By Temptations and by War

by Loren L. Coleman

  Mark dropped the subject. Not that it would stay dropped for long.

  The simple fact remained that Evan Kurst was part of the Ijori Dè Guāng. A large part, in fact, taking up the reins of the Qinghai Province cell after Mai Wa’s abandonment, and eventually parlaying it into a strong voice in all Beilù operations. That, and other reasons, was why Evan had to be so careful with whom he trusted. Mark Lo was the weakest flaw in his personal armor. But Mark came with Jenna, and they all circled around Hahn, so Mark stayed and Evan watched him most carefully of all.

  The four students passed onto the Conservatory’s walled grounds, where brushed-ferrocrete walkways webbed out over immaculate lawns. Students clustered within some of the nearby courtyards, holding club meetings or just talking about the morning’s big event. A Men Shen BattleMech presided over one of these areas: The Guardian. The decommissioned ’Mech, with its hooked nose and long-barreled arms, stood a permanent post on the main grounds, a tribute to the Conservatory’s past as the alma mater of notable MechWarriors through the years, as well as a nod toward Liao’s Capellan roots. From a hundred meters it looked very imposing.

  They turned toward it, striking out over the grassy campus toward the cluster of buildings that rose behind the Guardian.

  “I still say that there are better ways to effect change,” Mark said, catching up Jenna’s hand in his own. “Look at Governor Pohl. Evan, you actually worked on her People First campaign, didn’t you?”

  Evan nodded. “Two years.” After his initial application to the military had been denied. “I was a fund-raiser. Not a bad one, either, and it got me noticed for a liaison position later, between one of the Governor’s aides and the HungLi Military Base.” That earned him a second look at his aptitude tests, and entry into Bulics. Evan had qualified for the Conservatory, but was bumped by lower-qualifying students who had already picked up Republic citizenship. Residents went to the bottom of the list. “Never met the Governor, though.”

  “My point is, we got a world governor very sympathetic to the pro-Capellan movement. Anna Lu Pohl was not my first choice, but I respect her view that Liao can acknowledge its past while still looking toward the future.”

  “And that future will always include The Republic,” Jenna said, nearly resigned to it. “Especially since Lord Governor Hidic has to personally approve any candidate for world office.”

  Mark had no easy answer for that, and an awkward silence descended over the group as they passed by the Men Shen.

  Lord of all it surveyed, at eight meters high and fifty-five tons the Guardian appeared more avatar than machine. Evan felt an initial thrill for the power it had once represented. Of course, that thrill always darkened to an empty hollow in the pit of his stomach. The Guardian was not a functional ’Mech. The Republic did not waste such resources on decoration, though Evan had read that during the military buildups of the Succession Wars it was considered a status symbol to embellish important locations with actual, working BattleMechs. The Lyran Commonwealth throne, so legend said, had been guarded by two’Mechs. Two!

  They were probably more effective symbols than the Guardian. The Men Shen drooped a bit at its turret-style waist, where age and neglect had caused the joint to fail. Strong welds sealed all access ports, including the cockpit hatch. Its weapons were nothing more than open ports and sealed barrels, and the fusion engine which was the heart of any ’Mech had long since been ripped out. He could only imagine now what it had looked like, stalking forward in a swaggering gait, its feet stomping out a warning against the ground. Boom. Boom.

  And just for a second, Evan swore he felt one last footfall shake the ground.

  Then another.

  “Hey.” David stepped to one side and pointed. He sounded disappointed. “Man, that was fast.”

  The ’Mech-heavy steps not only continued, they grew louder. From behind the Men Shen’s resting place a ConstructionMech stomped into view. Painted bright, industrial yellow and swinging its clamp and bucket arms alongside in a simian swagger, the IndustrialMech walked around the frozen Men Shen and then angled along one of the reinforced walkways as it headed for the Conservatory’s Great Arch.

  “They’re going to take down the Arch,” Jenna said, nodding. “Can’t have it spoiling the grounds.”

  Others had come to the same conclusion. Closer to the gate, students began shouting, “Yóng yuăn . . . Liào Su¯ n Zı˘!”

  Even with such shouts being thrown out in protest, Evan couldn’t help thinking that the Men Shen now looked a touch sadder as the industrial machine left it behind. And wrapped up in his thoughts concerning the gutted ’Mech, he missed Jenna’s next comment.

  “Huh?” he asked as she prodded him in the side. Her fingers were strong, and left uncomfortable aches where she had dug at his ribs. Or maybe that was something else.

  “I asked if you believe it is true. Forever lives Sun-Tzu Liao?”

  Evan felt David’s stare and, more importantly, Mark’s warming the back of his neck. He thought of the many ways that could be answered, including not answering at all. But Jenna sounded as if it was important to her. Maybe she needed to know. To believe.

  He shrugged. One of his favorite answers when his friends pried too much. Then, “I don’t know, Jen. Sometimes I’m not sure what I believe.” Which wasn’t exactly a lie. He listened to the fading, distant shouts of the disaffected students, and glanced over once more at the gutted Men Shen. “I guess I believe that things are changing, which means anything is possible.”

  And that wasn’t exactly a lie either.

  4

  CEO

  Pro-Capellan terrorists have seized the world Governor’s mansion on Menkar! Governor Charles Kincaid and his family are being held hostage. Demands made by the terrorists include putting the Governor on live (interstellar) trial for treason against Menkar’s true citizens. Menkar is one of only three worlds in Prefecture V with HPG capabilities. . . .

  —Jacquie Blitzer, battlecorps.org/blitzer/, 3 May 3134

  Pelago Estates

  St. Andre

  Prefecture V, The Republic

  8 May 3134

  Jacob Bannson feared very little.

  “Fear is the result of weakness,” he was fond of saying. “To show fear is to let your competition know where they may attack you.”

  For twenty-one years Bannson had put a stranglehold on his fear and built an interstellar corporate empire with few rivals in The Republic. Bannson Universal Unlimited was second to the great GioAvanti conglomerate only because GioAvanti lobbying forced the Senate to slap Bannson’s company with operational restraints (and he would find a way around those!). He’d fended off hostile takeovers, the creeping fingers of organized crime and, on numerous occasions, The Republic’s Securities Trade Commission with its ferret-like investigators. His enemies accumulated, but he did not fear them.

  So why did he immediately fear the tissue-wrapped package resting in the middle of a foyer table?

  Dagger Di Jones coiled up against a paneled wall near the hallway entrance. As far from the package as she could get, Bannson noted. She slicked her red hair back with the palm of one hand, wiping snowmelt and loose strands away from her eyes. Ivan Storychny, Bannson’s personal aide on St. Andre, stood in between his master and the package. He still carried the CEO’s laser rifle and the game bag. His ice blue eyes never left the table. It had taken Ivan only a few seconds longer to realize the importance—and the danger—of the package.

  Pelago Estates was Bannson’s private retreat on St. Andre, situated on a northern wilderness preserve stocked with caribou and moose, black bear, the nearly extinct royal pheasant, feathered serpents, and even—his favorite—the tenacious Terran wolverine. He’d ostensibly spent the day on a hunting trip, neatly decapitating two pheasant with his laser rifle, spilling barely a drop of blood on the pristine carpet of fresh snow. Bannson had also visited a hidden valley base where some of his raiders were tucked away, and helped plan an operation on the plan
et Foot Fall. The appeal of this northern mansion was its remote location, accessible only by aircraft. It allowed Bannson to relax his stringent security even as he consorted with raiders and rebels. Jones usually discouraged any sudden movements by those around him, and Ivan had hidden talents as well.

  And still someone had secretly invaded his domain, leaving behind a present wrapped in golden tissue and green ribbon. The colors told Bannson who, and that “who” was definitely to be feared.

  Ivan leaned the Intek laser rifle against the table. His large hands framed the small box, moving it around so that Bannson could see the small death’s-head pin tacked into one strand of the ribbon.

  “A Death Commando.” Jones shifted a few more centimeters toward the door as her brown eyes flashed dangerously toward the next room. She wasn’t afraid, Bannson realized. She was readying herself to attack.

  The Death Commandos were Daoshen Liao’s private terrorist squad. As good as Jones was, Bannson would not want to bet on her being able to bring down such a fanatic.

  “We should leave the mansion, Boss.” No pretty titles out of Ivan. No “sire” or even a “chief.” To the large man, Jacob Bannson was simply the boss.

  Bannson forced himself to step forward. “No need. If Daoshen wanted me killed, I would already be dead.” Daoshen wanted him scared. That Bannson would not give the eccentric leader. “Ivan, please put away my rifle and bring us all drinks in the gallery.” He caught Jones’s suspicious glance. “You can look if you like, my dear, but I assure you that our visitor is quite absent.”

  She apparently trusted his instincts, though the tense set of her shoulders said that she remained ready for nearly anything. “Whatever you say,” she replied.

  Bannson picked up the small box. It weighed very little, and fit comfortably in two hands. About the size of a small cigar box, and the right weight too.

  “After you.” He nodded toward Jones.

  The foyer opened up into a long hall. The red-haired mercenary stalked down to a double-wide entryway. The downstairs library-study. Bannson followed, thinking about the gift and what it meant, coming now.

  That Daoshen even knew of his visit to St. Andre bothered him. Bannson’s schedule was never published beforehand. Bannson Universal may have begun on this world, but it now stretched throughout Prefectures IV and V. He had specifically chosen a return to St. Andre because it did serve more as a retreat than a seat of power. The place he’d begun his new life, and where he returned for anonymity.

  And it was far, far away from Terra.

  Not that he worried overmuch. The assault on Terra had been a doomed venture from the start. Ezekiel Crow should have realized it much sooner. But he hadn’t, and Bannson had used the smokescreen of Crow’s treason to pay back a few debts of his own.

  A Republic Senator who needed early retirement.

  A military officer, who had grown resistant to being on Bannson’s payroll, lost in the chaos of battle.

  Most other men in his position would have simply tipped off The Republic and gathered accolades after. Most other men did not play the long game. Besides, what had The Republic ever done for him except put a ceiling on his rise to power? So he had let the assault go forward, and slipped in to take care of his own business where he could. A good day’s work, even if it had cost him one of his most valuable hole cards. Ezekiel Crow. The fallen Paladin.

  But Bannson did not casually throw away such a valuable asset, and had laid groundwork to salvage Crow. Such a card, played a second time, might trump almost anything. And the weaker The Republic became, the more chances for Bannson to advance his own agenda.

  An agenda that included corporate interests in Prefecture III (next) and political interests here at home.

  An agenda that would have to take into consideration Daoshen Liao’s interference.

  Through the magnificent library, with its rolling ladders and tall cases full of books from every Republic world, Jones and Bannson walked to the gallery where he stored most of his locally gained art treasures. The gallery could be sealed behind a ferrosteel door resistant to most anything but platform-scale weapons. It was cold in the room, a chilly twenty-six Celsius, and dimly lit with spots showing off his most valuable prizes. There was also a small shelf in the room at which three people could comfortably stand. It was here he set the brightly wrapped package and began to carefully unwrap it.

  The ribbon was secured with a bow knot that easily slipped loose. Bannson pocketed the death’s-head pin. The golden tissue folded back and away from the top. A promise of riches? Of Daoshen’s personal interest? The retreating folds uncovered a deep-grained lacquered box that glowed rich and red and reflected back a warped image of both Bannson and Jones.

  “What is it?” the raider asked.

  Bannson ran a finger along one edge, marveling in the perfection. “What does it look like?”

  “Well, is it a cigar box?”

  Her lack of imagination annoyed him, until he remembered how he had thought something similar. “I highly doubt it.” No, this was something much more. With nervous fingers, he flipped up the tiny golden clasp and lifted the lid.

  It was empty.

  “Empty?” Jones frowned, her eyes narrowing to dangerous slits as if she had missed the punch line of a joke and wondered if it were at her expense. Ivan came in carrying a silver salver just big enough to carry three brandy snifters. He set it on the edge of the shelf. “It’s empty,” Jones told him quickly, perhaps trying to get in on the joke.

  But what was it empty of? Bannson sipped at his smoky liquor. He stared into the box’s velvet interior, reached in and traced the molded recess with one finger. Cylindrical. About twenty centimeters long and three centimeters wide. Soft, soft. The perfect rest for an important, and valuable, scroll.

  What kind of scroll would Bannson find valuable? Only two men in the Inner Sphere likely knew that answer.

  He had stood in Daoshen’s throne room barely two years before, and made it very clear that the cost of Bannson’s assistance was nothing less than “my appointment as a peer of your realm.”

  There it was: Bannson laying his cards out for the first time in decades, and to the Chancellor of the Capellan Confederation. He’d never planned to go so far, even after accepting Daoshen Liao’s invitation to Sian. The tour of Zi-jin Chéng impressed him, certainly, especially the level of detail to which Confederation citizens had restored their capital to pre-Jihad quality. And the Celestial Palace itself was breathtaking, a mixture of modern materials and classic architecture outside, classic material with modern design inside.

  What had changed Bannson’s mind, though, was the tribute paid to him by the Capellan leader. Daoshen had stated baldly that he intended to invade The Republic of the Sphere . . . a dangerous gamble to take with one of The Republic’s economic leaders. The Chancellor made no apologies for the situation in which he placed Bannson, or for his insulting assumption that the other man would be interested in committing treason. Nesting back into his magnificent throne, dark eyes nothing more than black pits seen through the haze of incense smoke, Daoshen offered his plans freely, and waited for an answer.

  Which Bannson blurted out before he’d really thought it through. Very likely saving his own life.

  Daoshen gave the merchant king time to begin fidgeting. Betrayals of nerves were rare, but then Bannson did not make a habit of keeping such exalted company. The Chancellor had even allowed him the dubious honor of sitting in His presence, ordering a simple chair brought into the room. Even years of training did not keep the surprise—or the quick flash of terror—from the faces of palace servants. Sitting in the incense-choked room had softened Bannson, allowing him to relax. And now he tapped nervously on the side of his leg, willing his hands to stillness and finally overcoming the natural need for movement. For flight.

  “A noble,” Daoshen tasted the idea. “Subject to our laws and holding property at our whim.”

  Bannson could not tell if Daoshen had m
ade a switch to the royal possessive, or if the Chancellor now included himself among all of the ennobled landholders.

  “The only coin I will take.” For that, Bannson offered to covertly support a Liao drive into Prefectures V and VI, and eventually through most of IV as well. Tikonov. Tigress. Ty-balt. Strong worlds in the chain of Bannson Universal Unlimited, and each one fixed in the eye of Daoshen Liao.

  “You are not a citizen of the Confederation,” the leader said as if dismissing the claim.

  Did a hint of Bannson’s anger show? “I know that an appropriate gift to the State can secure citizenship in the Confederation.” He never sat a meeting without having done his homework. “The average payment is, I think, quite low. But in The Republic of the Sphere, citizenship costs more and is held cheaply. I would rather see value for my efforts.”

  No way to tell what the wily Capellan was thinking. Daoshen had perfect control, letting slip only that which he meant to. Bannson would do well to remember that.

  Daoshen slithered up to his full height. He stood at the edge of his dais, weaving back and forth just enough to curl the incense smoke around him. With crimson robes swirled tightly around his cadaverously thin body, and the wide mantle resting on his shoulders, he reminded Bannson of a red cobra. And its dance could be so very hypnotic.

  “You are an ambitious man,” Daoshen finally said. “We have spoken enough this day. Perhaps it would be best for both of us to think on our positions.”

  Bannson never saw Daoshen again.

  He spoke with interviewers, but refused to give up further information without mutual assurances from the Confederation. Military officers invited him to meals and meetings, working out different theories about how the Confederation Armed Forces and his commercial empire might best work together. At one point the Leader of Warrior House Imarra took Bannson to a remote facility hidden deep inside a mountain. There, the corporate magnate was allowed to walk along rank after rank of mothballed BattleMechs. Atlas. Men Shen. Tsi Tsang. New designs and classical configurations—enough to instantly outfit a full combat regiment. More than one hundred machines, ready to march. It had been some time since any Inner Sphere state had seen the like.