Ideal War

by Christopher Kubasik

A pang of jealousy reverberated through Masters. Though he felt closer to Thomas Marik than to any other man, he knew that his friend's days in ComStar would always be closed to him, and Thomas' continuing connection with Word of Blake would always remain outside his understanding.

  "Then what of Gibson?" asked Blane.

  "You tell me. You have come here seeking help?"

  "Not so much help as time. The war is going well, but we need more time to win it."

  "So it is a war," Thomas said. "When I called it that before, you didn't contradict me. And now you use the same word. Yet the last report that crossed my desk called the conflict on Gibson a small uprising that would be put down within a month. That was over a year ago. I don't suppose you could explain this little discrepancy, eh, Bill?"

  5

  Marik Palace, Atreus

  Marik Commonwealth, Free Worlds League

  1 January 3055

  Precentor Blane moved his hands in the air as if they were scales measuring the weight of different words. "A war, a rebellion. I don't claim to understand such terms. But I'm here now to tell you what is happening. Both Word of Blake and Countess Dystar are providing funds to prepare troops."

  "The Countess?"

  "She's hiring mercenaries."

  " 'Mech units?" asked Masters.

  "Infantry. It's mostly infantry, with 'Mech support. The Gibson Freedom League only has two 'Mechs, the two who turned on the Countess when the rebellion broke out. We're trying to find them, but so far . . ."

  Masters shook his head. Thomas' words from the knighting ceremony rang in his ears. During the Fourth Succession War he had fought against massive infantry resistance on Procyon, but it had been a last-ditch attempt on the part of the Procyons, not the basis for the war. Now, instead of being at the forefront, 'Mechs were being relegated to the back of the war, performing as infantry support.

  Thomas shook his head. "I need the matter on Gibson settled quickly. As it stands, the fact that I have given sanctuary to the True Believers is beginning to have unfortunate ramifications. Most people have never understood ComStar, and so this schism that has divided the organization in two doesn't draw much sympathy from the citizens of the Free Worlds League."

  "You wouldn't turn your back on us?"

  "No. But I could have handled matters in a way to make my life easier. If the True Believers could have been dispersed among the Free Worlds as I suggested, it would have—"

  "We had to keep them together. We need to build a new community, a new home. We're very clannish."

  "No matter. Dropping tens of thousands of True Believers down on any world is going to cause problems. And then you said you wanted them with you on Gibson."

  "ComStar has always had a strong presence on Gibson. We had a 'Mech garrison there. I had assurances from Principal Hsiang and Countess Dystar that everything would run smoothly."

  "And now it seems that they were wrong. What are we going to do about it?"

  "The war is going well. I've looked over the reports. We're anticipating GFL casualty dividends exceeding troop investments by more than ten percent this quarter."

  "What?" said Masters.

  Blane glanced at Masters as if he were a bug that had only been allowed to live this long because it had been, up until now, quiet. "We're winning," he said quietly. Masters decided to let it go.

  "But you need more time."

  "The Countess mentioned that you might want to negotiate a settlement with the guerrillas. But we need to win this war, Tom. I'm talking about the government of Gibson—those in power. We need to show the people that the True Believers have a home, a home honored by you, by Principal Hsiang, and Countess Dystar. Removing my own interests from the discussion for a moment, you should not settle with these rebels. They are directly contradicting your will."

  Thomas raised his hands in front of his chest and placed them together as if in prayer. "Very well. You are correct. I do not want to settle with the GFL. They should respect my will. They were told that they would host the True Believers from ComStar, and that is what they will do. But the conflict must end. Each day it goes on makes it look as though I made a mistake inviting the True Believers here, and that people loyal to me are incapable of putting down the insurrection."

  "It will end. It will end soon. I have word from Precentor Martial Arian that the war is going well and will soon be over."

  "From who?" Masters asked.

  "Precentor Martial Arian," Blane said wearily. "He's not from the Free Worlds League. He's a ComStar commander lately stationed in the Free Rasalhague Republic, now a member of Word of Blake on Gibson." He took another swallow of his whiskey. "The Clans didn't leave much untouched in Rasalhague, from what I hear. He lost everything."

  "Well," said Thomas, "I will be sending you some help. My best knight, Sir Masters, will accompany you back to Gibson. I'll draw up orders attaching him to the Gibson Loyalist forces."

  Blane's mouth opened slightly in surprise. "The Gibson forces are currently under the command of Precentor Martial Arian. You'll have to check with him."

  "What?" said Masters and Thomas together. "The Gibson forces are under the command of Word of Blake?" Masters asked.

  Blane sighed. "A joint effort, I think. It's all very muddled actually. I don't claim to understand it completely. Arian pressed for the True Believer forces to work in tandem with the Loyalist forces. Eventually Principal Hsiang became so impressed with the progress of the True Believer forces that he handed virtual control of the planet's military over to Arian."

  "And the Countess?" asked Thomas.

  "She's buying mercs and handing them over to Arian to spend as he wishes."

  Spend? thought Masters.

  "Why wasn't I told about this?" asked Thomas.

  "As I said, it's very muddled. Frankly, I'm having trouble sorting through the command structure."

  "Fine. Why wasn't I told about the muddled command structure?"

  "Actually, I thought you knew. I just realized you didn't when you said you wanted to attach Captain Masters ... my apologies, Sir Masters ... to the Loyalist forces."

  "Why did you think I knew?"

  "I thought for certain that Hsiang or the Countess would have told you. Maybe the communique was never sent." Precentor Blane looked visibly disturbed. "You really didn't hear about this?"

  "No, not at all. But I'll check our records to see what might have happened."

  "The Countess is here, Captain-General," Masters said. "For the ceremony. We could bring her to you."

  "Excellent." Thomas stepped to the door and alerted a page to bring Countess Dystar to the study. Returning his attention to the room, he said, "Sir Masters will accompany you to Gibson. He will study the war situation closely, and send back a full report."

  Blane looked at Masters somewhat distastefully, then a smile spread across his dark face. "Thank goodness. Someone on the field who can understand the war and who can explain it to me. I must confess that though I've lived on Gibson for fifteen years as its Precentor, I've never engaged much in its politics."

  "Which is as it should be," said Thomas. "Your concern was with ComStar, the ComStar members on the planet, and the operation of the hyperpulse generator."

  "Yes. Until now. Tens of thousands of my people have landed on Gibson and want to become part of its culture." His shoulders drooped. "Sometimes I find myself unable to deal with Principal Hsiang and Countess Dystar. It will take time for the True Believers to become part of Gibson society."

  "Why is that?" asked Masters.

  "I don't exactly know how to put it. Dystar and Hsiang always seem to have something else in their eyes when they speak. I'm sorry. I haven't been able to sort it out completely." He laughed. "I suppose that I'd be able to deal with them if I could. Luckily, my principal aide, Precentor Starling, seems to have established a good rapport with them. And with the people of Gibson. Starling and I have our theological differences, of course. But in most other matters we see eye t
o eye. He's a True Believer emigre, came in with Precentor Martial Arian. I knew I couldn't be the one to establish the connections with the Gibson government and people that these new circumstances required. It needed someone younger, someone who would be living on the planet a long time."

  "It is settled then. Sir Masters will serve us both as our eyes and ears on Gibson. Paul, when do you think you'll be ready to go?"

  Masters stood up straight, dropping his feigned casualness. "Whenever you command, sir."

  * * *

  Precentor Blane left soon after. "I can't say I much like the man," said Masters.

  "You're drunk and he's a cranky old True Believer. He's not going to trust you, no matter what, and you're inebriated enough to let it bother you. Now, let's talk about what you must do on Gibson."

  Masters dropped down into a chair once more. "Scout and report back, I thought. Help them quell the uprising."

  "Yes, that, and more."

  "More?"

  "Yes, more. I'm sending fifty of you, fifty Knights of the Inner Sphere, out into the Free Worlds League to search out trouble. We need to find places where the Knights can 'do good.' You must see if the situation on Gibson will make a good story."

  "Ah, a good story. Like Malory? I understand."

  Thomas laughed. "I doubt it. Not yet. Not in your state. But I think you will, over time."

  A knock came at the door. "Come in."

  A page opened the door. "Captain-General, we can't seem to find Countess Dystar anywhere," he said. "She may have left."

  "Check behind all closed doors," Masters said dryly.

  "Keep looking," Thomas said. "As long as we can't be sure she's left, keep looking."

  Masters' thoughts tumbled down dark holes as Thomas spoke with the page. He was going to Gibson to look for a good story? What was he: a journalist? He'd almost been able to follow the notion of making good stories, but the idea of searching for one . . . The more he thought about it, the more confused he became.

  "Paul," Thomas said, pulling him out of his reverie, "you look absolutely morbid. Go find that woman you told me about. Go celebrate."

  Masters' thoughts immediately lightened, and he stood. "Of course, my liege."

  He walked toward the door, then turned back. "What if we don't find the countess this evening?"

  "You'll get a chance to speak with her when you get to Gibson."

  "Of course. Good night, Thomas."

  Masters went from the room, closing the door behind him.

  * * *

  As he passed down a corridor taking him back to the party, Masters saw Countess Dystar approaching, her arm around the waist of a diplomat from the Duchy of Oriente. Spotting Masters, she removed her hand, said a few words, and sent the diplomat back the way they'd just come. She walked quickly over to Masters, her dress rustling like dry leaves as she moved.

  "Are you all right, dear?" she asked, stepping up to him, her hand hovering for just a moment near his nose, which he hid behind the bloodied handkerchief. "I heard what happened." He pulled back the handkerchief and showed her. "Oh, dear. Well. I'm sure it will heal," she said.

  "It will."

  "Most Regulans are boorish, but that Colonel Roush is the worst of the lot."

  "He might well be," Masters said, agreeing politely.

  "I wouldn't be surprised if they were the ones supplying the Goffels on my world with weapons."

  "The what?"

  "Goffels. The Gibson Freedom League. The guerrillas call themselves the GFL. In the city of Portent—the bastion of civilization on Gibson, let me assure you— we call them Goffels."

  "And you think the Regulans are supplying the GFL? That would be .. ."

  She laughed. "My, you can be serious. I was only joking, Sir Masters. No. I have no idea. Precentor Martial Arian is convinced someone is supplying them from off-world. . . . But, I'm sorry. I don't even know if you're familiar with the situation on my little planet."

  "I have only recently become acquainted with the situation. In fact I'll be traveling back to Gibson with Precentor Blane, and he explained ..." Her face fell into a pout at the mention of Blane's name. "What is it?"

  "Blane is a horrid little man. Now you listen to me, you handsome Knight-aside-from-that-horrible-red-nose-you've-got, that man is trouble. Mind you, I have no proof. But whereas before I was jesting about Regulus, now I am quite serious. There's something about him I don't like. He's quite clever. Comes off as somewhat removed, interested only in Word of Blake." Masters nodded. "But he's got more up his sleeve than all of us."

  She placed her hand on his arm and steered him into an alcove set into a wall. She placed her fingers on his inner thigh. "Enough politics. Let's get better acquainted. If you're going to be a guest on my world, I'll need to know more about what you like."

  "Actually, the Captain-General is looking for you. He wants your summation of the war on Gibson. I'm sure these details would interest him."

  Creases appeared on the countess' forehead as she frowned. "I sent him details months ago. What does he want to talk about?"

  "The fact that the Gibson Loyalist forces are under the command of Precentor Martial Arian. He never heard anything about that."

  "I wrote him about it months ago. I distinctly remember writing the report."

  "He never received it."

  "Hmmm. Odd. Must have been a mix-up here at the palace. I can't imagine ComStar—I mean Word of Blake—not passing a message as requested through the hyperpulse generator."

  "He's looking into his files as well. Come, I'll walk you back to his study and we'll go over everything there."

  He started to leave the alcove, but she pulled him back. "What is it with you soldiers and war? Don't you ever stop?"

  "Well, my lady, you seem to have your own obsession."

  "Yes, but mine doesn't . . . It's just more fun."

  "The two are different, but equally engaging."

  "Well, I suppose we all have to find relief from the boredom somehow."

  She placed a finger in her mouth and ran it over her teeth, suddenly thoughtful. The change in her attitude piqued Masters' interest. "What do you mean boredom!"

  "What? You haven't heard? My God, man! Everyone's bored. That's why I'm so busy pursuing bed-mates, and why our race goes off and fights. We don't belong here anymore, you know." Her tone had shifted. It hadn't become serious, exactly, but she was obviously expressing something she thought to be true. "We've got models for everything—how stars glow, how to communicate instantly across light years, how atoms do whatever atoms do. We know it all. The only thing we don't understand is people. We're outside of it all. A biologist or a doctor knows everything about a human body except why he is a biologist or a doctor. We don't fit into the universe, not in any way we can understand, so we don't know what to do with ourselves."

  Masters was truly confused. "But we are here."

  "Exactly. But we're rather embarrassed about the whole thing. If only we could fit some model cleanly. But we don't. We're strange ghosts in the universe, the only objects in all of space that wonder what we should be doing when we wake up in the morning. I don't know what to do with myself, so I jump into beds. You shoot missiles. We get our respective thrills, and for the moment we feel better. But even I use up sex— the excitement wanes after a while, so I hunt for new partners, combinations, positions. What do you think: do we as a race never get bored with how we kill people? Is that why we keep coming up with new ways of doing it?"

  "It's not the same thing."

  "Oh, no. You see it as some sort of inevitable progress. ..."

  "No. . . ."

  She smiled "It is all the same thing. We all get bored. We need the next thrill, something to jolt us enough to make us feel like more than ghosts. BattleMechs have provided fun and games for centuries, dear. But the people will want their new stimulation, their new experience. Bigger explosions, higher death tolls. People used to travel to relieve their boredom. But we've traveled to t
housands of stars and realized we're all pretty much the same people. And we've always got sex, and I love it. But I've got a special appetite, and even for me sex is beginning to lose its edge. But you know what we can always make better than the last time? A bomb."

  Masters felt himself threatened, but not in any way he understood. She was onto something, and he couldn't completely fathom it. He might, he knew, end up with a similar conclusion about these ideas if he pursued them, but right now they gave him vertigo.

  "Let's go see the Captain-General," he said, turning away from her and beginning to walk back to Thomas' study.

  She followed alongside.

  "This will be delightful," she said. "If you're coming to Gibson, I must arrange a tremendous party to welcome you."

  6

  Marik Palace, Atreus

  Marik Commonwealth, Free Worlds League

  1 January 3055

  Buried in his chair, Masters watched the Countess Dystar and Thomas discuss the situation on Gibson. He did not listen too carefully, for she was telling Thomas everything Precentor Blane had just told them. So he watched her, and was amazed to discover that she had turned her sexuality off. Somehow, the alluring redhead whom he could only imagine as busily groping for someone's thigh had become a model member of royalty: poised, business-like, and with all the facts at her fingertips. She outlined the situation clearly. But, still, he had just heard it all a short time earlier.

  Soon the meeting was over, and the countess left.

  "She's . . . ," Thomas began, but his words faltered. He tried again. "She's lying. I think. I don't know."

  "She said exactly what Precentor Blane said."

  "I know. I can't figure it out. Keep an eye on her."

  "I'm sure that will be easy enough."

  "What?"

  Once more, a knock at the door. "Yes!" said

  Thomas, his voice revealing more than a little frustration.

  A page timidly opened the door. "Excuse me, Captain-General. I have a message for Sir Masters. I knew he was here."