Gazing down from the road he saw what looked like a small town built of wood scraps and cardboard. He looked at Blane. "What's that down there?"
"What do you mean?"
"The shacks. The people standing around fires."
"Crops."
"What?"
Blane laughed "Sorry. That's what we call them. Crops. Villagers and farmers who've moved to the city."
They'd left the shanty-town behind now and Masters watched as the neighborhoods below seemed to improve in quality. "Why would they move to the city?"
"Pacification program. We've been tearing down villages and towns to prevent the GFL from using them as bases."
"And they choose to come here?"
"Well, we encourage it. In the city we can keep an eye on everyone. We'd rather have control, especially around Portent. Out in the fields, well, we just don't know what's going on."
"And they live in shacks made of pressboard?"
A look of sadness passed over Blane's face. "Yes. Well, I suppose you could say that the program leaves much to be desired in many respects. But once we get everything settled ..." His voice trailed off and he sipped his drink.
Looking down at the areas beneath the causeway, Masters watched the architectural styles flash by. They were like the rings of a cut tree, marking the phases of the city's growth. To the right he noted a style of construction that must date from the height of Merschmidt's influence. Further ahead was a run-down area probably built during the Regulan minimalist period. They were moving back in time, each style older than the last, until finally, far ahead, the stars suddenly vanished.
"Good god," Masters said softly.
At the core of the city stood the Old Walls, built by Gibson's first settlers, long before terraforming had turned Gibson from a waterless planet of orange stone into a world covered with giant yellow trees and grass. In the darkness of night, the Old Walls rose like a chunk of darkness hundreds of meters high, blocking the view of the stars beyond. As they approached, Masters saw that the Walls were made of thick, silver metal blocks. Closer still, and the white light of the moon revealed a deep aqua-green corrosion that had spread across the surface of the walls. The corrosion swirled and curled in and around on itself, forming fascinating patterns of alternating silver and thick, textured green.
Soon they came to the base of the wall, which seemed to reach for the sky. Craning his neck back, Masters suffered a moment of vertigo as the wall spun endlessly up. Then a ceiling crashed down on his vision as the limousine passed into a long, wide tunnel. A string of lights ran along the curved ceiling. The lights seemed to go on forever, but soon Masters saw a patch of darkness far ahead, marking the tunnel's end.
The air chilled quickly as they drove through the tunnel. Within five minutes they had entered a massive well form by the Old Wall. The roof of the Old Wall had been removed generations ago when Gibson's air had become breathable, and the stars shone clearly overhead. The walls within had been spared the corrosive effects of the planet's old environment, and glowed with smooth, silver light reflected from the city and the moon. Within was a three-dimensional maze of silver buildings connected by elevated tunnels. The causeway looped around the wall several stories off the ground, held in place with thick braces. Various exit ramps led down into the Old City.
"This looks big enough to be its own city," Masters said.
"Essentially it is. It's the Old City. It has its own service industries, tech support, and so on. It houses the core of the planet's civil servants and government offices. Everything that affects the planet is controlled here, so more gets done in less time."
"Is that the Countess Dystar's castle?" Masters pointed to a large gothic structure that clung to the Old Walls at the south end. The huge building grew out of the smooth silver metal, kept in place with thick flying buttresses that attached to the walls, roof, and base of the building. Dark and intricate, the castle looked out over the Old City like a brooding guard dog.
"Yes," Precentor Blane said. "And down below is the Principal Hsiang's palace." Masters looked in the direction indicated and saw a sprawling silver building with many tall columns. He couldn't be sure from this distance, but he thought he saw several large statues sprinkled along the roof and exterior stairs. At a glance the structure looked like another grab bag of "impressive" styles, each elegant enough in its own way, but garbage when tossed together.
"And on the other side—I don't know if you can see it—there's a large building complex." Masters saw it. It fit in with the rest of the Old City's style, built hundreds of years ago. Wide, squat buildings with few windows and little ornamentation.
"That's where the True Believer business offices have settled. We run everything from there, and make our contacts with the other corporations on Gibson. Our military—that is, the True Believer military-command center is also located there. However, Precentor Martial Arian has set up a Tactical Operation Center out in the field. He's usually there." Blane paused, then a pleased pride filled his voice. "The True Believers have been here less than two years, but I think we've already settled in well."
"And the people in the shacks at the edge of the city?"
"Excuse me?"
"Have they settled in well?"
"Sir Masters, I can't say I like your tone. We've come to Gibson with money to invest. The crops—the people out there—the farmers, don't know what's good for them. When the Star League collapsed centuries ago they adopted an agrarian-based economy, and have obstinately remained backward. It's time for them to move on. Everybody wants it to happen. Countess Dystar. Principal Hsiang."
"And the farmers? Do they want it?"
Precentor Blane stared over his glass at Masters. "You just became part of a military ruling elite. Did you ask the people permission for that?" Masters started to reply, but Precentor Blane cut him off. "You and I both know that leaders must make decisions for their people. It is the way of the stars."
"Sir, I mean no offense in saying this, but you are not of these people."
"Wrong, Sir Masters! Wrong! We are now citizens of Gibson."
"Yet you have established a separate military, separate offices, have made direct ties into the government as Word of Blake."
"As we must if we are to survive." Blane threw up one hand in a gesture of dismissal. "Enough. That is enough. We will discuss this no further."
They traveled the last leg of the trip in silence.
* * *
The limousine left the elevated causeway and continued a short distance through the streets of the Old City, where Masters saw well-dressed people filling the walks of tidy, clean streets. Laughter mingled with the warm air. The evening reminded him of his youth; going out for entertainment with other MechWarriors, their uniforms sharp and pressed. The people of the Old City oozed that feeling, that buzz of anticipation. Well-dressed, well-fed, sure of themselves. Odd, he thought, that an entire city should remind me of my adolescence.
The limousine turned down a wide, empty road and drove into a fenced, well-guarded heliport. The guards checked the IDs of Masters, Precentor Blane, and the chauffeur, then waved them through.
Ahead a helicopter was warming up, its blade winding slowly around the engine. "I'll see you in a short while," Precentor Blane said coldly and politely as he and Masters climbed out of the limousine. The chauffeur stepped around and transferred Masters' bags to the helicopter.
Masters was equally polite. "Yes. I look forward to it."
Soon he was seated in the helicopter, riding high above the buildings, floating toward Castle Dystar. Masters kept his eyes fixed on the building, which was covered with tall spires and, yes, gargoyles. Directly ahead a massive terrace extended from the castle walls. Three other choppers rested there. A fourth was just taking off.
Lining one wall were large windows, ten meters high, their panes cutting the glass into large diamonds. A warm yellow light filled the rooms behind the glass.
The helicopter drifted toward
the helipad and within minutes had settled down on it. The chopper's blades were still beating the air as Masters jumped out. The roar of the machinery filled his ears, and the air rushed around him wildly. He reached back in to pull out his bags, then took quick strides to clear the helicopter, which soon took off and away again soon after.
Even with the helicopter gone, the wind continued to whip around him. Masters turned and looked out over the Old City. Encased in the Old Walls, it looked like a miniature created with great care.
"Sir Masters!" It was a woman's voice calling from behind him. He turned back toward the castle and his mind tumbled in several directions. A woman stood in the doorway leading from the landing platforms to the castle. She looked to be in her early thirties, and wore a long, dark skirt and white blouse. Over the blouse she had on a waist-length tweed jacket, tapered to accentuate her figure. Three pins made of brass were pinned to the jacket over her right breast. Her body was slim and small, her flesh smooth and brown, her straight black hair cut to just below her ears. His thoughts finished tumbling and the first concrete idea that formed in his head was, "Please, please don't be involved with anybody."
"Sir Masters," she said again, walking toward him now, a hand extended in greeting. She moved with a long, confident stride and Masters could see both cleverness and puzzles in her eyes. "I'm Maid Kris. I've been sent to retrieve you."
He also extended his hand, gathering his wits and putting on a friendly smile "A pleasure," he said.
"If you'll follow me, please." She turned and walked toward the castle. With his bags in hand he followed her through the dark, chill corridors of the castle, their footsteps echoing with sharp precision. "Your trip was pleasant?" she asked without looking at him.
"Pleasant enough. Better now."
She looked at him now, an eyebrow arched interrogatively. He smiled at her, and she smiled back politely, then turned her attention forward once again.
After a few more steps she asked, "You are here as a Knight of the Inner Sphere?"
"Yes." When she had said nothing more for a long while, he asked, "Does that trouble you?"
"What do you fight for? If you don't mind me asking."
"I fight for my liege. Captain-General Thomas Marik wants the war to end, and I'm here to help end it."
The look she threw him said that he had no idea what he was getting involved with. "More soldiers will not end this war." Her voice was cold and final. "Your room, Sir Masters." She stepped up to a door and pulled a key from a pocket in her jacket. She unlocked the door and entered the room, looking about approvingly. Masters followed. There was a large canopy bed, an oak dresser, and a door leading to a dressing room and bath. The chamber was as sumptuous as his guest quarters in Thomas' palace.
He turned to her. "I don't suppose you want to tell me why you believe this war cannot be ended by military means."
"I. . . ," she began quickly, but suddenly stopped. "Is there anything else I can do for you right now?" She took two steps backward toward the door.
Masters followed her. "You can tell me why you think there is no military solution to the conflict on your world."
She stared into his eyes, defiant. "No, I can't."
"I am here to end this war. I will use whatever means necessary to do so, as long as it is the appropriate solution. I think you can help me. Am I right? I'm looking for information. What can you tell me?"
"Your knights are supposed to be a self-congratulatory, noble lot. Why don't you figure it out yourself?"
"Well, we don't see it quite that way."
"What do you have to offer that the Word of Blake Mech Warriors cannot give to the cause of the war?"
"My loyalties are to Thomas Marik. And Thomas is a just man. I am here to bring his justice."
She looked at him carefully, searching his eyes. Then he saw her decide not to trust him. "No. I really can't talk to you about it." She turned and walked toward the door.
"Will I see you later tonight? At the party?"
She gave him a smile that seemed to wrap within it a hidden meaning. "Oh, yes. Everyone will be there."
8
Portent, Gibson
Principality of Gibson, Free Worlds League
22 January 3055
The helicopter's blades beat the air with a rhythmic thrum as it floated toward Principal Hsiang's palace. Maid Kris sat in front next to the pilot. Sitting beside Masters was Countess Dystar wearing a strapless green evening gown with a plunging bodice. Twice she placed her hand on his right knee, and both times he gently removed it.
"Yes, the True Believers tell me they need more troops, and I've been hiring them as they request them," she said in answer to his question, clearly bored. After he removed her hand the second time, she looked away from him and out the window, a child showing her anger.
"Where are you getting them?"
"From many worlds. Most are not professionals, just men and women looking for work. Some are veterans who've been attached to 'Mech units before. I understand that some were even in the Wolf Pack, but only a few."
"Where do they get their training?"
"Right here. The True Believers have training camps on Gibson. I'm told the war is going very well." Masters saw Maid Kris' shoulders jerk slightly at Countess Dystar's words, but he couldn't guess why they so affected her.
Soon the palace came into view, an ugly amalgamation of pillars, statues of naked, muscular men, and fountains. "Who did the charming decor?" Masters asked, shaking his head slightly at the sight of so many phalli. It looked like someone had been very desperate to impress.
"Principal Hsiang himself," Maid Kris said. "He redecorated after taking office."
"Lovely."
Maid Kris looked back at him with a rueful smile.
Once the helicopter had touched down on the pad, Masters helped the countess out. Maid Kris got out on her own, then stood, waiting patiently for any orders from the countess. Masters quickly realized that she was very protective and responsible to the countess whenever eyes were on her, but that her expression showed something just next to malice when she believed herself unobserved.
They walked through the night toward a large pair of open double doors, from which the sound of dancing music drifted out. The air was now cool, and Masters was pleasantly surprised that the temperatures could drop so much on the continent of Jakarta, even during the summer months. When they reached the doors, Countess Dystar turned to him and said, "Wait here, Sir Knight." She stepped through the door, followed at a discreet distance by Maid Kris, and the music suddenly ceased. Then came a burst of polite applause. When it subsided, he heard the strong voice of the countess saying, "Ladies and gentlemen, I am taking the floor tonight, on this very special occasion, to present to you, Sir Paul Masters, Knight of the Inner Sphere."
The applause began again, now loud and overwhelming. On cue Masters stepped forward and through the door, coming to the top of a staircase leading down into the ballroom. He drew in a sharp breath at the sight of the huge room, with its gold-painted walls, giant chandeliers, and the hundreds of guests facing him, applauding and smiling. The moment swept him up. For his status of knight to matter to these people moved him deeply. He glanced at Maid Kris, who was gazing steadily out over the crowd, revealing nothing.
He raised his hand and the clamor eventually settled. With the sudden quiet he realized that something must be said, but he had no idea what. Opening his mouth he let the first words that came to him tumble out. "Good people of Gibson, I bring you greetings from Captain-General Thomas Marik. He wants you to know that he is apprised of the situation on your world, and that he has sent me to help bring peace back to your planet. By working together, we can bring this to pass."
Applause once more filled the room. The countess took his arm and let Masters lead her down the stairs. Maid Kris followed. When they reached the foot, well-wishers rushed forward, crowding around. They wore tuxedos, Gibson military uniforms, gowns, Word of Blake adept ro
bes, and many other colorful and textured garments. They thrust their hands at him, clapping him on the back and shaking his arm vigorously.
The people followed him and for a good hour Masters had little control over his movement or his focus. They approached him, sometimes alone, sometimes in groups, wanting to shake his hand and say hello. By the time the crush ended, however, the first exhilaration had changed to sadness. So many of these people demanded his attention simply because he was now famous, not because of what he represented. He could tell by the way they greeted him that it was simply the countess' introduction that made him seem valuable, not that he was a member of an elite group of MechWarriors backed by a vision.
Eventually he secured a corner by a table well-stocked with bottles of champagne. Every once in a while another person would come over to greet him, but he ended the conversation quickly after a polite shaking of hands. An hour and a half after his arrival Masters looked up from his champagne bubbles and saw Precentor Blane on the other side of the room. Blane appeared to be arguing with a tall man who had a pencil-thin mustache and was wearing the white robe of a Word of Blake adept. They spoke with great animation, and finally Precentor Blane turned on his heel, looking upset. He went up the steps Masters had so recently descended, leaving the party.
A short oriental man in an olive green suit suddenly blocked his sight of the adept. Behind the man was a tremendously tall redhead, her right hand on the short man's shoulder. Both were obviously on their way toward Masters. Though dressed expensively, the tall woman radiated something cheap. Masters thought they could be a pimp and a prostitute who might have bribed some corrupt official to let them into the ballroom to drum up business.
The small man walked directly up to Masters and smiled broadly. "Hello, Sir Masters, Knight of the Inner Sphere." He opened his small arms as expansively as he could. "I've thrown a very big party for you. Do you like it?"
A terrifying realization snapped across Masters' mind as he suddenly recognized the short man's face from newscasts. "Ah, Principal Hsiang," he said, extending his hand. Hsiang shook it. "A pleasure to meet you. Yes, the party is lovely."
Ideal War Page 7
