Thomas Marik climbed a staircase attached to a tall, wide pillar set at the center of the holomap. The glowing stars of the holomap moved about like will-o'-the-wisps against the purple robe and long scarred face of this sixty-five-year-old man.
The sunlight had begun to fade, and the night's actual stars began to appear in the darkening sky, shining through the holomap. Masters smiled at the beauty of it; the ideal against the real. Malory's romantic vision had put a new spin on the way he saw the universe. He knew it wasn't real, but he knew that was the key. Malory's tale might not be accurate, but it bent just slightly what Masters had thought possible, like light curved by the pull of a sun.
" Mech Warriors!" Thomas said, standing even taller as he gripped the railing set around the pillar. The crowd settled into silence. "We are at a crossroads. Six hundred years ago, after interstellar wars threatened the extinction of our race, the leaders of the Inner Sphere created the rules of warfare known as the Ares Conventions. And entrusted with the responsibility of conducting battle according to these rules were the warriors of the Inner Sphere. When wars were fought, it was you, the MechWarriors, who monitored the level of destruction, who were careful to engage only other warriors, not civilians.
"Although the first BattleMech was not built until several decades after the creation of the Ares Conventions, they were the perfect tools to implement the ideals of the Conventions. A 'Mech empowered the noble man or woman to settle the disputes of parties at war as they should be settled: through the skills of the warrior, not through an indiscriminate rain of bullets and shrapnel."
The circle of one hundred and fifty MechWarriors raised their voices in a shout of approval. Applause drifted down from the bleachers.
Masters looked around. The faces were both young and old, dark and light, and of all races. Some had been poor as children, some rich. But this they all shared in common: they knew what a BattleMech represented, even if they had no way to express the idea in words, for the language of honor and imagination had eroded slowly over the years. Now, each face was raised toward Thomas Marik, some approvingly, some still with skepticism. Each one knew what Thomas would propose, but the moment of decision had not yet arrived. Until that time, Marik had to make his case clear, to make them choose to leave behind their previous loyalties and to swear their fealty to him. The real concern, which pricked Masters' thoughts like a splinter, was that despite the careful background checks and conversations with all the candidates, one or more of them might have accepted the invitation as an opportunity to discredit Thomas at the moment of the oath-taking. As things stood, the ceremony was an impressive event being beamed throughout the stars. If, however, some MechWarrior were to denounce Thomas in the midst of the ceremony, the whole thing would become a horrible blunder instead of a great triumph.
"The spirit of the Ares Conventions did not truly take hold for hundreds of years, not until the treasure of humanity's knowledge was nearly wiped out during the first three Succession Wars. Lacking so much of the science that catapulted humanity on our voyage among the stars, we had to fight wars much more cautiously. Through sheer necessity we limited the conduct of war. We respected our warrior class, allowing the enemy to retrieve wounded soldiers. We kept the fury of battle low in order to salvage parts of 'Mechs for future battles.
"But now these chivalrous practices are in jeopardy. Times have changed. Our scientific progress has retrieved knowledge that had been lost through the devastation of war. Wars like those in the days of old are becoming possible once more. Fear now grips people across the Inner Sphere. They no longer trust the warrior class, but want victories at any cost. Cities are now battlefields, civilians killed at a terrible rate, production facilities becoming targets once again. I fear that we are headed down the same dark path that nearly destroyed us centuries ago. This time we may not escape hurtling over the precipice. This time we may simply fall."
Again Masters looked around the giant ring of Mech Warriors. The faces were somber now. Some of the warriors looked down, their minds full of thought. Would they accept Thomas' offer?
"Across the Inner Sphere, hundreds of light years away, we know of the invasion of the Clans into the Inner Sphere. We have heard the tales. We know that though the Clanspeople are descended from our stock, they are not human. They have no respect for life, but worship only war.
"Some say we must be ready to fight as they do, to descend to their barbaric level. I say no, we must not. If you become the enemy, the enemy wins, no matter the outcome of the battle. We must be ready to fight the Clans, and we must be ready to fight the other desperate Successor States that surround us, but we must fight them our way."
Marik paused and turned slowly around the dais, gazing into the eyes of the surrounding MechWarriors. "We must remain true to what we know is right. In the last few centuries we have taken steps toward saving our race from total destruction. Now we find ourselves at an old crossroads. Will we continue to work toward the goals established in the Ares Conventions, or will the proliferation of combat technology return us to the days of indiscriminate total war?"
"And what would you have us do?" shouted a big bear of a man named Gainard.
Masters looked up at Thomas Marik. He seemed ruffled momentarily, but only someone like Masters, who knew him well, would perceive it. To everyone else Thomas would appear in firm control.
"I have gathered you here to make you an offer. You are aware, no doubt, that the face of the military caste is changing quickly. The day of the Mech Warrior families is quickly coming to a close. Soon the noble title of MechWarrior will no longer be passed down through generations, but won by anyone who can apply to the appropriate academy. MechWarriors have become sucked into the same organizational structures as the dry military units of the past."
Many of the gathered MechWarriors began to shift uncomfortably, and Thomas raised a hand to still them. "I do not speak of anarchy. We need units of organization, of course. But MechWarriors are not merely soldiers, and that is what the worlds of the Inner Sphere would have you be. Where once a 'Mech was a prized and valuable object, making its pilot an exceptional person throughout the Inner Sphere, technology is making BattleMechs cheap and common, and thus, by extension, also the warriors who pilot them." Again a shifting in the crowd, this one not of protest, but acknowledgment of an uncomfortable truth.
"Think of Solaris Seven, a world devoted to turning the art of 'Mech warfare into a cheap sport. This is not what we want to see happen." Here the MechWarriors nodded their agreement, and some spoke softly to each other, affirming Thomas' concerns.
"I offer you this. I offer you a place in my new order of knights, the Knights of the Inner Sphere." This time a loud murmur passed through the ring of warriors, and Masters smiled. So did Thomas. They had kept the name a secret until this moment.
"I know," Thomas said. "It is a presumptuous title, for I can speak only for the Free Worlds League. But I have chosen the name because my knights will represent all MechWarriors who believe that a warrior should be free of the petty politics of transitory warlords, bound only by the ideals of his profession. These ideals extend far beyond the borders of the Free Worlds League. And far beyond the borders of the Inner Sphere. And, in fact, far beyond the flesh that binds each of our souls. For these ideals existed before our time, and will endure forever. They are the ideals mirrored in our religions, our philosophies, and in our stories. We can only try to represent them in our lives, as you, all of you, attempt to mirror them in your conduct as MechWarriors."
Thomas paused, and let his gaze travel the assembled warriors once more. Then he began to speak again in a deep and resonant voice. "If you would live to be more than common men and common women, join my cause. I ask you now, who stands with me?"
3
Marik Palace, Atreus
Marik Commonwealth, Free Worlds League
1 January 3055
As Thomas spoke his question, silence fell over the proceedings. To Masters, the s
tillness seemed interminable. He wanted to raise his sword and utter a cry of loyalty, but too many knew of his friendship with Thomas. The gesture would seem hollow, no more than a stunt.
But then he heard the sliding of steel to his left. And then to his right. He looked and saw MechWarrior after MechWarrior drawing his or her ceremonial sword. The swords were from countless worlds and cultures, some curved, some straight. And yet, after all the centuries of autocannon and missiles and lasers, the sword was still the symbol of the warrior's profession.
"I am with you Captain-General Thomas Marik," called Gainard, his voice full of feeling.
"I am with you!" called out another. "I am with you!" shouted yet another. One after another the warriors raised their swords and declared their fealty to Thomas and the order of the Knights of the Inner Sphere. Masters' relief brought tears to his eyes.
Thomas' impulse had obviously been correct. There was something loose in the Free Worlds League, a fear of a possible future in which the chaos of war would engulf the stars.
Soon it was complete, all swords raised but Masters'. It was then that he finally lifted his blade and said proudly, "I am with you, Thomas Marik."
Thomas, his body surrounded by the holomap's mass of colored stars, looked down at Masters and nodded. Then he turned slowly, addressing each knight. "I am honored, warriors. I am most honored. And I will not disappoint your trust. Let us seal this oath with an ancient ceremony from the days of Terra's past, a ceremony that has not seen use for more than a thousand years."
Masters watched as Thomas changed from a man who spoke of communal interests into a leader who rose above them all. He seemed to become taller, his face grimmer, and when he spoke again, his voice was deeper. "If you would swear loyalty to me, kneel now."
Almost as one, the assembled MechWarriors dropped to one knee.
"Do you swear and acknowledge me as your true and lawful liege?"
"Yes!" went the cry, true and clear.
"Do you swear fealty to me, and swear your services to me, to be forever in my service, until death shall take you?"
"Yes."
"For my part, I do swear to defend and honor each of you as befits a true knight. From this day hence you shall no longer serve in the military bureaucracies of your past, but exist outside all structures but one: the Knights of the Inner Sphere."
A shiver passed through Masters. He looked around him. Finally he had found a family, a group one hundred and fifty strong, who cared as he did about the fate of warfare, a group unwilling to let events simply roll over them, but who would shape history according to their desires. "Wear the title proudly, for you are now more than you were before, and the worlds of the Inner Sphere will recognize you as such. Wield your weapons and your skills to serve and defend me well."
As they had kneeled, now the group of men and women rose again as one. Infected by the fervor of becoming forged as a group, they shouted, "All hail Thomas Marik!" A tremendous roar of approval swept over the audience, the clamor deafening. Masters felt his breathing quicken. There. It was done. They had begun the process of cutting across the balkanized powers of the Free Worlds League. One hundred and fifty MechWarriors had broken their former ties and sworn allegiance not to a state, but personally to Thomas Marik.
Now all they had to do was survive the backlash.
* * *
The knights celebrated wildly in the palace's great hall, along with the hundreds of guests. Servants carried bread and cheese and roast meats and broiled fowl and fish and wine and ale and beer; dancers and jugglers cut their way through the crowd; musicians played and the knights and guests danced and danced.
Sir Paul Masters had not been so happy since his first days of warrior training more than twenty years ago. Everything seemed in place now. Being a MechWarrior was no longer just a job. He'd embarked upon a vocation.
He stared down into his wine glass and smiled. It was all coming together. It was going to work.
Masters looked around and saw some guests scurrying over to one another, open shock on their faces. They really had no idea that the MechWarriors would swear fealty to Thomas, and now clutched at one another as their long-held social structures began to slip away.
It wasn't just that there were knights now. MechWarriors had always been knights. Nor was it that Thomas was encouraging feudalism. Feudalism had ruled interstellar governments for nearly as long as humanity had settled the stars. Throughout the Free Worlds League—and the Inner Sphere, for that matter—were counts and barons and duchesses. They were in granted continents, or asteroid belts, or worlds, responsible for overseeing the safety of the population and acting as their lord's eyes, ears, and military arm, for communication was slow between all but the most important of worlds, and travel through space even slower. Often the royalty had little to do with the planet they watched over; it was an interstellar superstructure that existed beyond the local governments of star systems. A man might be baron of a world with a constitutional republic and never interfere with local politics as long as things ran smoothly. Or he might become quite involved. As long as the liege's wishes were being carried out, it was the vassal's business how he behaved.
No, what startled some of the guests was that Thomas meant it. For at least a century, the bond of loyalty that should exist between liege and vassal had been evaporating like sea water from a rock. It was clear that Thomas the idealist, Thomas the upstart— who had no business even being a Successor State ruler—was letting the romantic images of feudalism go to his head.
A woman whose name he remembered as Boyer came up to him. "Dance?"
She was small, her brown hair short, her skin dark from days spent in the sun. He was drawn to her, seeing the evening's giddiness lighting even more her bright, intelligent eyes. He could sense that she also wanted to toast the festivities with intimacy.
"Dame Boyer," Masters said, adding her new title. He placed his glass on the table beside him.
"Sir Masters," she said adding his, and smiled. He took her hand and put an arm around her waist as he led her out to the dance floor.
Both had already consumed a great deal of liquor, making them sway awkwardly and out of time with the music as they moved across the floor. She laughed, and let her cheek rest against his chest. Her laugh quickly became a snorting sound, which only made her laugh harder. Masters joined in, letting loose his own deep guffaw. "I'm sorry," she said, tears appearing at the corners of her eyes.
"No, no. It's fine. Everything's fine."
As their laughter subsided, he pulled her close. They slowed their dancing, trying to keep their momentum under control. She kept her head against his chest, and when she spoke, the words seemed to vibrate near his heart. "Can this really be happening?" Her voice was serious, and he realized that she was cataloguing the same doubts that had plagued Masters when he and Thomas had discussed the plan for the knightly order months and months ago.
"Yes. It's really happening. Whether it will work, whether it will bring us good fortune or ill, I do not know. But it is happening."
They moved even more slowly now, out of time with the spirited music being pounded out by the musicians. Couples swirled around them, a blur of colors and laughter. Boyer raised her head, which put her lips near his neck. He felt her breath warm against his flesh, letting his own float down to her ear. "Oh," she said, and laughed.
A voice cut through their intimacy. "Sir Masters?"
Without turning, Masters snapped, "What?" in a tone he hoped would communicate his desire not to be disturbed.
"The Captain-General, sir. He'd like to see you now."
Masters turned and saw a seventeen-year-old page standing behind him. He looked back to Dame Boyer. She arched her eyebrows and stepped away. "There it is," she said, and smiled.
"Exactly," said Masters. "Wait for me?"
"Maybe." She swayed her hips a bit.
"Exactly." He smiled and turned toward the large doors at the end of the hall. The page rushed t
o get ahead of him so he could lead, but Masters said, "Lad, the study, correct?"
"Yes."
"I know the way. Go get yourself something to eat."
* * *
The woman walked directly up to him, and even before he could greet her, she was taking his hand and saying, "I hear you're the one who arranged all this."
"I . . . ," he said, and tried to extract his hand from her grasp, more from surprise than from embarrassment. She responded by sliding her fingertips against his, like a cat rubbing its head against a hand, and then running her fingernails up his arm. Then she lightly raked the nails back down his forearm and again took his hand in hers.
"I didn't exactly arrange it," Masters said. "I helped the Captain-General." He wondered if she was royalty or merely someone hoping to have a liaison with a now-famous MechWarrior. "Have we met?"
"Countess Dystar of Gibson."
Now he remembered having seen her picture. "Sir Paul Masters," he said, and stepped back to lift her hand to his lips. "A pleasure. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must attend to my liege."
She stepped closer again. "Can you attend to me later?"
He smiled. "You are direct, aren't you, Countess?"
She smiled back. "Do you think so? I'm restraining myself actually, considering the fact that we're surrounded by hundreds of people."
"Well, I really must be going. And I promised a dance to someone else. But maybe we'll meet some other time. A pleasure meeting you."
"Is Thomas Marik really so much more interesting than me?"
"You wouldn't try to delay me in attending my liege, would you?"
"Oh, no. I just want to make sure you've thought through what you're missing."
"Countess, if I were to think it through, I would never get to my meeting." She gave a laugh both delicate and mirthful, champagne pouring into a glass. "Good evening."
He moved past her, then felt a slap against his bottom as he did. Walking on, he couldn't help but think, What a crude and endearing woman.
Ideal War Page 3
