Schism of Blood and Stone (The Starfield Theory Book 1) (45 page)

Kristoffer

Captain of the
MacCleod

Anackborg, Verland, Goteborg, Magdeborg Commonwealth

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"Never seen the battlefield up close before, huh?" Sir Aaron asked quietly. Chris frowned at the remark and glanced angrily in Aaron's direction. Regardless of intent, Aaron was right; Chris had never seen death up close on this scale. He stood on a small knoll overlooking the open field called Verland below. It fed into the city of Anackborg via the highways connecting it to the capital a hundred kilometers to the east. The scent of death was much too great to advance any closer. The killing fields that became the graveyard of half the population still smoldered.

The highways were clogged with vehicles, most burned in the fighting, some still untouched, but covered in a thick white dust. Some people had managed to get out and run, but they could not escape the wind. They were clustered in small groups or alone in a sad convoy headed south. They all bore the marks of Vertoxx, just like Chris' own wounds where the gas had gotten into his suit through gaps in the armor caused by shrapnel. The suit had plugged them quickly, but not fast enough. His left side was still burned and despite the suit's segmented sections, some gas had gotten into his body and he still wheezed as his pneumonia healed. He had insisted on leaving the infirmary as quickly as possible. There were others more grievously hurt than he and he hated the attention he received. Savior of Goteborg. Lone Knight of Verland. Hero. It wasn't fair.

It also terrified him. Clair came to see him only once when he was first admitted. She and another doctor in their white coats looked him over and jotted down a few notes. She was cordial and efficient, but she treated him as if he were another soldier not a twin. The other doctor a man she called Doctor Corwin, promised to check in on him regularly. It quickly became obvious Claire was using him as a surrogate. Earlier this morning, Sir Aaron came by and asked him to follow him. Without another word, Aaron took him to a waiting jeep and drove him unescorted out here. Chris exited the jeep and sat on a rock, observing Verland the city of Anackborg itself.

An infantry transport smoldered nearby, its blistered right side blown inward by a heavy autocannon shell. Bodies lay strewn around it, some ejected from the chassis, others fallen after they'd attempted to climb from the wreck. Some appeared burned, others bore the wounds of machine gun fire that followed up the autocannon attack. Chris watched the thick black smoke waft for a few moments longer then turned to face the Mercer knight.

“I came to apologize,” Aaron said suddenly.

Chris raised an eyebrow.

Aaron cleared his throat and paused for a moment. He collected his thoughts slowly, probably having rehearsed on the drive to this spot.

“I mistreated you earlier. I was angry, furious with you for what you did and you deserved it.”

“That's a pretty awful apology,” Chris grunted, his burned torso flared with the effort.

Aaron continued as if he didn't hear. “I brought you here for a reason. When I found out from Slader that you freed Pershing, the butcher of my family, I wanted to toss your entire crew out an airlock. It was all Reyna could do to stop me. You could never understand the scope of what you'd done unless you knew the stakes. Now you can see it first hand,” Aaron said, waving a hand out over the plains.

“But that changed, I think, after Slader annihilated House Nowitski and the town beyond, I couldn't bring myself to hate you any more. Hatred murdered a thousand innocent people at that village. It murdered my family on Haberton. It committed genocide here at Anackborg. It wasn't until I looked Slader in the eye, saw his lack of remorse and the demons that dance in his head, that I really understood the danger in all this. I would not be Slader.

“That being said, I am sorry for the way you've been treated. While I can never really forgive you for releasing my family's killer, I can empathize with your current position. I imagine, if you could, you would have turned Pershing back over to us.”

Chris nodded slowly, feeling trapped. Was Aaron baiting him into admitting his willing complicity in the deal? “I wish I could. A lot of good people died protecting him and now because of him. I'm not ignorant that all this is my responsibility.”

"It looks a lot different from the command center. When there, we don't see people, we see icons, resources. They're the dots on the screen. When they're available to you they're bright blue, when they're unavailable they go dark. Life and death doesn't translate to machines. It's either a one or a zero," Aaron explained.

"One is pretty fleeting out here,” Chris responded dryly.

"And zero is forever."

Chris glanced back at Aaron, wondering why he had bothered to make the trek out here.

Aaron continued. "That's a lot for a commander to take in. The computers trick you in a way. They don't even let you think that you're playing with lives. They don't take into account that moving dots from one place to enough will cause some of those dots to go dark.”

“It's tragic."

Aaron shook his head emphatically. "No, no. It's exactly the way it should be."

Chris turned, confused. "Why?"

Aaron started to walk down the knoll to towards the disabled vehicle. Chris followed carefully. As they neared, Chris nearly retched at the reek of burned human flesh and oily smoke. He took a few steps back. Aaron slapped his hand against the skin of the vehicle. "There's no difference between this," he shouted over the roar of the fire then kicked at the body armor of a dead soldier, "and this."

Chris narrowed his brow angrily. "How can you say that?"

Aaron stepped away from the scene so that he wouldn't have to bellow over the fire. "The objective of an army, any army, is not survival of its individual members. Survival is just a variable, a nice one, but totally optional. The objective of all armies is victory. They're supposed to win battles and destroy opposing armies."

"I'm not sure if I agree. At the University-"

Aaron shrugged. "You will, as this goes on. People like us, we have to think like that. The soldier and the tank are the same, they have the same purpose. The media, the academic types, the bleeding heart peace people don't think like that. They don't, not because they're right, but because they've never had to lead troops into battle. They don't stand where we stand. Think about it. When you led the counterattack against House Moore the other day, did you think about the lives of the people you led into combat? Did you change your decisions on your ship when the Black Lotus attacked because you thought about people's lives?”

Chris sighed and looked away. “No.”

“Exactly! That means you understand,” Aaron crashed his fist into his palm. “You are willing to make sacrifices in order to achieve the greater good.”

“Doesn't life have value?” Chris asked.

"Soldiers have value, but they have value in the same sense as that vehicle has value," Aaron said pointing.

"Their families won't like to hear that," Chris said. "Someone has to write to those people's families and explain to them why their son or daughter isn't coming home. I suspect 'your kid went from one to zero because the dot on my screen went dark' isn't going to reassure them much."

"That's why the machines don't write the letters. People do. And those letters always explain that their kid died heroically in service for their lord or religion or country or whatever, regardless of whether he got blown out the back of a vehicle or gunned down while running away."

"But that's a lie. How can I think of them as tools to an end, but explain to the families otherwise. It's wrong."

"And it's necessary. War is a necessary evil, Kristoffer. It's good people like us who wage it carefully to preserve stability and therefore life. Generals like Pershing, they are vicious men, willing to butcher soldier and civilian. Every soldier knows what will be in those letters. He is prepared for it and so are the families."

“Why are you telling me all of this? Why am I even here?”

Aaron sighed and seemed to consider the question intently, but silently.

Chris frowned and looked away from the dead city. He coughed loudly, impatiently, and rubbed his palms together.

“A new war is starting, Kristoffer,” Sir Aaron said suddenly. “While you were hospitalized, word came from Magdeborg. During the funeral for Archduke Peter, Lord Damien denounced Lady Salena and declared war on her,” Aaron added slowly. “When we leave Goteborg, whether we stop Pershing here or not, we will now have enemies on all sides and be fighting against one of the Commonwealth's most powerful armies.”

Chris narrowed his brow in confusion.

“You haven't heard?”

“Only rumors...” Chris said. Odd rumors at that. While Chris was recovering, many of them reached his ears: that there was an attack on the Sten family crypt. Some said Lord Damien was killed, others that Archduke Peter had faked his own death, and even more curious were the ones that claimed Salena had usurped the throne from Archduke Peter's hidden son. None of them made sense, but the more outlandish the rumor the faster it had swept the hospital.

“Damien used the funeral to declare war on Salena's regime.”

“Civil war? In the Commonwealth? That hasn't happened in-”

“An extremely long time, not at this scale anyway. Look, this is going to get bloody and I didn't drag you into anything you weren't already wrapped up in. You involved yourself when you sprung Lord Pershing. You will bear the responsibility of your actions now and in the future.”

Aaron looked like he wanted to add more as his jaw worked to try to form the words. but he stopped, rubbed the days-old stubble on his face and looked away from the ruins of Anackborg. The young knight seemed to struggle with his emotions before his face slipped back into the mask of command.

Chris tread very carefully. “Why are we still here then? If you and Lord Damien are going to challenge Lady Salena, why continue to spend lives here? Why not let me and my crew go? It should be over.”

“Not for you. You and any of your surviving crew members will stay with us.”

Chris shot to his feet, his fears being confirmed. His face reddened in anger and his fingernails bit into his skin when his fists clenched. “Why?”

“Because I said so,” Sir Aaron snapped back.

“I understand fighting here. Goteborg is my home and you have the right to impress us into service, but this fight is over. We did our part-”

“No, your part is only beginning.”

Chris took two steps toward the knight trying his best to ignore the biting pain in his chest. “I won't go with you and neither will my crew.”

“Enough,” Aaron said quietly, turning back to face the irate captain. His hand was on the hilt of his sword, but the power in the whispered word was sufficient to force Chris into silence. The knight was oddly composed, expressing none of the fury that had gone into Chris' beating at his hands just a few days before. It was if he had found peace, somehow, on this ruined world.

“You still have a role to play in all this. Whether you want to is irrelevant. The best thing you can do for yourself and your crew is to go along without a fight. Once Lord Damien arrives we will finish off Pershing then begin the campaign against the false Archduchess.

“Seeing as how you have committed treason against the Commonwealth, you will serve out your punishment in the service of Lord Damien, paying for your crimes. Your crew will join you in that payment. Be happy I haven't executed the lot of you. If word of your endeavors gets out, if the soldiers know you are the reason they are dying here, then your lives are forfeit. It will be public and terrible. I'll see to that personally.”

Chris clenched his jaw and nodded. He remembered the Starfield Theorist on Garda station and his choking cry as he died. He could almost see the ring fall around his ears and the brief hum as it destroyed his brain. He shuddered.

“Come now,” Sir Aaron said. “Let's leave the dead in peace.”

Anna

J's Bar, Magdeborg, Magdeborg Commonwealth

______________

Anna watched Rebecca quietly coloring scraps of paper. Her coloring book had long ago been filled and this was the best she could scrounge for her. Bars did not typically stock things to entertain a young girl. Her crayons had been reduced to stubs, her fingers barely able to grasps the remnants. Bored, she scribbled random designs and patterns.

Anna shot another angry look at the Legend Killer. He was sitting closest to her at the round table with several other individuals on the second floor of the bar. He had a cigar planted between his lips and he occasionally swirled a glass of whiskey. Right now, his attention was fully on the card game. He was analyzing his cards carefully then observing each other player make his or her bets and raises. When the action came to him, he shrugged helplessly and folded his hand.

His lack of urgency was appalling. They'd been here for days, stuck in this dump waiting for something, anything to happen. Rebecca was not safe on Magdeborg, but LK did not seem to have her evacuation very high on his list of priorities. Salena and her minions were everywhere, patrols marched up and down the streets every twenty minutes. It became more and more difficult for anyone to leave the city. She hadn't even dared think about it. Besides making a few phone calls and playing a few games of poker, LK's assistance had been limited.

The retched Filipov was still tied up in a backroom, hardly conscious. She'd seen him only once since first dragging him here. She unlocked the door and opened it only a crack. He sat in his chair, ropes still tight. His wrists were bloody and raw from where it chafed him. The bag was still over his face and it lolled from side to side. The man's brain was like a computer, some failed Azuren experiment. She'd heard it excelled when it had information to process. When it was deprived of information it spun helplessly. It was torture, the worst kind imaginable, like a computer crashing over and over again.

Anna took this opportunity to strike. “So what's the plan LK? Or is this the best you could come up with?

LK shrugged, but didn't look back at her. “For now this will do just nicely.”

“Playing cards? We have Salena's chief spy – who they are looking for mind you – tied up in the back and we're on the most wanted list, but you'd prefer to sit around here?”

The other players at the table exchanged glances, but made no comment. They were all Starfield Theorists and LK trusted each of them with his life. Coming from him, that was quite a distinction. She knew a few of them from her time in the organization, but they treated her like a ghost of the past now. Most of them had some sort of military training. Some were intelligence operatives LK had known, others just had a grudge against the Azuren. They were allies, but not useful for much.

“What would you have me do, Anna?” He asked as a new round was dealt.

“Finding a ship to take Rebecca off planet would be ideal,” Anna said.

LK picked up his hand and considered it. “There are no ships leaving Magdeborg. Both Salena and the Azuren are checking each ship that leaves the planet and the space ports. If you put her on a civilian ship, they'll find her. If you put her on a private ship and try to smuggle her off, they'll kill her.”

Anna glanced back at Rebecca to see if LK had frightened her. She kept doodling, appearing to ignore the conversation. Anna knew she was listening to every word and filing it away in her head. She wasn't stupid, just being complacent. Best not to frighten her.

“I'd rather we try something than wait for Salena to pick her up here – in a bar mind you,” Anna seethed.

“I'm sorry. I didn't quite have child care in mind when I bought the place,” LK snapped back.
“You should have made your own way to the space port after the attack on your apartment. I didn't ask you to stay. I've done the best I can do for now.”

Anna stood up and stepped quickly towards the table. She leaned over it, very much imposing herself on LK's personal space. That was a dangerous move towards an escaped Mason intelligence operative, but she was willing to take that risk, her fury that so great.

“Let me make one thing clear to you,” she began quietly. “Damien and I are not your concern. I couldn't very well just leave Filipov there and we couldn't very well take him with us either. He's more valuable alive. I put the mission ahead of my own personal agenda.”

LK peered at her, obviously uncomfortable with her proximity. The other players were politely trying to ignore the situation, but probably enjoyed the drama. Poker games were often punctuated by the antics of one player or another, but in this case this was the best they'd likely get.

“And where would you take Rebecca if you could get her off Magdeborg? Damien is off to Goteborg to fight the Dominion and you can't take her to any world owned by a house that swore its loyalty to Salena. What other house would willingly take her in? What corporation would risk its stockholder's loyalty to protect her? You're also neglecting Azuren inspections at every stargate. Unless you plan to take her out of the Commonwealth, she is no safer off world than she is here. We and the other Weathermen are your best bet,” LK said then tossed a few chips into the pot to try to get her to be quiet.

It was a desperate move and the other players knew it. They would take advantage of his carelessness. So would Anna.

“We are hiding here when we need to be aggressive,” Anna pushed. “Salena's not going to wait until we're good and ready before coming after Rebecca.”

LK sighed and scratched at his chin. “Have I ever explained to you my theory of poker and interstellar relations?”

Several of the players snickered to each other. They'd heard this before.

“The actions of groups, be they political, military, religious, whatever, and of people in general can be predicted -”

“Oh no, not the Permi Equation,” Anna moaned and collapsed into an empty chair.

“Well hold on now,” LK continued. “The Permi Equation is not set in stone. We have not identified all the variables, nor can we define those variables, yet. I'm not talking about mathematical equations, I'm talking about poker. Instinct, not math.”

Anna rolled her eyes,.“Poker?”

“Of course. It's all one big metaphor. The actions of individuals all the way up to the actions of entire interstellar empires can be predicted. It's all about power and the projection of power. Signaling.”

“I know about signaling.”

The dealer collected the bets then burned a card and put down the top three cards of the deck. The King of Diamonds, the Queen of Spades and the nine of hearts came up.

“But you don't know about poker. Let's take Bob for example. I know his stated power, the chips he has in front of him just like I know the power of House Mason or House Teton or whomever. I don't know what cards he is holding, that's his protected power, the secrets he's not letting anyone know about that can change the course of an engagement in his favor. But based on his actions, his signals I can take a pretty good guess. My actions will therefore be based on whatever I assume he is holding and on what I am holding and the stated power and how he uses it. That means I can try to guess his hand based on the timing and strength of his bets.”

“Yeah, so what?”

“So you said play aggressively. If Bob were playing aggressively he becomes easier to trap especially if he overplays his hand. If I force him into a trap, I can knock him out of the game. That's really the point of all politics, eliminate your enemies.” LK said then tapped his knuckles on the table twice.

Bob hooked an eyebrow then looked down at his hand again, perhaps taking LK's words into consideration. He checked.

“And what about the cards face up on the table?”

“Ah. Now we can bring the flop into play. The flop just represents the current situation that all players know. Salena is in charge of Magdeborg,” he said, tapping one of the face up cards in the center of the table, the Queen of Spades. “These cards represent the random events we can't control. Sometimes they are helpful to us, sometimes useless and sometimes they aid our enemies and we don't know it. Sometimes they help both us and our enemies, but one more than the other.

The dealer burned another card and placed down the Ace of Spades.

“The randomness of the cards can help us or harm us,” he said again. “We can't control what comes next.”

LK checked. Bob paused and considered the table then bet about a third of his chips. LK scratched his head and stared at the cards then at Bob. Bob was impassive, well practiced. LK shrugged then called the bet.

“You don't seem to be doing very well,” Anna said.

“I never am.”

The dealer turned over the river card. The King of Clubs.

LK checked and Bob bet again, pushing all of his chips into the center then sat back and said, “Listen to her, mate. You're out of position.”

Anna sighed and stroked Rebecca's hair. The girl was still busy drawing, pretending to ignore the conversation around her.

“I call,” he said and pushed in enough chips to match the other Theorist's bet.

Bob turned over two Aces giving him three.

“And so what are we supposed to do?” Anna asked.

Rebecca looked up at her mother and shrugged as if to agree with her:
well you tried.

LK turned over his hand, two Kings, giving him four. Bob scoffed and muttered an expletive. LK smiled and drew in his winnings.

“We need a better hand which means we need some friends with a lot more weapons than we do.”

“So what exactly are we going to do about that?

“I'm working on it,” he grunted as the cards were passed to him and he began shuffling. “There's just one rule when it comes to poker and politics.”

Anna creased her forehead. “Which is?”

“Never play with the Azuren,” LK said, taking a long draw from his whiskey canter. “They stack the deck.”