Masters of War

by Michael A. Stackpole

  She stood and looked him square in the eye. “If you believe I am so incompetent and so destined for failure, why are you here? Aren’t you afraid you’ll go down with me?”

  He snorted. “I’ve placed myself where I am so I can insulate others when you implode. You see, you’re so unsure of yourself you look for the rules to tell you that you’re doing things correctly. You should want to be the one making the rules, not following them.”

  “But you just said that in warfare there are no rules.”

  “Pretty paradox, isn’t it?” Kennerly threw her a salute. “Better you wrestle with it than the Wolf’s ideas. Good night, Colonel. Sleep well.”

  * * *

  She had not slept well at all. She found herself on a battlefield that was half melted, half blasted to bits, with broken BattleMechs everywhere and mechanical carrion birds ripping myomer muscles to shreds. Shell-shocked warriors wandered the battlefield, desperately studying datapads and choosing answers on an exam. When she looked at the screen she couldn’t read a thing and yet she felt an urgent need to be selecting answers.

  Up ahead a giant creature—humanoid with a wolf’s head—strode the battlefield. He stopped each warrior and demanded to look at his datapad. He would snarl, toss it aside, then shoot them dead with a laser pistol. They all fell with a hole smoking in their skulls.

  Closer and closer he came to her. She could smell the stink of death on him, the scent of roasted human flesh. She looked up at him. She looked into his face and into his eyes. She expected them to be Alaric’s eyes, but they weren’t.

  They were Anastasia’s eyes, cold and implacable.

  She awoke with a start, gasping. Her bed was made from a giant oyster shell, with the lid as the headboard and the body containing a water-filled mattress. The bed shifted with her every motion, and a wave tossed her on her back. She rolled out of the bed and tried to stand, but fell back on the edge, barely catching herself. She sat and ground the heels of her hands into her eyes.

  “Damn you, Kennerly.”

  The man had a talent for finding weakness and burrowing toward it like a parasite. He’d identified her weakness, and she knew he was right. She’d always been insecure. She always measured herself against the performance of others. She had always hit the marks set by others, but never exceeded them. She could hit a target but never pushed herself further. She never blasted past.

  Why not?

  The question echoed in her skull. The obvious answer seemed too easy because it completed the circle without offering a solution. Her insecurity prevented her from blasting past because she did not believe she could. It was one thing to follow a trail blazed by others, and quite another to strike out on her own.

  This was why Alaric’s insights were so seductive. They provided her a new perspective on battle. It became a new way to break things down and figure out how others had done them. By recombining those elements, she could do things no one else had. She could learn another warrior’s weaknesses and exploit them. It didn’t matter that Kennerly thought this was a dead end; it was a tool she could use to evaluate her performance.

  And she had to perform. She levered herself up off the edge of the bed and stumbled into the shower. She turned the water on hot and let the whole room fill with steam. She laughed, once, when she considered that it represented the fog of war; then she turned the water down to a reasonable temperature and washed.

  She dried herself off and dressed, then headed out to the nearby municipal office building they were using for their conference. The dome soared overhead, holding back hundreds of thousands of kiloliters of seawater. One crack and everything would fall apart.

  When she arrived Verena was ushered up to a vast conference room with holoprojection equipment hanging images in midair and tables designated by small signs for each of the military units on-site. General Bingham was to preside, but he was not the highest ranking officer in attendance. At least four militia generals came in with five stars on their shoulders, and she was fairly certain that the first time she had seen one of them, the woman was only wearing four.

  She walked to the Djinn’s table and nodded to Kennerly. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Very.” He looked up from a datapad. “If these preliminary reports are accurate, this meeting will be fascinating.”

  Before she could ask him to elaborate, Anastasia arrived. Dr. Murchison came with her, and behind him marched Alaric. He wore a Wolf Hunter uniform, but with no rank badges. Heads turned as he entered and conversations died.

  Colonel Hardin of the Alkalurops militia puffed up at the table next to the Hunters’. “Colonel Kerensky, is it wise to have one of the enemy present while we make our plans?”

  “Colonel, if we are to be diligent in what we do, we would task subordinate officers to think as Opposition Force leaders. We would temper our assessment with these Opfor opinions, but you know as well as I do that many here would be tempted to dismiss them. They would say that our junior officers cannot possibly think like the enemy.” She set her datapad on her table. “Alaric can and will render true Opfor opinions.”

  “I don’t like it.” Hardin tucked a riding crop beneath his arm and looked at General Bingham. “I protest, sir.”

  Bingham nodded. “I think you will find, Colonel Hardin, that this Wolf has no means for communicating with the enemy. Colonel Kerensky, do I have your word that Alaric will not present a security risk?”

  Anastasia smiled. “A Wolf is always dangerous, General, but I think no one in this room has anything to fear from him.”

  “Very good. We should begin.” General Bingham waved Anastasia forward. “Colonel Kerensky has offered to conduct the intelligence briefing so we can all come up to speed on the political situation.”

  Anastasia replaced him at the podium, then waited for him to reach the Rangers’ table before she began. “Let us get right to it. The Wolves hit and took both inhabited worlds in the Kimball system, Two and Trey. These are very light industrial worlds that suffer a protein deficit. The system is a good staging area and since the Jade Falcons owned the worlds, the Wolves are expending energy on a fight that does not drain our forces.”

  She hit a button and a map of IX Prefecture flashed to life. Corridan IV had a gray cast to it, as did the Kimball system. Yed Posterior and Baxter were striped gray and red, and the rest of the free worlds showed up in red.

  “You can all see that the Ninth Prefecture is a perfect channel leading to Terra. While the Wolves are waging Trials of Possession for the worlds, their conduct on Yed Posterior shows their real needs. The Clan leader there began harvesting resources even before he had control of the planet. Baxter could have fallen into the same pattern, but the leader there focused on gaining political control. While the Wolves only added one world to their holdings, in effect they got a significant portion of the output of two, which aids them in their drive on Terra.”

  Anastasia hit another button and the colors on the free worlds shifted. Three worlds, Unukalhai, Skondia and Nusakan, became bright green. Lyons, Atria and Ko, which were even closer to Terra, became green, but not as bright. The rest of the worlds remained red.

  “Based on what happened at Yed Posterior, we can project a shift in Wolf tactics. The bright green worlds possess industry capable of turning out the sophisticated equipment required by a modern army on the move. They are primary targets. Lyons, Ko and Atria are very rich in foodstuffs, making them vital for the final push to Terra. These are the worlds we must defend. Everything else is unimportant.”

  Colonel Hardin stood abruptly. “I believe you are mistaken, Colonel Kerensky. Alkalurops produces a wealth of goods that are highly prized throughout the Inner Sphere.”

  Alaric, seated in the man’s shadow, snorted. “The trifles your world produces are worthless. The only reason to attack Alkalurops is to kill trade in those shoddy goods.”

  Hardin turned and lashed Alaric across the face with his crop. “Silence, animal. You have no family, you have no
honor, you are nothing but a machine.” The crop flashed again, drawing another welt on Alaric’s cheek. “A Wolf might be dangerous, but not a broken dog like you.”

  22

  Fathnine, La Blon

  Former Prefecture IX, Republic of the Sphere

  5 February 3137

  The second lash with the crop hurt less than the first, though it did tear the skin. Through the sting and the rising heat, Alaric felt blood welling to the surface. He found it curious that his only concern lay in the fact that the blood would run down his cheek and drip to his jacket, staining it.

  Fury gathered in his chest, but he smothered it. He could see himself rising, batting aside a third blow, driving stiffened fingers into Hardin’s throat. He’d fracture the hyoid bone, crush his windpipe and leave the man choking out his life right there. Most present would think him justified in doing that, and chances were that no word of what happened would leak out. Hardin would be a victim of a stroke or heart attack, and Alaric would be farmed out to some distant settlement, never again to fight or travel among the stars.

  People—civilized people—had a way of handling such things. If he had struck, they would have understood.

  But he didn’t. He didn’t have to.

  The crop rose a third time, but before it could fall again, Verena blocked it. Hardin looked at her, surprised—more at the fury on her face than at the fist that fast eclipsed Hardin’s view of anything else. The punch caught him square on the nose with a sharp pop. Blood gushed and the man fell back. He landed on the edge of his table, upsetting it, and abruptly went to the floor as datapads dashed themselves to pieces around him.

  Verena shook out her right hand once, then looked at the men and women surrounding her. “If we let pride and petty jealousies blind us to what we need to do, we do not deserve saving. We are fighting for more than pride—at least, we should be. I am not proud of what I just witnessed. Are any of you?”

  None of the militia from Alkalurops made a move, though Kennerly had slipped in behind them to discourage them from doing so. Two of his subordinates bent to help their leader, who clearly had no idea where he was, and led him from the room.

  General Bingham rose slowly as the Alkalurops table was set upright. “This is a regrettable incident, but it should be a lesson to us all. Our success against the Wolves so far has come through cooperation. I believe Colonel Kerensky was going to make the point that just because some worlds were less desirable to the Wolves than others was no reason to leave them undefended. She simply wanted us to recognize that we must acknowledge this and adjust our plans accordingly.”

  He held up a hand. “And I do not say this because Skondia is listed as a desirable world. It will be defended appropriately, as will all other worlds. We fight for the Ninth, not for each individual world. I trust this is understood by everyone here.”

  He waited for the assembled soldiers to nod in agreement. “Very well. I suggest we adjourn for half an hour. Hopefully they can put Colonel Hardin back together in that time.”

  Verena dropped to a knee in front of Alaric and reached out tentatively. “There is blood. It is a nasty welt.”

  He sat up, pulling back from her hand. He dug in his pocket for a handkerchief and pressed it to the wound. “Thank you for your intervention.”

  “Only a coward would strike a man who is . . . seated among enemies.”

  Anastasia walked over. “Hardin surrendered to fear. This is as close as he has ever been to a Clansman. He comes from a world that produces cheap toys and cheaper food, so I did not expect much from him.”

  She reached out and took Alaric’s chin in her hand. She turned his face, then grunted. “Ian, please take Alaric and get him cleaned up.”

  “I will have it repaired quickly enough.”

  Alaric looked up. “You have decided you will not need me after all?”

  “I have decided you made a point about the Wolf perspective on the invasion. We will not need you for what follows—I merely invoke your name and they will believe whatever I tell them.”

  The Wolf nodded, then stood. “Thank you again, Colonel Verena. Perhaps someday I will be able to repay your kindness.”

  * * *

  Ian Murchison led Alaric back to his rooms, applied salve to the wound, then sealed it with a plasticine spray that tightened Alaric’s flesh and immobilized his cheek. The doctor recommended rest, but the look in his eyes told Alaric that he knew it was a futile order. Ian packed up and returned to the meetings, leaving Alaric alone.

  That suited him. While he realized that not having struck back was the right thing for him to have done, it disturbed him that he didn’t attack Hardin. Four weeks earlier he would have, without thinking. Hardin certainly would not have hit him a second time—and might not even have managed the first strike.

  I have changed. Had he been a bondsman, he would not have struck back, because he could not do so without permission. Anastasia Kerensky had declined to make him a bondsman, saying she was uncertain if the effort would be worth it: Was I trying to show her she made a mistake?

  That was probably part of the answer, but he knew there was something more. He seemed to have undergone a fundamental shift, one that disconnected him from the need to strike. He was detached. Even the way he’d thought about the pain showed a distance from the act of being struck.

  That was not the way of the Clans. The Clans fought to prove they were superior. Superiority guaranteed the immortality of your DNA. While he was not the product of the Clan breeding process, he could argue that the Davion bloodline long had been tested, and had proven superior on numerous counts. Victor Davion had beaten the Clans, and if that did not indicate superiority, what would?

  That was it. I am superior. Superior certainly to the likes of Colonel Hardin and any of the other militiamen who thought of service as parades and medals. He was fairly certain Hardin had never drawn more blood in battle than he had from Alaric’s cheek.

  General Bingham? He felt superior to him, but allowed that did not mean he could not be surprised by him. Bingham did have experience and seemed gifted in melding units together. That alone was a skill few mastered.

  His mind flitted to Donovan. Donovan had won on Corridan IV, and doubtless took one of the two worlds in the Kimball system. He had probably even learned from Alaric’s experience, and had his looters figured into his logistical calculations. He probably calls them resource recovery units or something equally absurd. Still, Donovan lacked boldness and vision, which meant that while he could calculate a workable solution to any problem, he consistently failed to define the problem in large enough terms. He hobbled himself and therefore denied himself greatness.

  His mind shifted to Verena. He thought himself superior to her, but somehow still on a par with her. He did not know her well enough to know her weaknesses, but he knew they were there. Even so, she was willing to act quickly, and if that ability were coupled with analysis, she could succeed where Bjorn had failed, which could make her a very deadly foe.

  Anastasia.

  Just thinking about her as an enemy sent a trickle of fear through him as cold as the jets of water her men had used to blast him. Testing, she was always testing him and everyone else. Hardin had failed his test. More would. Anastasia liked it that way, because it kept everyone off balance and gave her an edge.

  Of course it does. By being the one doing all the testing, it naturally made her seem superior. If she tested and attacked, others had to defend. Defense is by its very nature an act of subordination, for your will works only in reaction to someone else’s will. You dance to their tune and, in doing so, are more likely to stumble and fall.

  That insight into Anastasia, though valuable, did not let him escape her shadow. She had been able to see right through him. His treatment at her hands had broken him down; for that he must thank her. If she had not done to him what she did, he would have struck back at Hardin. He would never have understood what was required to be superior, or that he was
superior.

  But will I ever be superior to her? He laughed at himself. That was a question that could only be answered in combat and yet, the only time he should logically fight her would be when he already knew the answer. He knew that time would come, and he spent the rest of the day pondering the many scenarios in which it might take place.

  * * *

  Early in the evening Alaric answered the door, smiled and invited Verena in. “I am afraid Colonel Kerensky has not returned from the conference.”

  She returned his smile. “I know. She is having dinner with Baron Saville and General Bingham. It is something of a celebration, though the official banquet will not be until tomorrow night. Planning went very well, and has concluded very much along the agenda that Colonel Kerensky devised.”

  “I am sure the colonel is pleased.”

  “She is.” Verena’s blue eyes narrowed. “I came to see how you are. How does your face feel?”

  “Mild discomfort. The doctor says there will be no scarring.” He smiled with half his face. “It is a good thing. My mother would be horrified.”

  Verena cocked her head. “Your mother? I cannot imagine you were freebirth. Sorry, I did not mean to offend.”

  “No offense taken.” Alaric waved her to a couch, then joined her, moving a pillow to form a breastwork between them. “When I tell her what happened, she will be pleased with your intervention. And, yes, I have met my mother. It is a complicated story and quite tedious.”

  She shook her head, her gold hair barely brushing her shoulders. “I wanted to tell you that I admired how you sat there and took those blows.”

  “Ha! There is not a warrior there who saw me as anything but a coward.”

  “Not true. Not me.” She glanced down, picking at the threaded fringe on a pillow. “There is an ancient Chinese legend about a military genius named Zhuge Liang. It is called ‘The Empty City.’ Do you know it?”

  Alaric shook his head.

  “I will not bore you with all the details, but Zhuge is put in defense of a city and is facing a huge army. He has all four gates thrown open, has the few soldiers in his command hide, and sits on the wall above one of the gates, dressed in casual robes. He plays a lute as if he is without a care in the world. And his enemy, who knows his reputation for being a military strategist, rides up to the city. He looks at the open gates, he looks at Zhuge, and rides away. He knows it must be a trap. Zhuge defeated him without a fight, just as you defeated Hardin without a fight. It is the greatest of warriors who do that.”