But this. Using 'Mechs to hunt down soldiers wearing nothing more than flak jackets. What was the point? Yes, from a technical standpoint, the 'Mechs were safe in the assault, and the enemy would suffer heavy losses. Thus, technology won out.
But where did the soldiers fit into this? One might as well return to the days of atomics, finger-fighting wars without the need for direct conflict. Or poison gas.
Where was the honor?
He looked down at the mangled bodies. Soldiers should not die like this. They had in the past, but hadn't progress been made? Why was it all happening again?
Valentine calmly walked amid the gore, tapping away on her comp pad. Masters looked around, thinking it was impossible to tell how many people had been killed here. Some of the bodies were no more than pulp, tossed and slammed together, their ruined forms mangled beyond all recognition. "What are you doing?"
"Sir, as I've explained—"
"NO! What are you doing? You can't possibly know how many dead are here. You can't."
"Sir, I've told you—"
"That arm, right there!" Masters pointed at a dismembered arm. "What does that count as?"
"A body, sir. One Goffel body."
He rushed over to a splintered torso. "And this? This woman's chest?"
"A body."
He pointed to a head. "That man's head."
"A body."
The flesh around Masters' eyes began to feel prickly. "This is ridiculous! You're pretending your war is verifiable by statistical analysis. You're pretending there's a scientific basis for your actions." He felt reality slipping out of the edges of his thoughts. "And . . .," he sputtered, "and attrition is not a valid method of gauging a war anyway. What do you people think you're doing?"
Valentine's spine straightened dramatically and her eyes sparkled with the holy faith of the True Believers. "Sir, I am a true follower of the Word of Blake. No one who lives outside the truth of the Word of Blake may question my understanding of the ways of the universe. You use technology as a mere tool. The True Believers live in tandem with technology. We are part of it. It is in our soul. You do not know of what you speak. You do not understand the universe. You also do not understand this war. This is our war. Not yours. If you have questions about how we conduct it, I suggest you take them to Precentor Martial Arian."
Masters tried to think of a reply, but when he opened his mouth, it was dry and no words came out. What she said frightened the hell out of him. If she could justify any action by her faith, and her superiors were willing to do the same—a blind faith based simply on being right—what effect could he possibly have?
* * *
They finished the count. By the time they were done, Valentine had tabulated seventy-two guerrillas. Masters knew that the number was far too high, but all he said was, "Well, that certainly makes our losses more palatable."
Valentine did not answer.
* * *
The call came in just as they reached the 'Mechs. Belgrade and a private from the first were loading bodies into the hovercraft when the radio unit on the ground spit out a panicked cry: " 'Mech lance, this is Second Squad H-craft! They've got us. They found us. Sweet Jesus, they found us!"
13
Nagasaki Valley, Gibson
Principality of Gibson, Free Worlds League
23 January 3055
Masters ran for his Phoenix Hawk and threw his hands one rung after another up the ladder. Spinard, already sitting in his Hatchetman, took off, cracking thick branches off the forest's lower trees as he headed toward Second Squad's location. Belgrade moved next, and before Masters could reach his cockpit Valentine had also taken off in her 'Mech. Just before opening the hatch of his own cockpit, Masters shouted down to Chick and the private, "Get the bodies in and follow us! Don't get ahead of us!" Then he pulled the hatch shut, and followed the rest of the lance.
He moved quickly through the trees, putting pressure on the foot pedals to circle around trees and make narrow shortcuts. His mind raced with questions. Hadn't intelligence said there was only a platoon in the area? Hadn't they just taken out a platoon? For a well-run war, full of tabulations and tables, their data seemed woefully inaccurate.
The sounds of fighting that came in over his speakers from Second Squad sounded furious and overwhelming. He heard a new voice, not Sergeant
Donalds', come over the speaker. "They're all over the place!" Then the channel fell completely silent but for a light static.
Masters looked down at his screen. The Second's blip rested a third of the way up the screen, three minutes at least through the forest at current speed. Too long. He pushed his throttle forward, and the thrum of the extra heat sinks kicked in. A thick group of giant trees loomed ahead. He pulled back on the throttle and slowed the 'Mech, but Masters still would not clear them easily if he didn't stop—which he did not want to do.
He turned the 'Mech sharply, and he felt the Phoenix Hawk lean left. A moment of panic hit him, as it always did whenever his 'Mech began to tilt. While seated on top of forty-five tons of metal, it always seemed that the beginning of a fall was doomed to end in impact. A fall could do major damage to the 'Mech, even internal injury. With countless rounds of machine gun ammo as well as short-range missiles packed away, such damage could set off a conflagration that would broil him even as he fumbled for the cockpit latch.
But Masters was saved by his neurohelmet. Linked to his body through sophisticated sensors, the helmet used his own inner ear to compensate for the 'Mech's lack of balance. The gyroscopes made quick, tiny, but ultimately vital adjustments. The right foot slammed down at just the right spot, the impact sending Masters up out of his seat. Then the 'Mech pulled its left foot forward and finished balancing itself. Without waiting for the relief to hit him, Masters pushed the throttle further forward and continued toward the beacon.
He still heard nothing from his speakers. On the screen Spinard had almost reached Second Squad.
"Hatchet Man One? Phoenix Hawk One. What do you see?"
Silence.
"Hatchet Man One?"
Silence.
"Spinard?"
"Nothing, sir. Don't see anything."
Masters checked his screen again. Spinard's red square now rested on the Second's beacon. How could he see nothing?
"What about Second Squad? Can you see any of our troops?"
"Their bodies are here, sir," Spinard said, speaking as if in a dream. "If that's what you mean. But nothing else."
Masters swallowed hard. Dark trees rushed by, the high branches full of shadows and strange twists. "Spinard," he said slowly, "What do you mean!"
But no answer came.
He saw the Blackjack and the Shadow Hawk just ahead of him in the forest. All three of them reached the site of the beacon at just about the same time. Ahead he saw the Hatchetman standing in a clearing. A few strides later he saw the Hatchetman's open cockpit. He walked his 'Mech up to the Hatchetman, and Valentine and Belgrade joined him in taking up a defensive position.
Masters clicked on the floods on the legs of his 'Mech. Blood washed the underbrush like raindrops, and torn scraps of cloth hung from bushes.
And down amid the carnage walked Spinard, as if in a daze.
"Valentine, Belgrade, stay in your 'Mechs and keep guard." He popped the cockpit open and made his way down the rungs. The gore had a distinct odor, an alien scent against the fresh leafy smell of the forest. Now he could see grenade burns and mortar craters covering the area. Bullets had shredded tree bark at about chest level, leaving the bare, exposed trunks sparkling with metal rounds. Whatever happened here was on a much larger scale than the attack on First Squad. The Second had been slaughtered. Unused to gauging infantry action, Masters couldn't be sure, but it looked as if they'd been cornered by a company at least. The assault had been swift, and then the GFL dispersed back into the woods. His men might be able track them. Maybe not.
"The enemy is the key," Captain Ibn Sa'ud had said. True enough. It
was the GFL's game, and Word of Blake didn't know the rules any better than he did.
He looked over at Spinard. The man stood beside a bush, staring down at it, and moved his jaw, as if speaking. Masters crossed the distance to the man. As he got closer he thought Spinard looked like a child in prayer, the way he was staring intently at the bush before him.
"Spinard?"
Nothing.
"Private Spinard?"
Now Spinard spoke his words with breath, as if to block out Masters, so softly that Masters could barely make out the sound. He stepped a bit closer and heard, "Ninety-seven. Ninety-eight. Ninety-nine. One hundred. One hundred-one. One hundred-two."
Carefully Masters brought his hand down on Spinard's shoulder. The counting stopped. "Spinard, what are you doing?"
Without turning his gaze from the bush, Spinard said, "Counting. One hundred-three. One hundred-four."
Masters squeezed Spinard's shoulder. "What are you counting?"
"The leaves, sir. One hundred-five. One hundred-six. One hundred-seven ..."
Behind him came the low hum of the First's hovercraft. Masters turned and began walking toward it, while behind him the counting continued. As he crossed the site of the battle, blood and dirt clung to the soles of his boots. Around him now he saw the corpses, fallen under bushes and lost in the forest's shadows.
He didn't know any of the soldiers. They'd all died the day he arrived and he knew none of them. He clung to that thought and it comforted him.
Chick came out of the hovercraft. "Frak," was all he said as he looked around. The private stepped out behind him. Masters saw an emotion suddenly shake the man's shoulders, but then the soldier put on a casual face as if to say, "Oh, this again."
"There was more than a platoon in the area."
"I'll say," answered Chick.
Chick noticed Spinard. "What's up with the Tinman over there?"
"He's . . . he's counting the leaves on a bush."
For a moment Chick's face drew blank, then it lit with a smile of realization. "Counting! I've been wondering what the hell he's been doing for the last five weeks."
"What?"
"I've seen him muttering to himself for over a month. Sometimes he'll just stare at his 'Mech and mutter. Sometimes at mess he'll look down at his vegetables and mutter. I suppose he was counting the whole time. Counting, counting, counting. Counting bolts in his 'Mech, counting kernels of corn on his plate. Word o' Blake counting away." He glanced up at the BattleMechs standing tall around them. "I hate these guys."
"Sergeant?"
"Bust me if you want, sir. But you're not one of them. You see it too, don't you? You know this whole thing is a worthless corpse factory. Saw it on your face earlier. See it now. Knight of the Inner Sphere, right?"
"Yes."
"All right. What do you want to do with the bodies?"
"Check ... at least check for survivors. We'll come back. . . " He looked around. "During the daylight we'll collect the tags. Nothing until then."
"What about the Tinman?"
Masters looked over at Spinard. "I'll take care of it. Get in the H-craft. We'll take off in a minute." He walked back to Spinard, who by this time had moved to another bush. "We've got to go now."
"All right." With that Spinard turned and began moving toward his Hatchetman. Masters stepped back, surprised. He'd expected to have to use some sort of sympathetic logic to get the man to give up his methodical task. Yet Spinard returned to his 'Mech with even, measured steps and then began to climb back up.
* * *
The days that followed were filled with the same activity, though the kills against the GFL never reached the same level. Countess Dystar's bankroll easily provided replacements for fallen soldiers, and Masters had the strange feeling that even if he did not call in for replacements, they would arrive, factory-ordered, ready to be delivered into the heavy yellow forests.
Whenever they shot up a few GFLs, Captain Ibn Sa'ud's face glowed with pleasure. Each night on the patrol's return he would pull out a thick ledger and draw up the lance's profits and debits. "The other night was very bad," he would say, shaking his head. "We will have to make up for that soon." As the days passed his joy lessened, and he became more and more concerned that the losses suffered on Masters' first night out would never be made up by the end of the month, when Precentor Martial Arian tabulated each outpost's results.
Masters, meanwhile, spent day after day trying to get through to Arian, to demand that the nightly search-and-destroys be stopped. He also wanted to relieve Spinard of duty. Spinard had taken to spending more and more of his time in his 'Mech. He slept in it. He only left it to eat or when ordered. When Masters mentioned his concern to Ibn Sa'ud, the captain only laughed and said, "Not to worry. He'll snap out of it. I've seen it a trillion times."
When Arian finally got back to Masters, he was furious. Furious that Spinard's abilities were in question when the man had one of the best body-count records in the Word of Blake. Furious that Masters had the gall to suggest that a well-thought-out strategy should be scrapped. Furious, Masters guessed, at being saddled with a troublemaker who couldn't be easily disposed of.
They talked by phone, arguing a full forty minutes until Masters agreed to leave the issue of Spinard's capabilities alone as long as Arian let Masters stop the night search-and-destroys. Then Masters drew in a long breath and asked for a company of Gibson Loyalists. Arian wanted to know what the hell he wanted them for, and Masters explained that he wanted to go into the woods to win against the GFL.
Arian wanted to know what the hell was wrong with using the 'Mechs to clean out the woods. Masters explained that the 'Mechs might be invulnerable to the firepower of the guerrillas, but they weren't doing as effective a job in the woods as infantry would. The 'Mechs were already slow, but moving through trees slowed them down even more. The guerrillas could undoubtedly hear them coming from minutes away and thus could clear out long before the 'Mechs became a threat. Arian sputtered something about overwhelming firepower, the superiority of technology, and Masters let him go on. When Arian paused for a breath, he put in, "But those things aren't working. I'm sure the Captain-General will see my point of view."
Eventually Arian relented, saying he'd get the troops to the outpost some time in the future. Captain Ibn Sa'ud, who was also in the room, stared at Masters with unabashed horror. When Masters hung up the phone, the captain asked in a high-pitched voice, "What are you doing? Why do you need Loyalists?"
"To fight the war, Captain. To fight the war. The correct means must be used for the proper circumstances. Right now we're dithering around out there. We're not using our troops effectively. They're not on patrol, where they'd be allowed to stay out of sight. They're not out to engage the enemy, because we're not sending them out in units strong enough to win. We're tossing them out like bait. Enough is enough."
"But the BattleMechs are invulnerable."
"Yes but they're not doing the job. I've only been here a week, and that's obvious. The BattleMechs are not winning the war. By the time we arrive to pick up the pieces of our soldiers, the guerrillas are probably laughing their heads off that our metal giants can't touch them."
"You . . . you're a MechWarrior. How can you say such things?"
"Because I'm a MechWarrior. Precisely because of it. BattleMechs are not deus ex machinas sent down from heaven to solve every military problem. They are a solution for some problems."
"Duxa whats?"
"Forget it. We're bringing troops in here, and we'll train them correctly and we'll start taking apart the GFL."
* * *
That night Masters tried fitfully to fall asleep. When he did, he dreamed of men and women filled with bombs. But it wasn't wartime. All the people walked around in a city, going about their business, like in Portent, well-dressed and purposeful. And none of them knew they carried bombs within them. But Masters knew. Only he knew. He wandered the city and people glared at him strangely because he looked at
them strangely, but he did so because he could see wires and cables through their flesh. He realized they were all small BattleMechs—dressed up in costumes of flesh. But nobody piloted the little 'Mechs. Everybody thought, "I look like a person, I don't need a pilot." So they all walked around, not noticing that they were overheating because all lacked pilots.
Every once in a while someone who looked completely normal suddenly fired all his weapons, shooting everybody around him without meaning to. Like a burp. They cut everybody around them to pieces. The people near the scene of the violence, who witnessed it and survived, shook their heads. It happened over and over again for what seemed like hours. The people kept walking along the streets, and either hiccuped lasers and missiles, or got shot to shreds by someone who overheated and went insane.
Masters ran up to a woman, a beautiful woman—Maid Kris, he realized after he touched her—and said, "Stop. You've got a bomb in you."
She laughed and said, "Oh, now, you stop it." Whereupon she turned into Countess Dystar. The Countess stretched out her hands and touched Masters on the cheek. Her touch burned hot, so hot he felt his skin melt. But it felt wonderful, too.
Suddenly, he was at the tree where the mercenaries had been strung up. The Countess was with him, and he wanted so much not to feel anything for the people hanging in the tree, blood streaking their faces, their bodies torn open by harsh metal.
"I can give that to you," the Countess said. "I can make you forget. I can make you not feel." The touch of her flesh became hotter as she traced her fingertips along his stomach and chest. He looked down and saw that under his flesh, his muscles were changing into myomer bundles, his flesh into metal. "Do you want it?" she asked. "All you need do is be happy and content forever, and spend the rest of your life working hard to distract yourself. ..."
She leaned in to kiss him, and just as her beautiful, warm lips pressed against his, he heard a horrible scream.
Ideal War Page 12
