Tactics of Duty

by William H. Keith

  "I'd nae forgotten, General," McCall said with an easy grin. "Let's just say I have a wee bit a' influence wi' th' Carlyle. Noo tha' Alex an' I hae seen the real cause a' th' trouble here, I think I can promise that the Legion will nae be used against you. Alex an' I will be talkin' to th' Carlyle about wha' we can do about Wilmarth."

  "What if the Governor, or the Governor's people, get to him first?" Sergeant Ross—the big, tattooed soldier they'd rescued in the Citadel—crossed muscular arms and did not look convinced.

  "I don't see how that would be possible," Alex said. "They'd have to send someone out with a ship, and our people have been watching the spaceport."

  "There's more than one spaceport on Caledon," Allyn said. "They could send someone out to rendezvous with the Legion's JumpShip."

  "Sure, but what would be the point?" Alex asked. "The Legion will be coming under orders from Tharkad. What's Wilmarth going to do, tell them to go back where they came from?"

  "And what's this Colonel of yours going to do when he gets here?" Angus McCall wanted to know. "Sure, he'll listen to what you say, Davis, but he's a mercenary. We don't have the money to pay for a full, front-line merc regiment like the Gray Death!"

  "Weel, lad, I'll tell you," Davis replied. "Th' Carlyle would noo' stand for this wee, tin-plated dictator Wilmarth an' his army a' thugs. He jus' might be persuaded t' settle for a contingency contract."

  "Contingency contract," Allyn said. "What's that?"

  She was sitting beside Alex in the front row of chairs that had been grouped in concentric semicircles about the makeshift stage.

  "Loot," Alex told her. He shrugged when she looked at him in surprise. "Wilmarth has stuff in that castle of his that we could use. His 'Mechs aren't in very good shape, so I doubt he has much in the way of spare parts, but he does have some. And tools. And expendables like short-range missiles and power packs and the like."

  "Aye, laddie," McCall said from the stage with a grin. "It's too bad you took out most a' Wilmarth's motor pool last week! I-imagine Cintly would hae liked t' get her hands on some a' those hovercraft y' scrapped!" Cintly was Lieutenant Cintly Sashimoto, CO of the Legion's motor and service company.

  His statement was answered by scattered laughter from the audience. "So your people would be satisfied with whatever booty you could take from the Citadel, as payment for helping us?" someone asked as the laughter died away.

  "Why?" The speaker was a man in a dark, high-collared jacket and maroon traveling cloak standing at the back of the room. He'd been introduced to Alex and McCall earlier that evening simply as Bryson Caruthers, but they already knew he was the focal point of the dissent growing within the rebellion. 'He'd been listening to the proceedings so far with a distinct air of disapproval, his features set in an unpleasant frown, as though he were smelling a whiff of something foul.

  "Wha' do y' mean, sir?" McCall replied. "Why what?"

  "Why would these mercenaries of yours be willing to help us?" Caruthers shook his head, the frown deepening. "Brothers," he said, now addressing the Caledonians sitting around and in front of him, "it seems to me tha' one band a' invaders is just as bad as another. One army of BattleMechs is as bad as another, trampling our fields, burning our crops, smashing our buildings."

  "And how do you propose we make them all stay away, Bry?" McBee said. "Your Jihaders haven't come up with a plan for kicking Wilmarth and his men off Caledonia that doesn't require at least a company of 'Mechs."

  " 'Rely not upon the machine,' " Caruthers intoned, apparently quoting some text Alex didn't recognize, " 'for the way of the machine is death. Walk instead the way of life, which dwells within us all.' "

  "Thus says the Word," another voice chimed in from the other side of the room, and Alex heard several low-voiced murmurs that could have been assent.

  "Major ... Captain," McBee said, "Bryson here is a Jihad proclaimer. Not all of us see quite eye to eye wi' him an' his ideas about machines, but they're good people and good neighbors."

  "So I take it," Alex said, turning in his seat to face Caruthers across several rows of listeners, "that you don't care for machines."

  "I am a proclaimer of the Word of Jihad," Caruthers said, in the tones of a teacher correcting a student. "Nothing more. It is not my intent to tell you all how to run your revolution. But it ... distresses me to see so much reliance on demon technos. In the short run, the death machines might help our cause. In the long run, however, they will steal our very souls."

  "Aye, lad," McCall said softly from the stage. "That vurra weel might be. But y' hae t' survive the short run t' worry about the long. An' without BattleMechs, I promise you, you'll nae last long agin' Wilmarth an' his people."

  " 'The righteous need not the stink and clank of machines,' " another man in the audience quoted. " 'Trust ye in heart and soul and the precious gift of life, for it is written that in the end, the green shall always overcome the gray.' "

  "Thus says the Word!" several other voices echoed.

  "Major, not all of us feel the way the damned proclaimers do," Allyn said. She snapped an angry glance back over her shoulder at Caruthers. "Their so-called Word hasn't done a thing to lift Wilmarth's oppression, and that little bastard's been ruling Caledon from his black tower for five years now! Platitudes and high-sounding proclamations about green overcoming gray are all fine, but we don't stand a chance in hell of beating Wilmarth's 'Mechs."

  "Especially when he seems to have gotten reinforcements lately," Ross added, rubbing his jaw. "Those Victors ..."

  "Third Davion Guard," Alex added, shaking his head. "Not good at all."

  "Are those 'Mechs really from Hesperus II, Captain?" someone wanted to know. "Could your Gray Death stop them?"

  "Depends on how many there are ... and how many 'Mechs the Gray Death sends, of course. The Third Guards is a good unit, with a fair amount of combat experience." Alex grinned. "Of course, they're not as good as the Gray Death."

  "People, people," Caruthers said, standing now and pleading with the assembly, his arms spread wide. "Don't you see? Violence breeds violence, machines breed machines! If we don't stop this insane dependence on the clanking monstrosities, we will never be rid of them, never! Humans will be slaves to the monsters for all eternity!"

  McCall was shaking his head. "I suppose, then, tha' you'll nae be wantin' the help of the Gray Death's wee 'Mechs."

  "You fought Wilmarth's 'Mechs without one of your own!" one young woman sitting next to Caruthers argued. "We saw it! You could teach us how to do the same thing!"

  A pained expression passed over McCall's face. "Lass, y' dinnae ken what you're sayin'."

  "Unarmored, with nothing but a satchel charge," Alex said. "You'd be dead before you got within fifty meters of a BattleMech."

  "The point is," the woman shot back, "that you two did what you did without relying on a ten-meter monster of steel and electricity! You weren't depending on machines to fight your battle!"

  "I don't mean t' stand here an' refute you point blank, lass, but aye, I was depending on machines," McCall reminded her. "If I'd nae had tha' Nighthawk power suit, I would hae been chewed to bloody mash oot there before two minutes were past."

  "Besides, Janet," one of the rebels added, laughing, "a satchel charge is a kind of machine too. Isn't that right, Proclaimer? Or does the Word have an answer for that?"

  The words were spoken lightly, but Alex heard the undercurrent of tension. The alliance between Caledonia's Jacobites and the Word of Jihad was a fragile one, and the friction between the two had been growing during the past few days. The Jacobites were willing to go to any lengths to free their world from Wilmarth and his thugs; the Jihadists were unwilling to help if it meant forming an alliance with machines—specifically with BattleMechs. The problem was, if this revolution was to succeed, it required the broad support and cooperation of as many of Caledonia's people as could be recruited—and that included the Jihadists. The once obscure anti-technic sect had been growing in power and in i
nfluence all across Caledonia during the past five years, especially in rural areas away from the larger cities.

  "Y' ken, I've been aye wondering about tha', sir," McCall told the proclaimer. "Just where do you folks draw the line between what's machine an' what is not? Or would y' hae us all shed our clothes an' frolic naked in the forest?"

  "Certainly not!" the man said, looking shocked.

  "Ah, weel, I'm relieved t' hear tha'. Caledonian winters can be aye a mite cold, an' nuts an' berries are hard t' come by when the snow's up to your chin. But, d' y' nae see? The clothing you wear an' the processed food y' eat are both products of our demonic technological culture, would y' nae agree, lad?"

  "The Word proclaims that there is a difference between tools that serve the maker, and machines that rule him." He plucked at the hem of the cloak he wore. "Even a piece of clothing can become a master, though, if it so rules our thoughts and our souls that we become slaves to it. To fashion. To rich garments or clothing that proves we're better than our neighbor. Better to live naked, then, or clad in tree bark, than to be slaves to a thing?"

  "Aye, aye," McCall said. "An' I must admit I hae nothin' against idealism, or against idealistic stands. I've made one or two in my own life. But I tell y' noo tha' there's a time for faith in your Word, an' a time t' get off your ass an' get things done."

  "All good works proceed from faith," Caruthers said. "You can't separate the one from the other."

  "Do you really believe you can attack BattleMechs wi' your bare hands?"

  Caruthers glanced down at the woman who'd talked about McCall not needing a BattleMech and gave her a condescending smile. "Janet here spoke emotionally, Major. The way to final triumph and salvation is essentially a passive one. We will resist peacefully. We will answer hatred with love. And love will triumph in the end."

  "I see," McCall said thoughtfully. "Aye. Let me ask you all somethin', then. How many here believe that machines are evil?"

  Fully twenty hands went up around the shed, from nearly half of the gathered rebels.

  "That you'd be better off fighting Wilmarth wi' your faith? Fighting BattleMechs wi' love?"

  A number of the raised hands wavered at that, and several dropped.

  One of the men who'd kept his hand up rose to his feet, hand still firmly in the air. "There's aye plenty a' Jihadists joinin' the Jacobites, Major," he said, "an' plenty more every day. The Word prophesies three centuries when ordinary people will be ground down under th' heel of the machine in blood and war, followed by a time of tribulation, when the faithful will be tested. An' after that comes th' time of cleansing, when ordinary people who have the faith will rise up and destroy the machines forever!" He paused, looking around the room, defiant. "Well, it appears t' me that we've had our three centuries, more or less. An' Wee Willie has certainly provided the tribulation!" Low-voiced murmurs of approval sounded around the room, intermingled with scattered applause.

  "I'll tell y' all th' truth then, people," McCall said. "I hae never had much tolerance for the idea that technology is evil. Oh, aye, it's fashionable from time t' time to up an' say that science makes more problems than it solves, tha' technology is evil, tha' machines are dehumanizing. We humans hae been flirting wi' tha' nonsense since the steam engine ... no, since we first learned how t' make fire. But it's nae the machines tha' define our humanity. We're slaves to machines only when we oursel's want to be. When we let them rule our lives. There's nae shame or loss of faith in using tools when you need them, whether it's a textile manufactory t' make the clothes t' keep you warm or a BattleMech t' defend your homes an' your bairns. Proclaimer Caruthers is right aboot one thing. War an' hatred are aye parts of a deadly circle, an if there's a way to get off the damned thing, I have nae heard it yet.

  "But I'll tell y' this, an' this from bluidy experience because I've seen it wi' these eyes on worlds tha' hae lost the ability t' make things, t' build an' grow an' dream. Take away th' technology, an' it will nae be the bucolic agroparadise th' Jihadie prophets claim it'll be. You'll hae disease an' famine an' war an' death, aye, the Four Horsemen themselves, an' you'll never be rid of them till you an' all your bairns an' their bairns after them lie dead together in th' rubble!"

  There was no applause when McCall stopped speaking, only a deep and full silence that in its own way was louder than applause would have been. Alex listened to that silence, and he felt the mood of the audience shifting. A majority, he was pretty sure, agreed with what McCall had just said ... a majority even of the Jihadists. Alex marveled. Davis McCall knew how to lead!

  "I suggest," General McBee said after a long silence, "tha' we vote on the matter. 'Aye,' if we're t' accept the help of th' Gray Death Legion, even if it means BattleMechs. 'Nay' if y' choose to find another way."

  "Thou shalt make no covenant with evil!" Caruthers cried from the back of the room. "Surely there is room here for negotiation, for compromise!"

  "With the likes of Wilmarth?" Allyn called out, her voice bitter in the silence that followed the proclaimer's plea. She stood up, then turned to face the audience, and there was fire in her eyes. "I was there, Proclaimer, in his dungeons, for no greater crime than voicing my protest of his high-handed and bloody rule! I was arrested, beaten, stripped naked, abused, humiliated, tied and gagged, raped, and then strung up in a wire noose and left to die on a melting block of ice! Look me in the face and tell me that compromise with Wilmarth is less of an evil than accepting the Gray Death's help!"

  The vote was forty-one ayes, with only a handful abstaining or voting nay.

  "Aye," McCall said softly to Alex, after the votes had been counted. "We hae ourselves a wee army now. I jus' hope t' God we can convince the Colonel t' side wi' us when he gets here."

  "I'm not too worried about that," Alex said. "He'll do what's right." He looked around the room at the people gathered there, talking now in small, urgent groups of two and three. "But what's going to happen to these people? No weapons to speak of, no armor."

  "Aye," McCall said. "But a vurra great deal of heart."

  21

  DropShip

  Approaches to New Edinburgh Spaceport

  Caledonia, Skye March

  Federated Commonwealth

  1412 hours, 13 April 3057

  Balanced on shrieking, thrusting spears of white-hot plasma, the Union Class DropShips Endeavor, Valiant, and Defiant drifted down out of a cloudless sky. Spherical, painted black and gray, each massed 3,500 tons and was being gentled toward Caledonia's surface on thundering Star League V250 plasma thrusters, which gulped down tons of atmosphere, superheated it in parallel-linked fusion plants, and spewed it out astern at temperatures approaching those of the core of a star. Four nacelles evenly spaced about their thrusters split open, disgorging the heavy, cylindrical feet of their landing legs.

  Closer and closer they came toward the starport, dropping past five kilometers now. Four of the Legion's aerospace fighters, released while the flight of DropShips was still in space, circled at a distance, protecting their larger, clumsier charges from air attack, scanning the area for any military threat from air or ground.

  Aboard the DropShip Endeavor, Grayson Carlyle stood in Ship Operations, ignoring the thrumming vibration of the drive rattling against the soles of his feet through the steel deck, studying the screen of a large monitor set to display the view from one of the ship's external cameras. Regulations directed all personnel to remain in their acceleration couches during atmospheric maneuvers and until the pilot sounded the all-clear, but the Endeavor had already completed its necessary heavy-duty maneuvers and was descending at only a few meters per second. No sudden maneuvers were expected or necessary, and Grayson wanted to take advantage of the ship's dwindling altitude to get a good look at the city of New Edinburgh.

  "Left five," he said, speaking for the benefit of the console's voice-command circuits. "And enhance."

  The picture from an altitude of twenty kilometers was remarkably clear and steady; the camera was comput
er-controlled to maintain the image despite the DropShip's movements or the buffeting of the wind. At Grayson's spoken command, a square appeared in the center of the screen, shifted left, then expanded swiftly to zoom in on the selected region. The view showed a portion of the spaceport spread out beneath the slowly descending DropShip as well as a nearby park or public square surrounded by buildings. The square was filled to overflowing with a great, black mass that seemed to quiver and seethe as Grayson watched it.

  "Magnify," he said. "Times five."

  Again a graphic square appeared on screen, then expanded, magnifying the view. Now the black mass was revealed as individual people, standing shoulder to shoulder in a great, seething mob.

  A riot... or a massive demonstration. He widened the angle of his scan and ran a search for large heat sources ... there! Three of them, BattleMechs, moving toward the town plaza. Make that four. A fourth heat source appeared to be lurking among the warehouses on the northeast side of the spaceport, some distance away from the main demonstration. Why was it all the way over there? A backup for the others in case the crowd broke that way? An ambush?

  Major Frye came up behind him, looking over his shoulder at the screen. "Trouble, Colonel?"

  "Looks like. Better pass the word for the ground troops to go out armed and in armor. They are not, repeat, not to engage, however, unless and until they're fired upon."

  We still don't know for sure who the enemy is here....

  Grayson thought again about Alex and McCall. There was still no word from either one, still no break in the government's jamming of all radio frequencies. He'd been almost frantic for the several hours after he'd seen Folker's film of the battle at the Citadel. Somehow, somehow, he'd remained almost impassive, though it had been all he could do not to deck Kellen Folker then and there. In the hours that followed, however, Grayson had arrived at several conclusions.