Threads of Ambition

by Loren L. Coleman

  "I really thought I'd bought it," Danielle said after her first few bites. "Catapults don't usually carry their own TAG laser. Nevarr set me up good. And then it missed! I mean, I know that can happen to anyone out there. But when you hear that warning for missile lock and you know it's an Arrow IV, you're already tensing against the hit."

  Fitzgerald scooped up some rice and teriyaki chicken, using eating as his excuse not to contribute much to the discussion. Freya talked about her running down the Raven, and Cameron was more impressed with the sticking power of the Snake. "If Fitz hadn't kept the Jag off us," he said, "there's no way we could have taken it down so fast." The comment was seconded by Danielle, and Fitzgerald smiled and nodded his acceptance of the praise though inwardly he still regretted losing the JagerMech.

  Kills weren't everything. In fact, in the end they technically meant relatively little. Scores were based on multiple variables, and in lance engagements the points for enemy kills were divided fairly evenly. What no one could predict was Nevarr. The commander always added his own little modifiers into the final scores, and in the end he would simply choose two cadets of the eight. Nevarr had made it clear that high scores did not necessarily mean selection. But then again, he'd also indicated that they helped. And having a good kill ratio had to make a difference.

  That was how MechWarriors were always judged, wasn't it?

  7

  DropShip Pearl of True Wisdom

  Aht'raplar Spaceport, Harloc

  Sian Commonality, Capellan Confederation

  11 September 3060

  Only the lightest of tremors betrayed the Pearl of True Wisdom's landing on Harloc. An aerodyne DropShip, its horizontal approach called for more space but made for a lighter touch-down. And although twenty-five hundred tons of space vessel meeting earth is not conducive to feather-soft landings, the pilot's deft touch certainly made it seem within reach. If one were preoccupied, the landing might actually have gone unnoticed until the braking maneuvers began.

  Sun-Tzu Liao noticed, however. Seated behind the metal and glass desk in his private shipboard office, he had been waiting for it, gauging his pilot's mastery of the Lung Wang Class DropShip's controls just as he always tested, gauged, and considered the loyalty and skills of those around him. Survival traits, bred into him with twenty-one years of living in the Celestial Palace before he ever became Chancellor. He felt the slight bump and noticed the rippling across the surface of the fresh glass of light plum wine that sat on the desk's safety-glass top.

  All things considered, not a bad landing at all. Sun-Tzu raised his glass in a light toast to the pilot's ability, but took only the barest of sips. Enough to savor the sweet nectar, but not enough to make him thirst too badly for the next drink. Everything in moderation. Everything consumed in its own time. An exercise in patience, like so many of the small rituals that filled his day.

  Patience.

  Something Lord Colonel Marcus Baxter could use more of, Sun-Tzu thought, noticing his guest's discomfort through half-lidded eyes. The older man sat in a chair mounted to the ship bulkhead and facing the desk, its plush cushion comfortable enough for hours of sitting, though the back of ridged hardwood did force people to lean forward, paying attention to whomever sat at the desk. The new Lord Colonel leaned forward, toying with the campaign ribbons of his dress uniform and occasionally tugging at the hem of his jacket. His dark hair shot through with iron-gray, his crag-like features, and parade-ground formality in most every action showed him as a man not prone to restless movement.

  The Chancellor did not believe that Baxter's impatience stemmed from nervousness or a lack of comfort. Baxter was janshi. A warrior. And like a dog bred for hunting he wished to slip his leash and be away to where skill in a BattleMech, not political maneuvering, decided the outcome and the accolades. But the presence of a Cavalry regiment on Harloc demanded the presence of the newly made Capellan lord. "All good things to those who wait," Sun-Tzu murmured. It was one of his favorite maxims.

  Baxter glanced up. "Did you say something, Chancellor Liao?"

  Sun-Tzu smiled thinly. "When the strike of a hawk breaks the body of its prey, it is because of timing."

  Baxter's smile showed a mix of amusement and puzzlement. "You have not begun quoting Jerome Blake, have you, Chancellor Liao?"

  Now the Chancellor frowned, though lightly. "Wisdom does come from other sources, though the Word of Blake might want us to believe otherwise," he said, only a bit unsure if Baxter was attempting humor. "I shall have to send you a copy of the Art of War."

  "Ah, yes." Baxter nodded. "Strike the enemy as swiftly as a falcon strikes its target. It surely breaks the back of its prey for the reason that it awaits the right moment to strike." The Lord Colonel spread his hands in apology. "I'm afraid my translation slightly differs from your copy."

  "Under either translation," Sun-Tzu said, once again at ease, "I was advocating patience." He waited for Baxter's nod of understanding, then gestured toward the office's small dry bar that was kept shut up in the event of zero-gravity conditions. "Help yourself to some refreshment, Lord Baxter. I have a small matter that requires my attention now that we are on-planet."

  The Chancellor pressed against one corner of his desk. A touch-sensitive keyboard came alive under the glass in front of him, and he typed in a few simple commands that would activate his message-recording programs. A muted red light appeared near the desk's upper rim, to indicate that the holocamera, also hidden beneath the glass, was recording.

  "To Archon Katrina Steiner-Davion of the Lyran Alliance from First Lord Sun-Tzu Liao," he said formally, pausing to lend his title its full weight and then allowing some measure of cordiality to seep into his voice, "I bid both you and your nation greetings." With Katrina, at least, based on their meeting on Tharkad two years prior, he could drop many of the pretenses he usually affected others. But of course not all.

  "I was most upset," he lied, "to receive your message of September tenth, in which you made clear your strong feelings toward events taking place in the old Tikonov Free Republic." He purposely refrained from naming it the old Tikonov Commonality, which Hanse Davion had stolen from the Confederation during the Fourth Succession War. "Though I would have expected to hear such complaints from your sister, Yvonne, whom I believe still sits the throne on New Avalon, I can understand your own"—he paused, mouth rigid but eyes smiling— "proprietary interests."

  Sun-Tzu yielded to a longer pause now, allowing Katrina to calm down after what—he was certain—would be a near-violent reaction to his reminder that she did not yet rule the whole of the Federated Commonwealth. He picked up his glass, allowed himself another small sip of the fruity wine before replacing it, and then straightened with great deliberation the wide silk sleeves of his robes.

  He began again. "Now let me assure you, for the record, that this Free Tikonov Movement that has made the newsnets of late is in no way a coordinated effort on the part of my Confederation to reclaim the very old Tikonov Commonality. Even though it does lie within the pre-3025 border of the Confederation, my attentions are better turned elsewhere. You will not see Capellan units making planetfall there anytime soon. So, if you are seeking the advice from the Star League's current First Lord, I would recommend that you lend no more credibility to the Free Tikonov Movement than you would the other stories of political unrest that have surfaced on any number of other Federated Commonwealth worlds."

  And that, Katrina, is my answer to your barely veiled order for me to redirect my efforts away from Tikonov. Yes, I will unbalance the area, but it is an instability that we can both use to our advantage. Sun-Tzu felt certain that she would leave it at that, providing he did nothing overt to reclaim the Tikonov worlds at this time. And the reference to the little conversation the two of them had on Tharkad, one in which Katrina had, in effect, relinquished her own claim to worlds on the Capellan side of the pre-3025 border, should also serve as a reminder of their understanding.

  But with every subtle mess
age, applied with the politician's silver tongue, Sun-Tzu knew that he must also remind her that he also had teeth, or he might lose even the grudging respect he'd won from her on Tharkad. "Now I have matters which do require my immediate attention, Archon, and so I will bid you farewell. I know you will use the Tikonov incidents to your benefit. After all, it was your noble father who pledged that the Federated Commonwealth"—Sun-Tzu smiled lightly as he quoted from memory—" 'is dedicated to the support of political freedom and each individual's right to pursue his or her destiny.'"

  With that, Sun-Tzu brushed the glass over the End Recording control. Katrina Steiner-Davion, if she did not throw something through the screen, would not have listened further once he used Hanse Davion's own words against her. And worse, once she realized that he, as First Lord, could make public such sentiments and turn Hanse's quote to a pro-Capellan rallying cry. And eventually, that might not be such a bad idea.

  Lord Colonel Baxter, who had remained silent, now nodded with some measure of admiration. He might prefer the battlefield to political circles, but apparently he could acknowledge a game well-played on either side of the fence. "Enough to make her think, that," Baxter said. He took a healthy pull at a bottle of Timbiqui Dark. "So long as it keeps her out of our hair."

  Sun-Tzu allowed himself a healthy draught of the sweet, dark liquid from his own glass, then set it aside and vowed not to touch it again until after he had dismissed Baxter from the room. He sank back into his chair, hands clasped over his middle and staring toward the ceiling. "I was never worried about her interference," he admitted. "Tikonov is a long game, waiting to be played out, and I merely advanced my own position there. Katrina will respond soon enough. And so long as she makes life difficult for Yvonne, that can only help our cause."

  Both men allowed the silence to stretch out then, Sun-Tzu forcing on himself a calm by which he hoped to stave off any rash or irrational judgment that could doom his grand design. Plans are proceeding well, but the cost has yet to be paid. Soon there will be no turning back. Then Baxter began to fidget again. The Chancellor sighed to himself and refocused his eyes on his guest. "Do you have some concerns," he asked, "regarding your latest orders?"

  Baxter shook his head, rolling another drink of ale around in his mouth. "No, Chancellor Liao. My Nightriders regiment will readjust to garrison duty on Kaifeng quite well, and so long as they receive orders to make a few battalion-strength assaults into the Disputed Territory, they will remain content. I plan to set them after Wei, with your permission, of course."

  "Do so," Sun-Tzu said with a curt nod. "The Disputed Territories are sapping too much strength that will soon be needed within the Chaos March, and elsewhere." He paused, considering the newest lord of his realm. "We are entering a volatile time, Lord Colonel, and I must know that you have control of your people. They must be held in check until we direct their energy toward the right goal."

  Baxter set aside his Timbiqui and smiled grimly. "Have no fear, Chancellor. The Nightriders will deliver Wei for you, and the rest shall prepare. And when we strike, it shall break our prey's back."

  Xin Singapore Spaceport, Indicass

  St Ives Compact

  Planetfall on Indicass was routine, though Cassandra found the ride across Xin Singapore Spaceport's extensive grounds interesting. Rubinsky's Light Horse—according to her mother, the more stable regiment of Khorsakhov's Cossacks—had commandeered the old control tower and administrative buildings as their support base. Located at the far southern edge of the landing fields, as opposed to the new buildings along the west, it kept them plugged into the planetary defense network and close to their DropShips, two strategic concerns she admired. To make the drive over memorable, though, Colonel Rubinsky had also arranged a little welcoming ceremony.

  From the ramp of the Overlord that had brought her battalion down from their JumpShip, she had been met by the first of Rubinsky's outriders. It was a brand new Cossack painted a flat rast red and sporting the mercenary unit's insignia on the right torso, a Russian Cossack horseman riding out of a golden circular field and wielding a flaming saber. The Cossack was a new light 'Mech design that had only this year begun rolling off the assembly lines of Ceres Metals Industries on Warlock. To honor Khorsakhov's Cossacks' integrity and commitment to the freedom of the St. Ives Compact, her mother had christened the new design Cossack and ordered a lance of the new model delivered to Rubinsky's Light Horse. Cassandra was sure that the Light Horse was using this opportunity to thank the Compact for this singular honor.

  The Cossack paced her bullet-proofed Avanti luxury sedan for a half-kilometer, peeling off with parade-ground precision as an old but still-worthy Phoenix Hawk took up the chase for the next half a klick. The next hand-off placed her in the company of a new Clint, complete with the 3U package that replaced the old autocannon and medium lasers with a particle projection cannon and pulse technology.

  The BattleMech pulled ahead as they approached the main building, taking up a port arms stance next to the door to the admin building. Two MechWarriors dressed in Cossack costume opened Cassandra's door for her and escorted her into the building. The entire display left her feeling very secure but more than a bit out of touch with the thirty-first century.

  Colonel Marko Rubinsky met her at the door to his command center, which had once been a DropShip crew's lounge.

  "Major Allard-Liao," he said formally with a stiff nod, hands clasped behind his back. The colonel had iron-gray hair and a short beard kept well-trimmed. His blue eyes were piercingly alert and his body trim for a man pushing into his late fifties.

  "Colonel," she said. "An interesting display out there."

  "Old Cossack custom." Rubinsky gave her a tight-lipped smile, his Slavic accent heavy but cordial. "A relay of picket riders would always escort a visitor into camp."

  The colonel ushered her through the door and into a relaxed atmosphere. The tactical consoles and computer screens were dark. Off to one side were several couches and chairs arranged around a low, broad table where two other men sat comfortably. "My executive officer," Rubinsky said, gesturing to the older man with jet black hair and almond-shaped eyes. "Lieutenant Colonel Raymond Li Tran."

  He waited for both men to rise, and for Tran to give Cassandra his hand, then nodded toward the younger man, who possessed Rubinsky's hard-worn but pleasant features. "My son, Tamas. Captain, Second Company." Tamas gave her a bow, one arm behind his back and the other arm pressed across his stomach.

  Cassandra smiled, then laughed as she sat down. "I'm sorry, but you've caught me off guard. I'm afraid I expected. .." She trailed off, suddenly feeling out of place. She had expected to come in and take immediate charge of a dangerous situation. Instead, she found herself pleasantly charmed by this courtly man and his companions.

  "What?" the senior Rubinsky asked, one eyebrow raised in humor. "Expected to find us frothing at the mouth? Ready to start a riot?" The three men sat and Tamas began pouring a clear liquid into four shot glasses. A wisp of frosty smoke rose from each.

  "I'm afraid so," Cassandra admitted, regaining her composure. Well-received or not, she was still here to take charge. "Tensions have risen along the border, and I'm to coordinate my battalion with your regiment for the time being."

  "Vodka?" Tamas asked, pushing a shot glass in front of her.

  Cassandra snatched it up. "Please." She waited for the other three men to raise their glasses in salute, then quickly downed hers. The vodka was ice cold, chilling her throat and then burning down into her stomach. "What..." she began, then had to clear her throat before trying again. "What is the state of Indicass' defenses?"

  Colonel Rubinsky nodded to Li Tran, who answered. "Duchess Liao transferred our first regiment to St. Loris, but the Light Horse remains and there are still two battalions of Home Guard armor and the militia infantry. More than enough to garrison this planet. Even," he added, after a few seconds, "providing a continuous guard at Ceres Metals."

  The Ceres Metals factory on
-planet manufactured several different armored vehicles, as Cassandra recalled. A very important concern for the St. Ives military, and of course they would be very vocal in demanding protection. "Nothing else?" she asked.

  Tamas poured another round of shots. "We were informed two days ago that the St. Ives Cheveux Legers, Third Battalion, are en route." His accent was not so hard as his father's and very pleasant to the ear. "Indicass was their garrison post for some time before they were added to the SLDF assault on the Smoke Jaguars." He paused, then added quietly, "I understand the Legers are the only St. Ives unit to return, so far."

  Awarding Tamas a smile for his tact, Cassandra nodded. "I'm sure the First St. Ives Lancers under my brother are fine," she said, never doubting it. "The Clans have tried their best to kill Kai, and he always pulls through." Though it's the first time he's tried to beard them in their own den, she thought. From the nods the men gave her, Cassandra was sure she'd let some of her concern show. She dialed for a light smile and a more assured tone. "He always pulls through," she restated.

  Colonel Rubinsky raised his shot glass, blue eyes hard and jaw set. "Here's hoping," he toasted, "that it runs in the family." He tossed his drink back with a practiced flick of the wrist. "Major Allard-Liao, the Light Horse are at your disposal."

  Cassandra joined them in the toast, then settled in for a more detailed survey of Light Horse assets. No fancy ceremony or political dances here. No reading the fine print of the mercenaries' contract. Command had been assumed with a simple toast between warriors. Despite any regular line officer's concerns about mercenary troops, Cassandra had to admit that she liked the way Rubinsky's Light Horse did business.