Trial by Chaos

by J. Steven York

  He grinned back. "Indeed I do. That's why you love me."

  Rather than lie, or speak an uncomfortable truth, she said nothing.

  He stared at her for a moment, his face unreadable, then turned away and feigned interest in one of the reports on her desk.

  He does not understand. I am Clan.

  Why then did she feel bad about using him? She cursed herself for her weakness. Perhaps years of living in the Rasalhague Dominion in close proximity to non-Clan freeborn really had made the Ghost Bears weak. It made her sick to think it, and to admit that many of her fellow Ghost Bears believed her Raging Bears were the weakest of the weak. If that were true, what did that make their leader?

  Certainly the lower castes being sent to Vega to support their stability initiative were considered the dregs of Clan society. Every three months another of the huge military transports that were a signature of the Ghost Bears arrived with another load of technicians, scientists, merchants and, especially, laborers. Every time a transport arrived, the Freeminders problem got worse.

  Vincent turned back to her. If he was upset about her lack of response, he was hiding it. "You're distracted. Maybe I should go."

  She looked at him. "Don't," she said, not even sure where the word came from.

  The fact that it came out as a contraction was even more ironic. There would have been a time he would have noticed, would have teased her. Now, there was only a tiny smile of satisfaction, as though she had used the vulgarism just for him.

  Having said it, she felt required to justify it. "I was just trying to figure out how I got here, so far out on the edge of everything."

  "Vega isn't the edge of anything. It's well into the Inner Sphere."

  She picked up a combat readiness report, walked over, and slumped into one of the reading chairs. "You know very well that I am speaking figuratively, Vincent." She sighed. "I should not be talking to you about this."

  He walked over and perched on the edge of the other chair, leaning towards her and propping his square jaw on his fist. "You should be talking to another Clansman?"

  Her upper lip twitched. For this too, she needed him, and she did not like it. "I talk to you, Vincent, because you are the only one I can talk to. Any Clansman I shared my doubts and uncertainties with would certainly feel obliged to seek a trial against me. It might well have happened already, except that Galaxy commanders are rarely challenged except under special circumstances, and—"

  He raised his left eyebrow questioningly. "Yes?"

  Go ahead. Say it. She had wanted to say it for a long time.

  "Nobody wants my job."

  He leaned back in surprise. "Surely that's absurd. Advancement is everything to your people, isn't it?"

  "Under normal circumstances. That's—that is—what I was mulling over. The circumstances I find myself in are extraordinary. Maybe unprecedented, in the Ghost Bears anyway."

  "You sound— Forgive me. You sound—afraid."

  She flinched at the word. She was caught between the Clan imperative for honesty and her own contempt for the very concept of fear. "I am—gravely concerned."

  He nodded sympathetically. "Call it what you will."

  She looked up at him with a strange mixture of disgust and affection. So this is what he has become these last few months. My confessor. How far have we fallen that a Galaxy commander should need such a crutch?

  But she did, and here he was, and here she was. And for some irrational reason, she trusted him with her most terrible secrets, any one of which he could use to destroy her.

  He seemed to sense her hesitancy. "Whether or not you know it, this is good for you, opening up like this. You've literally got the weight of a world on your shoulders."

  More than that. The future of the entire Omega Galaxy. Maybe the future of the entire Ghost Bear Clan. But she did not say so. To trivialize Vega's problems would likely anger him, but to her, the planet was only an objective that she wrestled to control, or even define.

  Yet, for the present at least, their objectives, if not their preferred methods, were the same.

  "Look," he said, "I know we have our differences on policy. Big differences. If you don't want to talk about those right now, there's always time to fight them out on the senate floor. This is person to person. Woman to man." He leaned closer and gently touched her forearm. "It's you I'm concerned about, not policy."

  She took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "I grew up in an experimental sibko, a wilderness camp designed to bring the modern warrior closer to his or her primal roots. Most of the Ghost Bears trained their warrior candidates in regular military facilities, but the Raging Bears were given a mandate to experiment in those days.

  "This training facility had horses, and at a very young age we were all taught to ride. The idea was that many lessons from horsemanship carry over to mechanized combat, especially piloting a "Mech." She realized she was still holding the status report in her hand, and tossed it on a nearby table. "In one of the first riding lessons, my horse was spooked by a snake and ran wild. I managed to stay on its back, no matter how it tried to buck or scrape me off, but for the life of me, I could not get it to stop." She sighed. "That is how I feel now. This situation cannot buck me off, but I cannot stop it, and"—she licked her dry lips—"I have no idea where it is going."

  * * *

  The room was little more than a closet with a single chair, illuminated only by the light of a dozen computer and tri-vid screens, and a holo panel positioned in front of the chair like a desktop. A man sat in the chair, watching half a dozen screens at once: a local news report that had somehow slipped past the censors on Freeminders graffiti, an intelligence report on the Dragon's Fury and Warlord Mitsura Sakamoto, and a vid of Chance Elba in the Congressional Hall holding up a sign that read tyranny.

  The man considered each as it influenced his plans.

  The first suggested that control of the local news media was far from complete, and that they might make useful pawns at some point.

  The second presented a more pressing concern. Some elements in the Draconis Combine had long considered Vega a pilfered territory, rightfully theirs, and it was a lightning rod for Dragon's Fury aggression. He had to apply his intelligence assets to identifying their agents on Vega, and uncovering their intentions towards Vega.

  The third was also both a concern and an opportunity. Speaker Chance Elba was an agitator and a potentially dangerous enemy, yet he was far less radical than some, and seemingly more open to reason and negotiation. It was better to turn an enemy to your side than simply to crush him. That was not the traditional Clan way, but—

  Well, he had never allowed Clan tradition to dictate his decisions.

  The room was little more than a closet, yet the man sitting in that chair fancied himself the most dangerous person on Vega.

  He smiled at the thought and enjoyed the irony of that thought on a planet recently dominated by warlords. and now by BattleMechs. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. I should call myself Oz.

  Add it to the list. He had been called many things, many names.

  One was pressed on him at birth. Another was given him by his peers. But one he had given himself. Of course, it was a title as much as a name, but when a title applies to one man, to one man in all of history, it was a kind of name. This title was the name by which he identified himself. All other names were a sham. Everything else was a disguise.

  He had been raised Clan, brought up to conform, to obey tradition, to take gratefully what destiny had handed him. He had never been content with that, never at peace with a society that would require him to be less than he knew he could be.

  But even as a child, he had known better than to express this discontent to others. He kept it secret, but he never forgot it, and never put it aside. He had taken his place in Ghost Bear society, rising, despite setbacks, through Clan society, watchful and patient, waiting for the day he could take one step sideways from the straight and narrow
in search of his own destiny.

  Then he had found it, quite by accident: an old, toothless and nearly forgotten underground movement on the brink of extinction. And in its principles, he saw the path for which he had been searching. In its meager resources he saw something he could leverage to true power.

  He embraced it without hesitation. In a year he had reenergized the movement, selling his dreams to the Clan's restless and dissatisfied undercastes. In three years he had swept aside the old leaders and made the group his own. In five, he had built it into a growing secret empire.

  Then another opportunity had come along from a most unexpected source: the crumbling of The Republic, with its countless opportunities for adventure and misadventure.

  If he were to change Clan society, some part of Clan society itself would have to be thrown into a chaotic state.

  He played his contacts, used all his resources, and found what he needed in the plans of the Council itself. They had not been idle during the relatively peaceful years of The Republic. That was not their way. The Ghost Bear does not only patiently wait, he plans.

  The Council had played out thousands of scenarios, running war games and simulations for every contingency from the probable to the nearly impossible, from civil war to invasion by an imaginary alien species. They had predicted nothing, but they had planned for everything, even the failure of The Republic.

  One plan called for a preemptive occupation of key planets in one prefecture to restore stability and order. These planets would in turn be used to leverage the restoration of that prefecture, and from there, the entire Inner Sphere, if necessary. But the projection was that it would not be necessary. They would bring order by example. If the other prefectures saw that order could be restored, that it would be restored, they would choose that path for themselves.

  With minimal military resources they would restore a fallen Republic.

  It would have been brilliant, if only it weren't doomed to failure. "Choose that path for themselves?" How logical. How naive. How Clan.

  But if it was fundamentally flawed for its intended purposes, it suited his goals perfectly.

  It wasn't a decision made lightly. He regretted sending the Ghost Bears into calamity, but this was not his plan, and given the circumstances it. or something like it, seemed likely to be on the table anyway. His intentions were ultimately good—a statement in which even he could see the irony. Though few in the warrior caste would agree, he saw himself as a patriot to Clan Ghost Bear, simply guiding it along a path that had been chosen long before he was born, when their Clan had immigrated to the Inner Sphere. They had to continue to evolve if they were not to stagnate and die.

  And so he put someone else's plan into motion for his own purposes. Strings were pulled. Favors were called in. The right ears were whispered into. Evidence supporting the plan was collected, massaged, spun and, where necessary, fabricated. It was not long before the Ghost Bears were doing exactly what he wanted—and best of all, it was their own idea.

  Think unthinkable things, indeed.

  In a society of conformists and traditionalists, he was perhaps the only self-made man. He had earned his title.

  He was the undisputed leader of the Freeminders in the Rasalhague Dominion.

  He was the UnderKhan.

  3

  From the Great Work of Galaxy Commander Isis Bekker

  We had battled for three days to breach Kean's stronghold in the planetary capital, three days without pause or sleep. But when we broke open the final bunker, he was not there. We had been deceived, and the devil had escaped through, appropriately enough, an abandoned sewer. So while we were digging through the rubble of his headquarters looking for a body that was not there, he was climbing into a fresh 'Mech that had been hidden in the hills outside the city, and rallying his remaining forces to attack our exhausted flank.

  That was the black day of glory. That was when it ended.

  That was when it began.

  My warriors fought bravely, giving honor to their bloodlines, adding glory to their codex with each skirmish. But still they fell. I watched as three 'Mechs, three of my finest officers, were cut down around me in the space of five minutes. Still I fought on.

  Then another 'Mech fell in on my left flank, and Conner Hall spoke to me over the command circuit. "We have to end this now," he said. "What are your orders?"

  I cannot tell you with certainty how I identified Kean's 'Mech. It carried no special markings or identification. Yet there were signs that led me to my conclusion. That it should be so undamaged, mostly unmarked, this late in the fighting—that was suspicious. And it was a heavy 'Mech, an Atlas, one of the biggest and most fearsome of all 'Mechs, befitting the ego of a little man who would dare to call himself lord of an entire world.

  There was also the matter of how it fought. The Atlas is a powerful 'Mech, but its ability to dissipate heat is poor. In battle, an Atlas is generally able to bring its full, formidable might to bear only in short bursts. Then it must hold back, venting excess energy through its meager complement of heat sinks, before it strikes again.

  But this Atlas broke the rules, moving and fighting more aggressively than seemed possible, and in so doing, laying waste to my warriors.

  I was not fooled.

  This was no ordinary Atlas. Somehow it had been modified to improve its heat dissipation, and the great machine's most significant weakness had been minimized. It was the first field-modified 'Mech we would encounter on Vega. It would not be the last.

  At the time, it did not occur to me to wonder about the source of this advanced tech, or who had installed it in Kean's Atlas. Instead, I was thinking about the man inside, and wondering what that modification had cost, how many smaller 'Mechs could have been upgraded with the same resources. But the self-proclaimed warlord's ego would allow him nothing less than the best. I most surely faced Kean, and at that moment, the odds were not in my favor.

  Nasew Spaceport, Southwest Industrial District

  Nasew, North Nanturo continent, Vega

  22 November 3136

  Conner walked through the rubble of the Mech Warrior barracks, stopping to tap the toe of his boot against a melted lump of metal. He barely recognized the object as an incomplete sculpture of an attacking bear rearing on its hind legs. Or at least, that was how he remembered it. Now the upper part was missing, the rest melted into a featureless mass. The legs, and the base, intended to resemble an outcropping of ice, were still identifiable if one knew what they were looking at.

  Karen Tupolov stopped next to him and looked down at the object. "Something of yours?"

  "It belonged to Shepard, one of the Mech Warriors who was killed. It was his Great Work, a ceremonial object that each warrior of our Clan creates to symbolize his or her dedication and spirit. For those of us in Clan Ghost Bear, it is displayed at the warrior's funeral. Obviously, that will not happen this time."

  She kneeled and looked at it closely. "It was a bear?"

  "The Clan totem is always a popular subject for Great Works. This ghost bear was quite beautiful. The bear was roaring, and his front paws were slashing through the air, claws spread. You could almost see it moving."

  "You have a Great Work as well?" She looked around. "I hope it wasn't—"

  "Mine is a painting. Not a very good one. When I am not working on it, I keep it rolled up in a tube that I carry in my 'Mech. For what it is worth, it is safe,"

  She stood. "I'd like to see it sometime." On the other side of the spaceport, he could see a small aerodyne DropShip coming in for a landing, its fusion engines throttled back to a low whistle. The air was heavy with smoke, and the slight breeze failed to move the pall, instead adding to it diesel exhaust, coal smoke from the refugee camps and slums, the stink of uncollected garbage and, from somewhere nearby, the stench of a broken sewer main. Smog hung over the city like a poisonous red blanket.

  "I will share it with you," he finally answered.

  "I'm sorry about your peopl
e."

  "I appreciate your concern, but it is unnecessary. Warriors die. We accept that. I mourn that they died so poorly, through no effort of their own. No warrior wants to die in his bunk."

  She grinned sadly. "Personally, I'd prefer it, but I don't have a genetic codex to worry about. No—actually, I'd prefer a four-poster bed, with silk pillows, a couple of cats and the sound of my grandchildren playing outside. That's a good warrior's death where I come from. Not that I'd lay long odds at the moment, mind you."

  He was surprised by her answer, but only because the idea of grandchildren was so alien to him. A warrior of the Clans hoped only to die with honors enough that his or her genetic material would be incorporated into the eugenics program to create future warriors. But the concept of new warriors created from one's genetic material was a distant and abstract thing that could happen only after a warrior's death. To actually see the product of your genetic material. To know them—

  But then, of course, they would be freeborns, and thus inferior . . . only as inferior as my genes. And whoever's genes I blended them with.

  He shuddered, and tried to sweep the entire line of thinking out of his head. The very idea was forbidden, contrary to all Clan tradition and doctrine. I sound like a Freeminder.

  But he realized that he was studying the line of Karen's back, the curve of her hips, and that some animal part of his brain was speculating about her genetic fitness. At least, that was the scientific way of putting it.

  Stop it!

  As though sensing his gaze, she glanced over her shoulder at him, then turned back to watch the activity at the far end of the ruined barracks. Behind lines of yellow tape. Clan paramilitary police and civilian technicians still searched for clues to the bombing.

  She turned to him. "Where will you go?"

  He didn't immediately answer. He hadn't thought that far ahead. They could double up with the elementals, but their barracks were located across the spaceport, inconveniently far from the 'Mech hangars. Civilian quarters would be even farther away. "We could set up tents."