Ideal War

by Christopher Kubasik

  "Paul!" someone said near him, far above him, through the deep water of dreams. "Paul, wake up!" He realized it was Jen standing over him in the darkness. In the distance, somewhere on the outpost's grounds, the screams continued.

  "What?" he stuttered.

  "Come on," she said. "You better deal with this."

  14

  Nagasaki Valley, Gibson

  Principality of Gibson, Free Worlds League

  6 February 3055

  The screams came from behind the latrines. When he rounded them a silvery pool of bright blood lit by a lamp caught his eye. Then he saw a man, his head in the pool of blood, his throat cut. From his rough, dirty clothes, he looked like a farmer.

  Several Gibson Loyalists were holding onto two more farmers. Captain Ibn Sa'ud stepped toward one of them, a large knife in hand. Chick was there, visibly shaken, observing, but not participating. "Jesus," said Jen. "I didn't think. ..."

  "What the hell's going on?" shouted Masters as he stalked up to Ibn Sa'ud.

  "Ah!" said Captain Ibn Sa'ud, very pleased to see him. "My men caught these Goffel sympathizers in a nearby village. Now they must give us information." He stepped up to the second man, who silently pleaded for his life with terrified eyes. For a moment Masters thought the Captain would only threaten the man with the blade. But just as he remembered the corpse on the ground, Ibn Sa'ud grabbed the man's hair, forced his head up and back, and ran a deep cut across the throat. The second farmer's blood rushed froin the wound, and he struggled for a moment to breathe. Ibn Sa'ud signaled his men to let the farmer go, and the dying man fell to the ground, clutching at the dirt.

  Dazed and taken aback, Masters shouted at Chick, "Tell him to stop that now!"

  "It's the way he interrogates people."

  "Ha! You see," said Captain Ibn Sa'ud, "this one is now truly frightened." As he stepped toward the last man, Masters lunged for Ibn Sa'ud and knocked his hand down. "I said to stop it!"

  The Captain dropped the knife and looked at Masters like a hurt child. "What are you doing? This is my job. This is what I do."

  Masters ignored him and turned to the Loyalist soldiers holding the last prisoner. "Lock him up, but don't hurt him." The soldiers looked for authorization from Captain Ibn Sa'ud, who was looking down at the ground, oblivious to what was happening around him. "Do it or else I'll knock your ass all over this base," Masters said. The soldiers dragged the prisoner off. "You and you!" he said, pointing to Jen and Chick. "My quarters. Now."

  * * *

  Back in his quarters, Jen sat down on Masters' foot locker. Chick stood. Masters dropped down on his cot. "What the hell was that?" he said to Chick. "It happens. I told you, it's how they interrogate."

  "He was killing them."

  "Welcome to the war."

  "Cut the crap!"

  "I think you should see this," Jen said, and pulled out a sheet of paper. "I was going to show it to you in the morning, but ..."

  He took it as she fell silent. The paper contained a long list, and a few items caught his attention immediately:

  Wrap in barbed wire

  Head in mud— 1 1/3 minutes

  Knife strapped to back

  Shoot through ear

  "What is this?"

  "It's a list I made up while listening to the Loyalist soldiers. There were laughing about what they do to prisoners."

  He looked back down at the list . . . When stomach is filled with water, beat to induce . . . "This can't be."

  "It is," said Chick. "Both the GFL and the Loyalists torture wildly." He looked up, searching. "They're from the same planet. I don't understand it."

  "What about the off-planet mercs, Chick?" When Chick looked away, he insisted, "Tell me now."

  "It's hell here, sir. The things they do to us. . . ."

  "I can't believe this!"

  Chick continued. "You should know that sometimes we just go into villages. Shoot them up."

  "What?"

  "They call them Free Fire Zones."

  "What?"

  "Free Fire Zone. Everything in the area is a target."

  "It's a battlefield?"

  "No. Not really. You might think it by the way we talk about them. They're just areas designated as belonging to the enemy. Huge areas. The rule is, anything in the area is enemy. Should be killed."

  "Body counts," Masters said, his voice barely a whisper.

  "Direct hit, sir. I have no idea who determines the Free Fire Zones or how they're determined. For all I know, villages bribe people like Captain Ibn Sa'ud to not declare their village a Free Fire Zone."

  "Are you serious?"

  "Absolutely, sir. I've got no proof. But I have yet to figure out what the hell makes a Free Fire Zone and what doesn't. Except that you need enough warm bodies to drive up a lance's body count. We just kill people, and Blake and the Loyalists assure us we're doing the right thing." Chick raised his fingers to his eyes. He gave a sharp sigh, then said, "I keep shooting, but you know, you kill enough ten-year-olds ..."

  Masters could not even speak. He simply looked up at Chick, his face wracked with despair.

  Chick dropped his hand and he glared back. "Don't get on me about this. Those kids—they'll kill you. I've seen it happen. They walk up to you and toss grenades into the H-craft hatches. This isn't a war. It's just killing. Everybody is screaming about religion. The Blakes want their religion. Everybody else wants their religions. They all think they're right. So they get to kill anybody they want. I don't care anymore who I kill or don't. . . ."He drew in another sharp breath. He looked about to cry, but stifled it. "Sorry, sir."

  An awkward silence filled the room. "All right," Masters said finally. "I'm going back to Portent tomorrow. The Captain-General has considered negotiating with the GFL. I'll go talk to Precentor Blane about this, and send word to Thomas Marik that things are out of control here. Because they are. This is madness."

  * * *

  The next morning, before he could leave for the city, a call came in from TOC. Countess Dystar's two renegade 'Mechs had been spotted in the Nagasaki Valley the night before. Masters decided to forego his trip, for two wild 'Mechs were too dangerous to leave loose.

  He scrambled his 'Mech lance and the mercenary hovercraft squads.

  Inside his cockpit Masters glanced at his display. On the long-range screen he tracked the other three 'Mechs in his lance, then he touched a button changing the screen back to short-range. His 'Mech companions disappeared and he saw only Chick's hovercraft. Out his viewscreen Masters saw the hovercraft rushing through the tall grass like a boat through water, keeping pace with him five hundred meters to the right.

  He punched up the radio and said, "Hatchetman One, Blackjack One. This is Phoenix Hawk One." Both Spinard and Valentine responded, and he continued. "Take the area around Padang. The 'Mechs might be based there, or at least in the vicinity." The two Mech Warriors confirmed the orders, then he called up Belgrade. "Shadow Hawk One, stick with me. We'll head up Cyclone Ridge and double back." He looked down at his screen and watched the dots break off.

  If only they could find the 'Mechs . . . That would be more like it, though still lacking in complete form. Heralds would be required for a proper battle, the field chosen by both sides, the 'Mechs lined up, the battle fought.

  People he spoke with, civilians, often thought that such battles, mimicking the ritual combats of such ancient Terran societies as feudal England or Japan, left little room for tactics or individual talent. Such was not the case. Perhaps it might have been so generations earlier, when soldiers marched in tight block formations and smashed at each other like waves against rocks. But better weapons and better armor allowed each warrior to matter more.

  That was the test of ritual combat: the fight was all out in the open. It demanded that each warrior be an improvisational artist. If a surprise were to occur, it had to happen right under the nose of the opposition. Shifts in the battle demanded quick, fluid thinking under arduous circumstances. This wa
s the test of the warrior—to outwit the enemy in a moment of action.

  Tools of destruction from the past—poison gas, the atomics, and others—had been outlawed because they were inhumane. War was inherently inhumane. War, which demanded that humans kill each other, was inherently inhuman. No. The key was that gases and atomic fireballs were simply unleashed—they ruled out the skill of a warrior. If no skill was required, there was no job. And without that, people like him had no place to go.

  There was, he knew, in his blood, something that demanded making decisions under fire. He felt most alive when piloting his 'Mech, targeting his opponent, commanding his fellow warriors all on the brink of the ultimate chaos. But he knew his taste was limited, unlike the thirst so many other people had. He knew that after most civilians had their first experience with combat, there was no stopping them. The war quickly became a matter of state pride, and the atomics could soon follow.

  "We've got Padang up ahead, sir," said Valentine. "Keep me posted."

  "They're on the move, sir. We're going in."

  "Who's on the move, Blackjack One?"

  "The townspeople, sir. We have confirmed Goffels."

  Masters felt the situation spiral out of his control once again. "Confirmed Goffels, Blackjack One? How did you confirm them?" He looked at his display and saw Valentine's and Spinard's 'Mechs rushing forward full-throttle.

  "They're moving, sir."

  Something was definitely wrong, and he spun his 'Mech around to meet up with Valentine and Spinard at the town. "Shadow Hawk One, stick with me. Blackjack One, what the hell do you mean, they're moving?"

  "They're moving, sir. I can see it from here, half a klick off. They're running around between the buildings."

  "As if in response to two large 'Mechs rushing toward their home?"

  "Exactly, sir. We'll be engaging in five seconds."

  "Belay that, Valentine!"

  "Negative, Valentine," piped in Arian's voice, swirling into the conversation as if by magic. "Proceed as usual."

  Masters was stunned. What was Precentor Martial Arian doing on the channel? Sophisticated communication gear allowed senior officers to involve themselves with field combat, but it was a terrible idea. Getting immediate commands from someone outside the fight only complicated matters.

  "Precentor Martial Arian," Masters said quickly, "Blackjack One just told me they're running as if in fear. Isn't that normal when a 'Mech rushes toward you?"

  Arian said, "Sir Masters, think it through. Loyal Gibsonians have nothing to fear from us. It's only the Goffels who would panic."

  "I think you're crediting ..."

  "We're on," said Valentine, and a rush of missiles sounded through the speakers.

  "Jesus." Masters slammed the throttle and rushed the Phoenix Hawk forward, the 'Mech ripping up huge patches of dirt underfoot. "Blackjack One, belay that! Belay that! That's an order!"

  "Captain Masters, you are jeopardizing the entire . . . ," Arian said, and continued in a similar vein, but Masters paid him no heed. He topped a ridge that overlooked Padang and showed to a stop at what he saw. Like Portent, the village of Padang formed a circle made up of several hundred wooden buildings. Farmlands began at the edge of the village and continued out for kilometers.

  Spinard's Hatchetman stood in the center of the village. Wielding the three-ton hatchet in the 'Mech's right hand, he swept it through the buildings, splintering them. Bodies flew out of the homes, sometimes lifted meters into the air, then smashed into the ground or other buildings. Every once in a while he fired the autocannon mounted on his 'Mech's right shoulder, the shots going to the edges of the village and ripping apart people trying to escape. Masters saw no one who offered resistance, and everyone still alive looked like they only wanted to flee.

  Meanwhile Valentine's Blackjack tirelessly circled the village, searching for villagers who had made it to the edge of the town proper and were trying to make a break for it. She shot down dozens of people with her lasers.

  He pushed the throttle forward again. Charging down the hill, he jabbed the comm button. "What are you bastards doing? They're not fighting back!"

  "It's a Free Fire Zone, sir," Valentine said. "Everyone here is Goffel."

  "How do you know that?" Masters screamed. He rushed into the village, cutting down a wide avenue, trying to avoid villagers as they ran wildly for shelter. He drove his Phoenix Hawk right up to the Hatchetman and with his 'Mech's left arm grabbed the handle of the axe as it started to swing down. The massive arms of the two 'Mechs pushed against each other, sending a grinding whine through the air. Masters felt his 'Mech begin to lose balance as momentum brought the Hatchetman's arm back down.

  He couldn't risk getting knocked over, so he pulled his 'Mech's arm away. The Hatchetman's arm continued to swing down until the axe slammed into the ground and shook the earth fiercely. Reacting quickly, Masters brought his 'Mech's hand down on top of the axe. Gravity was his ally now, helping him pin the Hatchetman's arm in place. "Stop! Stop it now! They're finished. They're not fighting back!"

  "Captain Masters!" Valentine shouted, "What are you doing?"

  "What is going on out there?" demanded Arian.

  The Phoenix Hawk's cockpit had warmed up since his run and his attacks against Spinard, not nearly hot enough to be dangerous, but enough to feel it. "They're not fighting back," Masters said carefully, slowly, for he was suddenly unsure if he'd really stated this simple truth out loud.

  Valentine stopped firing, but then Masters saw her training her weapons on him. She did not fire, perhaps for fear of hitting Spinard, or possibly because she was simply not yet ready to shoot at her captain. He spotted Belgrade on a ridge overlooking the village, a witness to the proceedings, but not yet a participant. And only a few meters off was the dark cockpit of the Hatchetman, with Spinard invisible behind it.

  Down below all movement had stopped. Masters saw not a single person standing, but hundreds and hundreds of bodies were scattered about like tossed dolls. Some lay in the street, others within ruined buildings, the structures shattered by missile and cannon fire or the terrible power of Spinard's axe. "They're not fighting back," he repeated. "It's time to stop. We tend to the wounded now."

  "What?" asked Valentine, drawing the word out like a child denied dessert. "They're animals! In a Free Fire Zone. We don't—"

  "Do as Sir Masters says, Lieutenant," Arian broke in. "And get me a body count. I'll be back on in a moment."

  Masters let go of the Hatchetman axe. He remained on guard for a sudden riposte, but Spinard backed his 'Mech up a few steps, then powered down.

  "First Squad H-craft," Masters said into his microphone.

  "Here, sir," answered Chick. "Let's move the squad in, check for wounded. Check for GFL weapons and guerrillas."

  "Yes, sir."

  "I'll expect the other H-craft squads to do the same." There was a pause, then each of the squad sergeants confirmed.

  Masters sat back in the command couch and wiped the sweat from his forehead. First he'd assaulted a Regulan officer during peacetime at the party, then he'd threatened his Loyalist counterpart the night before, and now he had just struggled with MechWarriors under his command. Was he completely out of touch with the world, or had the world gotten completely out of touch with reality?

  Below he saw the squads beginning to disperse through the remains of the town. He spotted Chick kneeling beside a pile of bodies, and then saw the man call his radio operator over.

  "Sir," came Chick's voice over the speakers, "we've got a lot, I mean a lot of people that are just hanging on by a thread. We don't have the supplies or the means to take care of this many injured, and no help's going to come. What do you . . . what do you want us to do about them? Sir."

  Masters rubbed the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. Where were the ideals he and Thomas had conceived? When did the war start getting clean?

  "You're suggesting there are no options, Chick?"

  "Not at this time, n
ot for most of these people. But they're in misery."

  "All right. But only the extreme cases. Make sure everyone understands that. Save who you can."

  He opened his eyes and looked down below. Chick pulled out his Mydron auto pistol and pointed it down at a small body—a child maybe, or half a man-Masters couldn't be sure from the distance. One bullet, and the body on the ground jerked once, then went still. Chick lowered his head.

  Valentine climbed down the side of her Blackjack, a bag slung over her shoulder. He knew that inside were the tools of her true trade; not weapons of war, but a calculator. His loathing for her and the Word of Blake dried his mouth and made his tongue feel thick against his teeth. He had to get word to Thomas. Whatever he had been told, whoever had passed the lies on—whether it was Countess Dystar, Hsiang, Word of Blake—it didn't matter anymore. This situation was a horror. It was exactly why MechWarriors had to seize the means of war, noble MechWarriors who knew their job.

  As soon as he'd finished supervising the cleanup, he'd head straight to the city. Masters popped the lock on his hatch and began the long climb down his 'Mech.

  15

  Padang, Gibson

  Principality of Gibson, Free Worlds League

  6 February 3055

  Padang looked like footage ready-made for an antiwar documentary. Though Masters hated what he saw, he had to remind himself that he did not hate war.

  War, first and foremost, tested a person's will. Above any strategy and any technology, soldiers had to hold their positions, carry out their orders, work together. No matter how brilliant a general's maneuver on a map board, what counted were the soldiers' decisions once they were on the battlefield—when other people started shooting at them. A military unit lived or died by its ability to continue operating as trained. The trick was to be calm and determined enough to make the opposition break ranks. Nerve and will. That was where a battle was really fought. If just one soldier turned and ran, it opened a gap for the enemy. And once a line opened, the gap rarely stayed small. At that moment the battle would turn.