Ideal War

by Christopher Kubasik

  * * *

  Master moved through the corridors of the palace, which were alive with couples flirting, groups conducting politics, and others sometimes combining romance with affairs of state. His journey took him down a great hall filled with statues of previous Marik family members. The line stretched all the way back to Johan Marik, a German prince of the thirteenth century. The Marik family had ruled a portion of Europe near Switzerland until Terra's first world war, when the ravages of battle destroyed their homeland.

  After passing the last of the statues, he saw ahead of him a man in Regulan military dress uniform seated on a marble bench set against the wall. The man's head was lowered, as if sad or drunk. As Masters approached, the man lifted his gaze, becoming recognizable as Colonel Roush of the Regulan Hussars. "Nathen, good to see you," Masters said. "I didn't know you'd be here." He'd met Roush several times before, having found him to be a good enough fellow. Though Regulus and the Marik Commonwealth were rivals, Masters saw no need to bring that tension to bear here and now.

  Roush looked up at Masters like a gunner gauging a shot, then dropped his glass, which shattered against the marble floor. The sound of the glass splintering seemed beyond his range of hearing. "Wouldn't have missed it for the world, Masters," he said, standing up with a bit of a sway. "You and your liege. Pretty fancy. I wanted to be here to see the ruin of the Free Worlds League."

  A flash of red went off in Masters' mind. Roush was angry, and they had both been drinking. He had to be careful. Was the man jealous? Though Masters knew that the knighthood offered by Thomas would not interest Roush, perhaps he still felt slighted at not being invited to join the Knights. The colonel was a fierce Regulan nationalist, who had long been pressuring the rulers of the Principality of Regulus to invest in new weapon systems to keep them from "being left behind" in the war of technology.

  There it was, pure and simple. Roush hated the idea of the Knights and what they stood for.

  "I know what you're up to. You and Marik. You're pushing his bid to rule the Free Worlds. It won't work. Do you think that Marik can pull together a private army and no one take notice?"

  "We didn't try to hide it."

  "No, but you're hiding what you plan to do with it."

  Roush continued to sway as he spoke, and Masters thought it prudent to leave before things got even hotter.

  "Where're you going?"

  "I have a meeting with the Captain-General."

  Roush seemed surprised, as if thrown off track without knowing exactly how it came about. "Oh." Then he grabbed his resolve and said, "What do you think is going to happen when the other Successor States find out that we're moving backward in our war efforts?"

  "We're not moving—"

  "Of course we are, you idiot." Roush stepped forward and jabbed Masters in the chest. "We're going to be weak."

  Masters stepped back, not wanting to unleash the flush of anger rising in him. "The Free Worlds League will be stronger because ..."

  "I know," Roush said mockingly. "'stronger in spirit.' I read the press release. Do you think that matters? When it comes to war, you must do anything to win. 'War is an act of force, and there is no logical limit to the application of that force.' "

  "Von Clausewitz lived in a different age, Colonel. He didn't have weapons that could ravage an entire planet within moments."

  "That doesn't change the reality of war: the side that can destroy the enemy first wins."

  "No. Clausewitz said that the job was to disarm the enemy. He also said that societies can use intelligence in order not to destroy cities. The Captain-General is attempting to strengthen the MechWarrior tradition, a product of intelligence and choice, in hopes it will help prevent humanity from destroying itself in all-out war."

  "Von Clausewitz would have called you a fool."

  "I would have called him an infant in the history of humanity. I also point out that we are preserving the profession of the MechWarrior. Too many improvements in war technology will weaken the role of BattleMechs. Right now they cannot be harmed by any mobile weapons. But it is quite possible that if we pursue certain lines of technology, MechWarriors like us could find ourselves obsolete. BattleMechs are too expensive to justify if they are not the kings of the battlefield."

  "Is that all you are concerned with? Your job?"

  Masters laughed. "Yes, in part. I'm surprised you're surprised. Why shouldn't I fight for my job? I'm a soldier. I like fighting. I want to keep fighting. Before the collapse of the Star League there existed a great deal of war technology, weapons not so much for use by soldiers as to be unleashed. Gases, tactical nukes, laser beams that shot across the field in random directions and blinded soldiers. What work is there for a soldier with weapons like that? We become just corpses waiting to happen; body counts for the home front. No, Colonel, I'd rather have a primitive war in which I have a real part to play."

  "The weapons will always grow. It is the way of it."

  "Not so. At the end of the sixteenth century the Japanese were making the best firearms in the world. But when the samurai realized the weapons would make their skills obsolete, they stopped using them. A peasant with five minutes of training could cut down a sword master with forty years' experience. Within a hundred years, firearms had disappeared from Japan."

  "A fairy tale-"

  "What would I gain by lying?"

  "And what do you think the other rulers of the Inner Sphere will think when they realize the implications of your Knights? You think they'll simply come charging in?"

  "There are no guarantees they will not. But there are two things to consider. First, since the object of war is to disarm the enemy, if we are not a threat, we might not be a prime target."

  "No! That will make us all the more likely to be attacked."

  "And second, remember that von Clausewitz makes it clear that a nation's strength consists of two complementary components: the total means at its disposal and the strength of its will. Now, for convenience and ease, we have spent countless decades increasing our means in war, but paid little attention to our will. Why? Because will isn't measurable or quantifiable. It makes technocrats nervous because it doesn't help them work up government contracts to fund projects when there is no war. It makes politicians nervous because the will of the people can't be manipulated. What happens, they always have to wonder, if the people suddenly don't want to fight a war anymore? Better for both parties to depend on technology alone. If it is possible to build a weapon that any button-pusher can use easily and quickly, then governments don't have to depend on their citizens to back their policies. A war can be fought and won or lost even before the people know what's happened."

  "And . . . ?"

  "Thomas and I believe that the Knights of the Inner Sphere will make the will of the people in the Free Worlds League stronger here than anywhere else in the Inner Sphere. We are giving the people a chance to participate in something glorious. Elsewhere people are simply chess pieces in insane politics. People will look to the Knights for inspiration. We will have the best-motivated population, and knowing this, the leaders of the other Successor States will hesitate to attack."

  "A dream."

  "Exactly. Now, if you'll excuse me."

  "No," Roush said, grabbing Masters by the shoulder and swinging him around. Swaying, unbalanced, Masters couldn't do much more at that moment than watch Roush's fist come rushing toward his face.

  4

  Marik Palace, Atreus

  Marik Commonwealth, Free Worlds League

  1 January 3055

  Catching Masters full in the nose, the punch sent him sprawling across the corridor like a BattleMech with ruined gyroscopes, then crashing against the wall. So dazed was he that it took a moment to remember where he was and what was happening.

  He grabbed the edges of the marble bench, shaking his head to clear it. When he could see again, he fixed his gaze on Roush. "Colonel. You're drunk. Let's say we just—"

  But Roush was alr
eady rushing him and shouting, "You will not destroy my home!" Taking Masters by the throat, he slammed his head into the wall. Sharp pain lanced through the base of Masters' skull.

  The hell with it, he thought, bringing his hands up between Roush's outstretched arms and snapping them apart with all his might. As Roush's hands flew wide, it left his middle open. Bringing up one foot, Masters slammed it into Roush's gut. The other man let out a cry and staggered back. As he did, Masters rose and took two quick steps forward. With a clean, precise motion, he swept kicked Roush's legs out from under him, sending the man to the floor.

  Part of Masters wanted to simply leave and let the matter rest, but Roush's arrogance in attacking him in Thomas' home was too much to bear. As Roush struggled to get up, Masters dropped down onto the man's stomach and forced him to exhale with a horrible gasp. Then he jabbed one hand against Roush's neck and said, "If this is how your people reward hospitality, Colonel, it will be my pleasure to dismantle the Principality of Regulus."

  Hearing the clatter of boots approaching, Masters looked up and saw two palace guards rushing toward them. He got up off Roush, who remained on the ground, still gasping for air and looking quite surprised. When the guards came up, one asked, "Sir Masters, are you all right?"

  "Yes, I'm fine," he said, gingerly touching his nose to assess the damage. His hand slid against a thick layer of warm blood that covered his upper lip and dripped into his mouth and down his chin. He cursed, and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket.

  "Get him out of here," he told the guards.

  * * *

  "Blake's word! What happened to you?" Thomas exclaimed, astonished, as Masters entered the study.

  "I had a discussion about the Knights with Colonel Roush of the Regulan Hussars. We didn't see things eye to eye." His vision slowly adjusted to the soft, dim light.

  Thomas got up from behind his large desk and crossed the room to Masters. "That handkerchiefs soaked with blood. Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine. The palace doctor tells me nothing's broken. It's just a lot of blood."

  "Are you unsteady on your feet, Sir Masters?"

  "Fine, sir."

  "Well, sit down before you fall down. It's always better to surrender to gravity than to succumb to it."

  "Sir." Masters took the first well-upholstered chair and sank into it, deciding he wouldn't move again for some time. Maybe for a day or two. "Is there a reason I'm here? A fellow knight and I were exchanging caresses of warm breath before your call brought me into close quarters with that boor."

  "My apologies, but there's someone I want you to meet."

  A knock came at the door. "Captain-General Marik."

  "Yes," Thomas said, his voice suddenly strong and certain.

  "Word of Blake Precentor Gibson here to see you."

  Thomas took several long-legged strides to the door and opened it himself. Standing in the corridor was a page, and behind him a plump, dark man with a leonine mane of gray hair and an enormous handlebar mustache to match. He looked to be about Thomas' age, and when they saw each other, the two men laughed and embraced. "Thomas!" Blane said, and Thomas returned with "William!"

  "It's been far too long, Thomas."

  "Affairs of state, and so on."

  They broke their embrace and Thomas gestured for Blane to enter the room, then shut the door.

  "Sir Masters, I'd like to introduce an old friend from my days in ComStar, William Blane, Word of Blake Precentor on the planet Gibson. William, this is the most beloved of my Knights of the Inner Sphere, Sir Paul Masters."

  Precentor Blane looked visibly shocked at the sight of Masters' bloated and bloodied nose. "Are you all right?"

  "A fight. I'm a soldier. Just doing my job." Precentor Blane stepped forward and shook Masters' hand. "Well, as long as you won. Congratulations, sir. You two should know what a stir you've created with the announcement of the Knights. I was in the tavern of my hotel earlier and all the news channels were covering it. Discussion among the patrons was most animated." Blane's cheeks filled out and turned red as he spoke. He seemed a very happy man.

  "Good or bad discussion, Precentor?" asked Masters.

  Thomas headed toward the bar. "Will you have something to drink, Bill?"

  "Yes on that drink. Whiskey. Straight. And you, Sir Masters—call me Bill, please. Precentor is a title I hold dearly and in all respect, but there are times . . . Anyway, the patrons. Yes, you've created quite a rumble. It'll take a few weeks for the news to spread across the Free Worlds League, of course, but soon it will be the talk of the stars. Mark my words."

  Despite his words, Blane's joviality faltered and Masters realized the pleasant mood was a pumped-up facade. The Precentor's good-natured smile fell away, and when next he spoke, his tone was deadly serious. He rubbed his forehead. "Do you two have any idea what you're doing?"

  Thomas turned and gave Masters a faint smile. "We were just discussing that when you arrived." He handed Blane a whiskey.

  "Tom, people are already beginning to wonder if you're plotting a coup. This whole thing has caught everyone off guard. People nearly came to blows in the tavern. Blake knows what will happen when word of it reaches the other principalities. The minute Regulus gets word, they'll surely begin polishing up their atomics."

  Both Masters and Thomas looked at him, their faces suddenly white. "Just an exaggeration," the Precentor said, trying to restore calm. "That's all. I haven't heard that they've actually dug something out of their basement. But you know what I mean. They won't go to war over this, but Cameron-Jones isn't going to sit still. You've grabbed three of his best MechWarriors."

  "He should have treated them better," Thomas said, walking back to take a seat at his desk. At his signal Masters also returned to his well-padded chair.

  Blane remained standing, too agitated to light anywhere. He laughed nervously. "Well, yes. That's easy for you to say. But you've encouraged treason."

  "Yes, Bill. I have. I broke the rules. I've encouraged treason. I've rewarded those who practiced it. But when the rules are fallow, when they can no longer support the human spirit, they must be disregarded. If I lose in the long run, I'll be labeled a traitorous bastard. If I win, I'm a legendary revolutionary."

  "We're a bit old to lead revolutions, Tom." Blane waddled over to a chair and finally sat.

  "Nonsense. Age gives perspective. And besides, Bill, you've left ComStar to join the Word of Blake reformation. How can you point a finger at me for breaking the rules?"

  Blane knocked back half his glass. "That's a completely different matter. The split between ComStar and Word of Blake is a religious issue. It's private. What you've done has thrown the entire Free Worlds League into confusion. Or it's about to."

  "Well, I certainly hope so. It's one of my goals."

  Blane looked down at the floor and began to rock slightly in his seat. "What right have you to play such games when there are so many other matters of military importance in the Free Worlds League?" he said plaintively. "This is absurd, Tom. A knightly order? We use feudalism to control the interstellar governments between stars because it's the only way to do it.

  No one wants to become even deeper entrenched in its mire. More than one man has suggested that you've lost your mind. I chalked it up to your romanticism. But it's one thing when you wax eloquent about the need for ideals while strolling along the seashore on a moonlit night. It's quite another when, by a series of odd chances, you actually end up with enough power to implement the madness."

  Masters stood up, a desire to wring the Precentor's neck swelling within him. His hands had clenched into fists, but when he looked to Thomas for a nod, Marik waved his hand, a silent command to wait. Unsure what to do, Masters walked to the far side of the room, where he stood with one elbow resting on a bookshelf. He thought that assuming nonchalance might be a way to trick himself into calming down, but it didn't work. The fight with Roush mixed with drink made him even more edgy.

  "Bill," said Thomas,
"I think that the military situation of the Free Worlds League, of the entire Inner Sphere, must be addressed, and addressed now. The concern about another Clan invasion, the increasing probability of another Succession War, the disputes within the Free Worlds League, and, of course, the war on your own planet, all are issues of military concern. The question I am trying to address is how will we answer these military concerns? The solution that everyone, including your own people, is throwing at me, is to use more firepower and to make harsher assaults. But I do not agree. My plan for restructuring the armed forces of the Free Worlds League has everything to do with threats that already exist within the Free Worlds, and with threats still to come. I want to deal with these matters before we are forced, out of desperation, to take actions that could make us despise ourselves."

  Precentor Blane leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hands over his face. "Thomas, you know the power of technology. You studied with ComStar for many years. Technology has its own inner life. Our role is to pursue that technology, to try, in our own feeble way, to keep up with it. To respect it and shape it to save the Inner Sphere."

  "Yes." Thomas stood and walked around the desk. "Exactly. But I think that some technology seduces us. It calls us to pursue it, yet it is actually no more than a false lead, or worse, a possible danger to our race."

  Precentor Blane looked up from behind his hands, his face wary, almost afraid. Masters wondered if Thomas had stirred up a ComStar theological land mine. The organization was so shrouded in secrecy that it often didn't make much sense to Masters. When two True Believers started going at it, they could leave outsiders behind in a cloud of veiled allusions and half-spoken assumptions.

  The two men stared at each other for a long moment, then both began to slowly turn their heads toward Masters. "Perhaps this is not the time," Precentor Blane said slowly .

  "I agree," said Thomas.