Ideal War

by Christopher Kubasik

  He walked right up to her, the stench of her death rushing in at him, her yellow fat peeled back and exposed, a deep cavity of darkness cut across her ribs. He raised his hand to her flesh. . . .

  "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

  Masters froze, his fascination with the corpse—an oracle, a portent of his own mortality—diverted by the voice from behind him. He turned, his hand still upraised toward the body. A sergeant and three privates dressed in green flak armor stood a half-dozen meters off. The red chimera patches on their uniforms identified them as Gibson troops hired by the Countess. The sergeant was a burly man with tired eyes. His face looked very serious.

  "Sir Masters? Sergeant Jacobs. Step back, please. The body might be rigged." He spoke with the directness of a teacher to a student.

  Masters' hand wavered, uncertain, his soul spiraling down into something uncertain and dangerous. "Rigged?"

  "The body, sir. Rigged with a bomb. Please. Step away."

  Masters looked up. He saw no explosives either on the corpse or hooked up to the belt buckle tied to the tree branch. Nothing. "I don't see anything."

  "Inside, Sir Masters. They sometimes put mines inside. We try to recover the bodies—and pow!" His hands came together and then parted; the universal symbol of oblivion.

  "All right." In a daze Masters stepped backward, retracing his steps.

  When he'd cleared six meters he reached the sergeant. They shook hands, and the other man's thick, muscular hands felt wonderfully reassuring.

  Two soldiers, a man and a woman, walked up to the bodies. Their eyes were cold and strained and fixed as they stared silently at the corpses. Finally the man cursed softly. They looked around, as if searching for something, then eventually gave up and returned to join the sergeant. The man said, "I ain't never seen this one. I don't know how to check. Too high up."

  "Got to get them back. Contract," said the sergeant. "All the bags go back full."

  "Maybe. But no way to do it. I'm not fishing my hand in there on tippie-toe." Masters saw a bead of sweat roll down from the man's temple, though it was not hot at all. His face, however, betrayed no emotion.

  Chick thought for a while and said, "All right. We'll shoot them down, one by one. A body blows, we know. It don't, we check it." The man and the woman nodded and walked away. "Wix!" Chick shouted.

  "I don't understand," said Masters.

  "Sorry, sir. Ugly little war here. They like planting mines for us. You walk along, bam! Off go your legs. Got some that bounce up when you step on the trigger, explode at chest height and rip through your heart. Sometimes they mine the bodies. Sometimes they skin them." He nodded. "I've found some skinned."

  "Why?" Masters didn't see the point. They were dead. Let the field be cleared.

  Chick laughed in response. "So we'll think we're in hell, sir." He offered no more explanation, and a pink-skinned girl arrived with a sniper rifle. Chick mumbled some words to the girl, and her pink turned to white as she looked to where Chick pointed. She nodded and looked around for a position from which to shoot.

  "Sir, you might want to come over here."

  "Of course." The two of them walked behind a tree. Masters peered out and saw the girl brace herself against a large trunk. She took careful aim, and shot.

  A belt snapped in half and a body dropped to the ground, feet first, collapsing like a sack of dirt. Nothing happened.

  Another shot, another snap, another body. Nothing.

  Three more times.

  The last body was the black woman. The gunshot popped, the belt snapped, the body stabbed the ground, followed by an explosion that sent shrapnel and bone splinters flying everywhere. Everyone waited, frozen, as if more explosions might suddenly erupt. When silence fell, they breathed again. "Saunders, go to it."

  The man wandered back to the corpses.

  "What is he going to do?"

  "Check the bodies for mines. They might not have gone off, and I'd hate for some high-tolerance trigger to get snapped on a bump while we're in the Four-twenty."

  Masters nodded. He had no idea what to say next. He looked back. The man was on his knees, dipping his fingers slowly into one of the wounds. Slowly, slowly he pushed his hand into the body. Slowly he was in up to his wrist. Slowly his forearm entered the corpse. His eyes remained unfocused. Eyes wouldn't help. He blinded himself to the world, just waiting for an odd touch.

  Masters turned and walked back toward his 'Mech.

  He heard someone say to another mercenary, "I don't give him two weeks."

  The second man said, "He's Blake. Got a tinman. Those tabs live forever."

  He ignored them and sat down under the shadow of his Phoenix Hawk, resting his back against the machine's giant right foot. Soon his breathing returned to normal. Without a word to Chick or the squad, he climbed back up his 'Mech, started it up, and headed off to the Tactical Operations Center.

  As he traveled across the yellow landscape toward TOC, Masters admonished himself for his naivete. Certainly incidents such as this had occurred before. He'd read about them in his studies of wars of the past. Such horrors had occurred both on ancient Terra and in the history of the Inner Sphere.

  But not recently. Or at least not that he'd heard about. It was nothing he'd ever personally encountered, nor had he ever expected to. It was obvious that whatever was happening on Gibson went beyond his current reach of understanding. An age of barbarism was descending upon the Inner Sphere. The work of thousands of years of history, countless lives wasted in warfare, and just as many surrendered in the name of peace, might well come to nothing.

  As the reverberations of the 'Mech's footsteps passed up his spine, his determination to aid Thomas' dream became stronger and stronger. Thomas had seen it all coming. It was his gift. His friend looked at the events around him and saw patterns of danger the way another person might see dark clouds on the horizon and declare the imminent arrival of rain.

  After another hour of travel, he had calmed down further. All he had seen were the actions of the GFL. It was not unreasonable to assume that they were barbarians, and the Word of Blake and Gibson Loyalist forces were waging the best war they could under arduous circumstances. Perhaps the GFL guerrillas were simply farmers gone mad, as everyone back in Portent seemed to believe.

  He began to feel better. He didn't know the full story yet. Perhaps things were not as bad as they seemed.

  10

  Nagasaki Valley, Gibson

  Principality of Gibson, Free Worlds League

  23 January 3055

  As soon as Masters walked his 'Mech into the TOC compound and popped the hatch to his cockpit, he began to worry again. Low in the sky, the late afternoon sun blinded him momentarily, but he could hear the drill below clearly enough. "Kill, Kill, Kill, Kill!" shouted a dozen soldiers over and over in rhythmic chant. He shaded his eyes and saw two squads running around a parade ground. Every time their left feet hit the deck, they shouted out the word.

  It was an obsolete technique, dangerous when it had first appeared during the old days on Terra, and certainly more dangerous now.

  The barbarism had crawled into his own camp.

  He pulled out a pair of trousers and a long-sleeved shirt from behind his seat, and slipped them over his shorts and cooling vest.

  * * *

  Precentor Martial Arian was a bullish man in his fifties, his face worn with many wrinkles, the flesh hard and frozen. When he moved his right arm, it was always with a bit of an extra roll from the shoulder, as if the joint no longer hinged properly. He listened to Masters politely, letting him speak for a long time.

  For his part Masters alternated wildly from impassioned stretches that involved a great deal of pacing, to low, slow tones where he stood almost completely still. He had a great deal to say, most of it presumptuous and some of it awkward. He lectured Arian for a good twenty minutes about the dangers of training troops to be killers rather than soldiers, until he finally spent himself.

  Ari
an stood up from behind his desk. He paused, composing his thoughts, then smiled politely. "If you wish to leave, I'll understand completely," he said.

  Masters felt as if someone had just tried to trip him. "What?"

  "Well, if you wish to leave, please do so. Return to Atreus, with our thanks to the Captain-General for your efforts. I do not wish to draw you into something you find repulsive."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You, Captain Masters. You. You have just come into my office and told me we are training the Countess Dystar's mercenary recruits in completely the wrong way. Well, to your sensibilities, this may be true. You are a cultivated man. We all know of you. . . . You are a Knight of the Inner Sphere, for goodness sake. You represent the Captain-General personally. Meanwhile, I am waging a war on a backwater world filled with farmers running wildly around the forest. Our tactics, tactics forced upon us by the enemy, do not mesh with your sensibilities."

  "The sensibilities of any decent soldier."

  "Ah. Well, yes." Arian looked down, almost as if personally hurt. "War is like that, I suppose. Sometimes we become indecent."

  "Yes. Sometimes. And the tendency must be resisted. And overcome when it occurs."

  "You see, here it is, right here—this is where you and I part ways. Right now we don't have a choice. You want me to stop training the mercenaries to kill—"

  "To kill mindlessly. I don't want you turning them into killing robots."

  "But the nature of the war ..." Arian spread out his hands. Oblivion.

  "The nature of the war demands that you turn your back on hundreds of years of civilization?"

  "I am a MechWarrior, too, Sir Masters, and I, too, would prefer that the Ares Conventions be maintained. But I don't control the situation." His voice tightened and he clenched his fists. "I fought the Clans, sir. I know what war, total war, can do to people." He casually brought his hand up to his damaged shoulder and touched it lightly, as one might touch one's hair. "If these people on Gibson were civilized, that would be one thing. If they all lined up in neat rows for those 'Mech battles I believe you would like to see, that would be one thing. But they don't do that, Sir Masters. They run through the forests like damned animals. We have to split up our units to track them down. We've done studies, however, and found that when we split the soldiers up, they don't fire their weapons as often as they would in a group. Thus, we have to train them to kill automatically."

  Masters lost his patience, and rattled off his words as if afraid of being interrupted. "We all know this! The first studies on the need for keeping soldiers in groups were made before the Exodus, during Terra's world wars. Without the peer pressure of fellow soldiers around them, soldiers chose not to kill. A person raised in a civilized society is told killing is wrong. When dumped out on the battlefield, the taboo against killing doesn't just go away. If no one is around to notice, a soldier usually chooses not to kill. The studies showed that only fifteen percent of trained combat riflemen fired their weapons at all in battle. We've known this for centuries. But the solution isn't to drill civilization out of your troops!"

  He crossed to the window, and even through the glass he could faintly hear the words of a drill sergeant to a group of mercenary recruits at attention. "You want to rip his eyeballs out, you want to tear apart his love machine, you want to destroy him!"

  Masters turned from the window and calmed himself. "Precentor Martial. The problem with your tactics is that the soldiers you are creating out there won't be able to do much except be killers. You're brainwashing them to become killers."

  "I want them to be killers!" Arian slammed his hand down on his desk.

  "A soldier kills because it is his job. A killer kills because he wants to. There is a tremendous difference."

  "A difference, Sir Knight, that you can afford to live by, judging us from the safety of Atreus."

  "I'm not on Atreus. I'm right here."

  "In any case, you are under my command. If you stay, you take orders from me. I shall take your concerns under advisement. Is there anything else you'd like to say."

  "One question. Why is the countess recruiting all these mercenaries? There are billions of people on this planet. Why do you need mercs?"

  "We don't. There have been some problems working with the locals. They seem uncomfortable with fighting the war."

  "What do you mean? It's their planet."

  "Sir Masters, I have a great deal of work to do. You have entered our war. If you wish to leave it, do so now. If you wish to stay, you have your assignment. If you take it, you will follow our procedures."

  Masters thought about it. His skin had begun to feel odd on him, as if he'd entered a dream. But he knew he had to stay, to find out what was actually going on. "I'm here. I'll stay."

  "Fine. You'll be taking over the lance unit in the north quad of the Nagasaki Valley."

  "Yes. My Tech gave me the rundown."

  "Good. Well, good day."

  They saluted each other, and Masters started toward the door. He knew that protocol had been broken. Arian should have given him more instructions, but he could acquire the information from the base, via radio, to avoid more direct confrontation with Arian. Probably best for now.

  At the door he stopped and turned. "Precentor Martial?"

  Arian looked up from a map on his desk. "Sir Masters?"

  "Is it working? The training? Is it helping the war?" Arian looked out the window for a moment. "No. Nothing seems to be helping, frankly."

  "What?"

  "The war—it's going very badly."

  Masters' spine stiffened. "Do you know that First Assistant Precentor Starling says otherwise? He told me just last night that the war is going very well. And Countess Dystar echoes that point of view. Only Precentor Blane seems concerned about the direction of the war."

  An odd look came over Arian's face, a look that Masters was beginning to recognize as Word of Blake in-fighting. Arian said,"Blane is an alarmist."

  "But you just said ..."

  "No matter what, it can't possibly be as bad as that man says. Good day, Sir Masters."

  "Good day."

  He turned and walked out the door.

  Returning to his 'Mech he saw more mercs at practice on a rifle range. Their Word of Blake drill sergeant had them screaming how much they wanted the Gibsonians to die before they pulled the trigger. Masters was so distraught by the rote killer-training that it took him a moment to sift out the other concern that had entered his thoughts. They weren't brainwashing the troops to kill only the enemy. They were telling them to kill Gibsonians. But weren't True Believers also Gibsonians now? Where was the line being drawn?

  * * *

  The lance outpost rested on a flat hilltop with roughly four sides. Three sides dropped sharply, and allowed for better defense. The fourth was a slope with a gentle grade that made it possible to walk 'Mechs up to the outpost, as well giving hovercraft a means of exit and entry. Coming up the slope with his 'Mech, Masters spotted a sign by the gate that said, "Masters' Lance."

  Entering the compound he saw three other 'Mechs standing there: a Blackjack, a Shadow Hawk, and a Hatchetman. Together they looked like metal giants gathered for some meeting of mythical creatures. All had two legs, a torso, a head, and arms, though some of the arms were obviously cannon or large lasers. The Hatchetman was exceptional for the massive three-ton axe it carried in the right hand, used against other 'Mechs when in close combat.

  Eight 420s also rested in the compound. A dozen or so soldiers sat on the dark-green metal of the hovercraft, relaxing in the day's fading light. They propped themselves up and looked at the Phoenix Hawk as Masters brought it in. He saw that the Gibson Loyalist troops wore black uniforms, while the countess' mercs wore the green uniforms he'd seen earlier that day. The two groups kept their distance, only one set of uniforms to a hovercraft.

  He brought his 'Mech up with the others, popped his hatch and climbed to the ground. Once down he spotted Jen walkin
g toward him. "Heard what happened on your way in," she said. "This place is very cold."

  "Where's the CP?"

  "Come on."

  As he walked past the troops, some of the mercs made half-hearted attempts to salute, others simply nodded. The Gibson Loyalists, however, delighted in saluting, and did so with snap and flourish. It looked like the Loyalists were playing at it.

  The CP was made of sheet metal. Jen stopped by the door and said, "This is it. Your counterpart is waiting inside."

  "My counterpart?"

  "A Gibson Loyalist captain. In charge of his half of the post's infantry. You're essentially Blake, he's Gibson. They're working this war together."

  "Right. What's his name?"

  "Captain Ibn Sa'ud. Arab descent. And like most Gibsonians he's got his Terran culture draped around him."

  Masters nodded and entered the office.

  The maps caught his attention first. They completely covered the walls, and the pins and arrows all over them suggested a swirl of war movement and activity. Fighting everywhere, everything in conflict. Beneath the maps sat Ibn Sa'ud, sound asleep in his chair, feet propped up on his desk. He wore the black Loyalist uniform, but also a dashiki. His beard was thick but well-trimmed, his flesh dark, his face large.

  When Masters rapped on the metal wall, Ibn Sa'ud gave a massive snore and then began to fall back in his chair. He opened his eyes, realized what was happening, and rocked himself forward to prevent crashing backward. "WHAT!" he shouted as his hands hit the desk. Then he looked at Masters, his face suddenly alight. "Are you Sir Paul Masters?"

  Masters saluted, and Ibn Sa'ud did the same. "A pleasure to meet you," Masters said.

  "No. The pleasure is all mine. Here, sit here." With a gnarled stick that might have passed for a riding crop, Ibn Sa'ud gestured to a seat next to his. Both men sat down and then they faced off. Ibn Sa'ud took on a very serious expression, his eyes attempting something close to cunning. "So. Now we will make war."