Nashuar's Home Guard by now, to stay."

  Fitz felt his earlier flush spreading up and over his face. Nevarr had hit on just the right attack, shredding the cadet's armor. Being bounced from the Training Group, given that he ever made it there to begin with, would be worse than never joining it. It would send his career prospects straight into an administrative black hole—he'd be lucky to hold onto a simple MechWarrior billet then. If the commander is willing to cut me some slack here, maybe I should be a bit more appreciative. "All right. What do you want from me?"

  "Try working with the group," Nevarr said at once, offering a thin but encouraging smile. "Play it safe for a while. Learn how good you are in a unit, then maybe you can learn how good you are by yourself."

  Fitzgerald nodded wearily, resigned. "Okay. I'll try to do it your way."

  "Good." Nevarr nodded sharply, then held Fitz fast with an icy stare. "And make no mistake," he said. "You'll learn it my way first, or you won't learn your way at all."

  3

  DropShip Pearl of True Wisdom

  Castle Sands Spaceport, Relevow

  Capella Commonality, Capellan Confederation

  8 August 3060

  Isis Marik found Sun-Tzu in the Lung Wang Class DropShip's small gymnasium, cooling down from his daily workout with some tai chi exercises. The room smelled of neoleather-covered mats and the sweat of honest exertion; a pleasant, masculine mix. Not wishing to break his concentration she waited in the doorway, straightening the green-trimmed tan nehru jacket which she thought lent her a paramilitary Capellan look. Her chestnut brown hair cascaded over her shoulders, finally free from the bands that tied it back during spaceflight.

  Planetfall on Relevow, the third world on Sun-Tzu's tour of the Compact border, placed them back into full contact with the rest of the Inner Sphere. Isis had spent the morning involved with her own concerns, answering the dozens of HPG communications that had finally caught up with her. They included only a brief message from her father, Captain-General of the Free Worlds League. There was also a brief note from Omi Kurita, extending good wishes for the health of her father's new family. Hard to think of either Sherryl or Janos as my own family, after all, considering I've spent all of perhaps two months in their company. No pity, not for her, but a touch of unavoidable regret.

  "Yes, beloved?" Sun-Tzu said, straightening up from his final stretch and shaking sweat from his dark hair. He grabbed the towel he'd hung on a nearby post and mopped at his face, smiling warmly as he waited for her to speak.

  Where other people might fear Sun-Tzu as Maximilian Liao reborn, Isis had found in her fiance a strength of character and clarity of thought that she had grown to respect and even to love, and which most people did not see. That he does not allow most people to see, she amended. Sun-Tzu was not raised a warrior, as were most Inner Sphere leaders, but Isis recognized him as a master of appearances and manipulation—survival traits learned growing up in the madness of the Sian court under his mother.

  "Word of Blake delivered a batch of messages," she informed him, working to keep the sadness from her voice that thoughts of Sun-Tzu's younger years always brought to her. "My father wished to inform us that little Janos' pneumonia appears to have run its course. He is out of danger."

  Only a slight narrowing of his green eyes gave away the mask Sun-Tzu firmly settled in place. "Indeed," he said in carefully controlled tones. "Then you should draft a response to Thomas, from the both of us, expressing our happiness for him and his consort."

  "Sherryl," Isis said, "his wife." She knew Sun-Tzu did not require the reminder. Thomas Marik's marriage to Sherryl Halas, and naming their new son as legitimate heir over Isis, should have removed any final obstacles to Isis marrying Sun-Tzu. That her father continued to stall on their wedding after an eight-year engagement was a source of constant frustration for them both. "I shall send a message at once," she promised.

  When she did not retire immediately, Sun-Tzu draped the towel about his neck and regarded her now with neutral interest. "There is more?"

  That his passions often ran hot and cold did not surprise or offend Isis, especially of late. In her opinion, Sun-Tzu had performed admirably as the initial First Lord, never flagging in his duty to the Star League but also working extremely hard to bring his own nation up to par with the rest of the Great Houses. This tour of worlds bordering the St. Ives Compact was important with respect to the latter effort, and many future decisions hung in the balance of its success. She smiled, hoping to offer him some support. "I thought you might wish to talk about your speech for this afternoon."

  Sun-Tzu returned her smile, though she noticed that it did not quite reach his eyes. A cold, empty expression. "What was your opinion of our reception in the Necromo and Capricorn systems?" he asked, not bothering to smooth over the change in subject.

  Isis could not be sure if she were being tested or consulted, though she preferred to assume the latter. "The people were very enthusiastic, especially on Necromo where the success of your economic reforms is easy to see. Capricorn III does not yet enjoy such a successful economy, but they receive a healthy subsidy from nearby Ares, which raises their standard of living." Isis' eyebrows knitted together as she worked to unravel a minor point. "Capricorn III has had a stronger resurgence of Capellan nationalism, though, judging by the latest fashions all based on Asian cuts and the swell in numbers for Capellan Armed Forces recruitment."

  This time his smile reached his eyes. "You've been talking with Zahn."

  "And Sasha," she said, then frowned, "though they will only discuss generalities with me." Sun-Tzu waved off her pique at being left in the dark on some matters, and she let the irritation fade. "If you are wanting evidence that your Xin Sheng effort is working, I would say you have it."

  Sun-Tzu appeared to stare right through her. "Yes, but to what extent?" he asked, obviously a rhetorical question. His voice hardened. "There is so much more to accomplish."

  Isis shivered internally. Sun-Tzu could be deathly patient, but in matters concerning the Confederation he could also be incredibly ruthless. "You have
accomplished so much already," she said by way of easing into a touchy subject. "Even the recent surge of pro-Capellan nationalism in the old Tikonov Region attests to your efforts." He did not hide his hard glare, and she continued quickly. "No, no one has said anything. But it does not take much to see your hand behind it. I'm only surprised no other Star League member state has voiced protest."

  "Only two would care," Sun-Tzu stated flatly. "Yvonne has her hands full dealing with reports of unrest from all across the Federated Commonwealth—Tikonov is one voice in a multitude. And Katrina," he paused, obviously deciding how much he wished to disclose, "she will not complain loudly so long as I do not threaten any of the older Davion-ruled worlds."

  A bargain, struck at the Star League conference on Tharkad? It was difficult for Isis to imagine Katrina Steiner-Davion as anything but a social creature, though Sun-Tzu certainly thought otherwise and his acumen was seldom in error. She reached out and laid her hand on his sweat-damp arm. "Step carefully, beloved—"

  Sun-Tzu recoiled from her light touch, cutting off the well-intended word of warning. Isis read the sudden coldness in his eyes and felt it in the tensing of his muscles. She allowed her hand to drop down to her side. He studied her for a few long seconds, then just as suddenly awarded her a bright smile that almost, but not quite, convinced her she'd been imagining his coldness. He desired or expected support, Isis thought, reasoning out his brief agitation, and I advocated caution.

  "Prepare our message to your father," Sun-Tzu said as if the awkward moment had not existed. "I must clean up and prepare for the speech. If my people are ready to follow, as you suggest, then it is time for me to lead them further toward where I wish to go." He stepped by her and into the passage, then turned to give her another warm smile. Reaching out, he lightly brushed her cheek with his forefinger. "With your help, my love, I will make the Confederation strong again."