Tactics of Duty

by William H. Keith

  Personally, however, and emotionally, Grayson's loyalty still resided with House Steiner.

  It was a curious thing, he thought, this concept of loyalty in a mercenary unit. By definition and by popular supposition, mercenaries were supposed to be loyal only to their paychecks ... and a better offer could turn this week's enemy into next week's employer.

  In fact, though, things were rarely that simple. While some mercs jumped from employer to employer, the best professionals—and the ones that commanded the highest prices on the military market—were those who'd demonstrated they could be relied upon over the long haul. Few employers were willing to risk their C-bills on a merc unit with a reputation for jumping contracts.

  There was much to be said, too, for the fraternity among combat veterans. When you fought side by side with someone, sharing the dirt and the danger, the triumph and the grief, it was hard to think of him as an enemy after that. There'd been a number of incidents throughout history of mercenary units that once had been comrades meeting as enemies in battle ... and refusing to fight.

  The history of the Gray Death was inextricably bound up with the recent history of the old Lyran Commonwealth. While the Legion had served other employers—notably House Marik, for a time—they'd always come back to the Steiners, fighting first the Draconis Combine in that never-ending trade of blow and counterblow up and down the Commonwealth-Combine border, and then the Clans, when those high-tech descendants of an ancient Star League-era exodus had come swarming in from beyond the dark Periphery from the direction of the galactic core.

  And now, the political cords that bound the Federated Commonwealth together were rapidly fraying. Many people of the Lyran sector of the Federated Commonwealth felt neglected by the preference Victor was giving to things Davion. Added to that, the Lyrans had suffered severely in the war with the Clans while the Davion half of the alliance had not been touched. It was a quandary for Grayson Carlyle. His personal sympathies were with the people and with House Steiner, while his legal authority and his money came from Victor Davion.

  And sooner or later, he knew, that web of conflicting loyalties was going to trap him and the Gray Death Legion as well.

  "Sir?"

  Grayson looked up at McCall, aware that his mind had wandered. "Sorry, Davis. What was that?"

  "I said, Colonel, that if th' Gray Death is sent t' Caledon, it'll aye put us under th' bastard Wilmarth's command. Wi' all due respect, I dinnae think I can stomach that. Th' man sent BattleMechs in against a civilian demonstration. I saw it wi' me own eyes on a newscast downloaded from th' HPG net."

  Grayson winced. "And you wouldn't care to be in a 'Mech on Caledonia following his orders. I understand that."

  "Aye, but it's more than that. I must go an' see if I can help my family, my brother. Do y' see, sir? It would place you an' me against one another, an' if I remained under your command, it would force me t' choose, like, between you an' my family."

  Such decisions, Grayson realized with a small, cold shock, had been the tragedy of civil wars since the beginning of human history. "I understand that."

  "I wish there were another way...."

  "Tell me, Davis. Does this trouble on Caledonia have anything to do with your Jacobite friends?"

  "Oh, aye." McCall gave a wry smile. "When there's aye trouble on Caledon, like as not the Jakes are in on't." The smile froze in place, then vanished. "Sir, you'll not be wantin' names of—"

  "Good god, no," Grayson said, holding up a hand. "What do you take me for, man?"

  "Sorry, sir," McCall said, relaxing slightly. "But if the Legion goes to put down—"

  "It's a damned big if, Davis. What I want right now is to understand the situation. If the Legion does get dragged into this mess, I want to know the score. But I don't want you to name friends or kin who might be involved, and you don't have to tell me a damned thing if you don't want to."

  "Thank you, sir." McCall looked relieved, but it was obvious he was trapped between conflicting loyalties.

  Like Grayson himself.

  "Th' Jacobites," McCall continued after a moment's thought, "are like a political party in some ways, like a brotherhood or secret lodge in others. They pride themselves on a lineage they claim goes clear back to ancient Scotland, on Terra, but there's no way they could prove such a claim. They want t' restore an ancient monarchy as ruler over Caledon, though tha' is as much for pride's sake as for any reasonable legal claim. Their politics, though, call for a constitution tha' limits the size an' power of any government. It's as though they were sayin', if their neighbor cannae run his own house an' finances, why should he be given power to run my house an' finances as weel?"

  "A reasonable enough question."

  "Governments tend to dislike such groups," McCall said with a flash of dark humor, "though I cannae understand why."

  "And this demonstration Wilmarth put down with 'Mechs ... it was the Jacobites?"

  "T' tell the truth, sir, I'm not sure. They were involved, aye, but the accounts mentioned another group as weel. A religious group called the Word of Jihad."

  "That's all we need. To mix religion with politics." Grayson frowned. "Word of Jihad? I've never heard of it."

  "Aye, sir, nor I either." McCall looked thoughtful. "Judging from the slogans on some of the banners in the demonstration, however, I'd have t' say tha' the Jihad is some kind of anti-tech movement. It would figure, of course. The Jacobites ha' neer been' too happy wi' the machines an' all, especially wi' the Kurita 'Mechs stompin' to and fro across their grain fields an' villages for years on end. A neo-Luddite movement might well find fertile ground there on Caledon."

  "Neoludds, eh?"

  McCall nodded, and Grayson crossed his arms, sitting back in his chair. The original Luddites had been a loose political group back on Terra in the nineteenth century— laborers, mostly, who'd feared losing their jobs to the machines of the industrial revolution and who'd sought to fight back by acts of sabotage. In the twelve centuries since that time, new groups with Luddite philosophies and fears had risen time after time, and on world after world. With the BattleMech as the visible manifestation of all machines, it was particularly easy nowadays to point to technology as the evil threatening to tear civilization apart and ultimately to destroy humanity.

  Grayson had little patience with such arguments. If technology threatened humanity through weapons, it also offered civilization its one real hope for ending the age-old cycle of want, ignorance, and warfare.

  "I know how you feel aboot the antitechnology sorts," McCall said. "Still, they're not so much evil as misguided."

  "Agreed. And if they find themselves armed with rocks against BattleMechs, they're likely to find out just how misguided they've been."

  McCall's eyes closed, as if at some remembered pain. "Aye," he said softly. "Tha's true enough."

  Grayson turned to his computer monitor, cleared it of report forms and orders, and called up the Legion's library net. Part of the same planetary data system that McCall had accessed for word about Caledonia, it was a continuously updated encyclopedia of worlds, personalities, events, and groups across the Inner Sphere, assembled on the theory that what was happening on a neighboring world might one day be part of a political or a tactical problem facing the Legion's battle staff.

  "Word of Jihad," Grayson said, addressing the computer. "Screen only."

  As text flickered across the screen he felt a stab of disappointment. The data base offered painfully little information on the group, which in any case must have appeared quite recently. It had apparently begun as an heretical offshoot of the Unfinished Book Movement, a quasi-religious order founded a century before in the Federated Suns, and dedicated to the unification of the various great faiths.

  The "Unfinished Book" referred to the fact that there was still much spiritual truth to be discovered. The Word of Jihad had evidently decided to write a chapter or two on its own, for the only mentions of the new movement appeared in reports of rioting and insu
rrection on Federated Commonwealth worlds from Rigel Kent and New Earth to Carstairs. So far, at least, it appeared to be confined to the Skye March, but the movement's spread was being discussed in Tharkad and in New Avalon, the twin capitals of the Federated Commonwealth. There was a growing concern that the Word of Jihad—which, as McCall had suggested, taught that machines were evil—would spread beyond the Skye March to other areas of FedCom space.

  "Interesting," Grayson commented aloud as he read the little that was known about the Jihad movement. "It says here the Word of Jihad thinks the end of the universe is about to take place."

  "Indeed, sir?"

  "Mmm. They claim that there's to be a great tribulation, a time of blood and unceasing warfare, lasting three hundred years, followed by a time of cleansing when everyone un-contaminated by the demonic spirit of machines will be empowered by God to destroy all machines and put an end, once and for all, to war." Grayson cocked an eyebrow at McCall. "Three centuries of tribulation? That could be the Succession Wars, I suppose, measured from the death of First Lord Simon Cameron."

  "Tha' was ... what, Colonel? 2750, or '51, thereabouts? They're a wee bit past their time if they think that. Unless we're in their time of cleansing right now."

  "Apocalyptic religions aren't always logical about their dating systems. That three centuries could be measured from the Amaris coup, too. That pretty much started the collapse of the Star League. And that was 2766."

  "Either way, I can see how th' idea would excite them," McCall said. "After three long, bluidy centuries a' one House knocking another into wrack an' ruin, they see a time comin' soon wi' no 'Mechs, no damned invadin' armies, no war...."

  "Paradise. But I'm afraid I don't see that happening."

  "Nor I, Colonel. Not tha' that'll stop 'em from tryin' t' take on BattleMechs wi' stones. Th' damned poor fools."

  Grayson blanked the screen, then turned to face his officer. "Major," he said bluntly, "I cannot accept your resignation."

  McCall's face first fell, then hardened into a stubborn and recalcitrant glower. "Sir, I'm vurra sorry t' hear y' say tha'...."

  "Shut up, Davis. Before you commit an act of mutiny."

  "Sir, I—"

  "I said shut up! Not another word!"

  McCall's jaw clamped firmly shut, though his eyes continued to smolder.

  Grayson touched a key on the console pad of his desk. "Santly?"

  A man's voice replied from the outer office. "Yes, Colonel."

  "Track down Captain Carlyle, please. I want him here in my office immediately. Sooner if possible."

  "Yes, sir."

  Looking again at McCall, Grayson waved his hand. "For God's sake, stop glowering at me, Mac!" He indicated the far wall of the office, where a small but well-stocked bar resided behind a sliding panel. "Go fix yourself a drink. I think there's still some of that Glenlivet you like so much."

  Caught between stubbornness and an automatic obedience, McCall started to rise, hesitated, then did as Grayson had commanded. "Sir," he said after a moment, while pouring three fingers of golden liquid into a glass filled with ice. "May I speak?"

  "Of course," Grayson said. "I didn't mean to be abrupt. In here, with just you and me, you can call me whatever you damn well please."

  McCall broke a wry grin. "Well, noo, I was nae aboot to call y' names, sir. But I did wonder wha' had crossed your mind. I must return to my family, do y' see that, sir? I must, if I have to desert t' do it! Your orders leave me vurra little choice...."

  "You'd desert the Legion, Mac?" Grayson's voice was as soft as velvet.

  McCall did not answer right away. "I would not like t' be put in the position where I would have t' choose."

  "We may all have to choose before long, old friend." Grayson hesitated, then grinned. "Mac, there's no reason at all for you to resign your commission. Not when I'm just about to assign you to detached duty."

  McCall's eyes widened slightly, and the golden liquid in the glass he held sloshed a bit. "Detached duty. Sir ... you're nae thinkin' a' sendin' me to—"

  "Caledonia, Mac. You're going home ... and I want you to take my son with you. What do you think of that?"

  "I think, sir," McCall said, choosing each word deliberately, "tha' th' Colonel has lost his bluidy mind. Sir."

  5

  Glencoe Highlands, Near Dunkeld

  Glengarry. Skye March

  Federated Commonwealth

  1218 Hours, 10 March 3057

  "Oh, drek, no!"

  The shrill chirrup of Alex Carlyle's comm unit shattered the peaceful quiet of the hillside and set a flock of bugbirds to raucous flight.

  "Drek," Alex said again, for emphasis. "I don't drekkin' believe this!"

  Caitlin DeVries moved beneath him, and her eyes opened. Her dark hair was tangled and wild. "Mmm," she said as the comm unit continued to chirp, two shorts followed by a long, repeated over and over. "Shouldn't you get that? It's the base code."

  He sighed. "I suppose I'd better." Bending his head forward again, he kissed her long and lovingly. "Be right back, Cait. Don't go away."

  Rolling off of her, Alex moved to the edge of the blanket they'd spread out on the grassy slope and began rummaging through the pile of their discarded clothing. "You would think," he said as he extracted the communicator from beneath his trousers, "that we could have a couple of hours' lunch break to ourselves." He flipped the receive switch and held the headset against his ear. "Carlyle!" he snapped. "What is it?"

  "Alex? This is Santly Gunnarson. Better get back here on the double. Your father's looking for you."

  Alex groaned. "I'm off the base."

  "I know. We've been scanning for you here, but when your ID tag didn't show on the locator, I decided to try the comm. Where are you, anyway?"

  "Oh, up in the Glencoes," Alex said with only the least bit of evasiveness. Standing rules required Legion personnel on duty to remain within five kilometers of Castle Hill, and while the Glencoe Highlands technically began their erratic series of step-upon-step rises to the eight-thousand-meter mark just outside of Dunkeld, Alex had, in fact, brought Caitlin considerably farther than that for their picnic and lovemaking tryst. From here, the fortress lay about twenty klicks to the southwest, and perhaps half that again if one measured the mileage of the dirt road winding down those treacherous slopes.

  "Well, you'd better hotfoot it back here. The Colonel wants to see you, and his word to me was 'immediately— sooner if possible.' "

  "Make it an hour."

  "You want to tell him that yourself?"

  Alex muttered something unpleasant beneath his breath. Turning, he saw Caitlin standing on the other side of the blanket, pulling on her underwear. "Wait," he said. "What are you doing?'

  "I, ah, didn't copy that, Alex," Gunnarson's voice said.

  "Someone wants you back," Caitlin said, reaching for her top. "Am I right?"

  "Okay, okay," he said into the comm. "I'll try to make it in thirty minutes."

  "I could send a hopper for you. Give me your coords."

  "Ah, negative on that. I've got my cycle. Look, tell the Colonel I'll be there fast as I can."

  "Okay, but make it snappy. His next move might be to send a 'Mech out to pick you up." There was a roguish pause on the channel. "And tell Caitlin I said hello. Gunnarson out."

  Alex tossed the communicator onto the blanket, disgusted. "Santly says hello," he said.

  Nearly dressed, Caitlin was sitting down now on the blanket as she pulled on her boots. "God. That means the whole Legion knows I was up here with you."

  "Well, it's no secret that we've got something serious going, you and I." Alex had been attracted to her ever since she'd joined his lance as a rookie MechWarrior more than a year before.

  "That's doesn't exactly make things easy for me, you know. Being the Colonel's kid's woman. So, who wants you back?"

  "My father."

  "Figures. You'd better get dressed... or are you going back to town like' that?"

&
nbsp; "Huh? Oh, yeah." Alex began pulling on his uniform. "I'm sorry about the interruption."

  "It happens. We really shouldn't have come this far up."

  "Hey, I'm the Colonel's son, right? What's the good of that if I can't bend the rules a little?"

  He'd meant it as a joke, but she gave him a hard, quizzical look. "Are you serious? If there's one thing the troops idolize Grayson Carlyle for, it's the fact that he doesn't play favorites!" She produced a comb from her belt pouch and began working at the tangles in her hair. "You know," she continued, "I wonder sometimes why you're not more like him."

  That stung. "Should I be?"

  "You used to be. I think that's why I was so attracted to you. Lately though, I don't know. You've been ... different. Colder, more distant, maybe. I know things have been rough for you ever since—"

  "Maybe you'd rather be with my father," Alex snapped, angry now. "Of course, he's married, so that makes it harder for you, I guess. What am I, the next best thing?"

  "Oh, I didn't mean it that way, Alex, and you know it! Don't be so defensive!"

  A moment before he'd been about to suggest that they do something special that evening to make up for the interruption to their tryst, possibly dinner and a late, moonlight walk to a deserted part of the beach above the Firth of Moray, but the mood was broken now. It would be a while before he asked her out again! In a hostile silence, they finished with buckles, snaps, and belts, gathered up the blanket and the knapsack that had carried lunch, and stowed them in the cargo compartment of his cycle.

  The machine was a low, gleaming Defiance Bluestreak, a powerful, gyro-stabilized monocycle powered by hydrogen converter cells. Alex strapped on his helmet, swung his leg over the top, and settled into the machine's saddle just ahead of the central bulge of the wheel well. He spent a moment checking the instrumentation as Caitlin squeezed in behind him and put her arms around his waist. Then he cut on the power and engaged the gyro, while the high-pitched whine of the flywheel rose to its peak telling him he could now easily balance the long, sleek machine on its single wide, deeply tracked tire by leaning against the gyro's firm push.