We did get reports of open combat, but in some ways I found those reassuring. They were little skirmishes that defined boundaries. They clearly were the precursors of other fights to come, but they bled off pressure and let things quiet down for a bit, even though the desire for revenge would grow and spawn new rounds of combat.
I knew it was time for me to walk away from analysis when I was worrying more about places that only reported peace than places where shots had been fired. Those peaceful worlds defied the madness breaking out around them. While I could have hoped that sanity prevailed somewhere in the Inner Sphere, I saw darker forces at work. Could it be that those worlds have been completely pacified by the lions? If our only window into them was through news reports flowing out, and those reports only told of sweetness and light, how would we know? The lions could be hiding in plain sight, waiting until we had mauled ourselves, before emerging from their peaceful dens.
Worst of all was the fact that even the best sorting, sifting and analysis could not change the fact that all the data was old. The Republic could not function with ancient news. If a reply to a request for help took two months to come back, it was far too long, and the crisis that spawned the request could have easily consumed the world from which it originated during the lag.
And, of course, tomorrow could bring in missing data from a world that would force reevaluation of everything, plunking us back at square one. We’d start over, but always had to be mindful of the fact that we remained in the dark about most of The Republic and even larger chunks of the Inner Sphere beyond our borders. Once I was operating in that mode, that had me swapping black for white on a regular basis, I’d find something else to do for a while. Running down to White Sands and working more with Ghost had a lot of appeal. Watching things blow up is cathartic. I could easily imagine that all the enemy ’Mechs were lions and pride-busting left me exhausted and smiling. My scores shot up significantly when one of the techs dressed the enemy ’Mechs in tawny and brown, with little lion-rampant devices on their chests.
Janella and I were able to slip away to a beach on the Baja coast for two days. It was supposed to be three, but we returned early, recharged and sunburned, to dive back in. I also spent an afternoon with Victor, helping him tend to the roses growing in the small courtyard off his lodgings. This turned out to be fortunate because Andrea asked if she could see the roses and I got to give her a brief tour. Victor, as gracious as ever, praised my help with the flowers, which confused Andrea and did little to quell suspicions.
Toward the end of that month the pressure just kept building. With each and every report, the clouds gathering on the horizon became thicker and darker. There was no denying that a nasty storm was coming and a lot of lightning would be cast around.
“‘The fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword.”’ Victor’s voice sank to a cold tone. “There is a theory that suggests mankind cannot resist war because we forget pain so easily. It’s a survival trait. What woman who endured hours of labor would agree to bear another child if she could remember every moment of pain? What person would risk being trampled or stuck through with horns to bring down a buffalo if he’d survived that sort of wounding before?”
I waved bandaged fingers. “What gardener would tend roses?”
Victor smiled at my jest, but from the other end of the table, Nessa gestured at him with her fork. “That theory dismisses the fact that we’re thinking creatures. We can weigh the risks of pain and injury against gain. We can also empathize with others and feel their pain. This is the basis of altruism and even heroic sacrifice in emergencies and war.”
The old man nodded. “There is no denying that, Nessa, but two factors in that serve to reinforce the theory. The first is that because we forget pain, it is never weighed heavily enough when being slotted into that risk/gain equation. This is especially true when it might be someone else’s pain. I would go so far as to say that those who empathize with the injuries of others disregard risk/gain equations, and almost fly in the face of overwhelming odds precisely because they believe that behavior is required of them.”
Nessa nodded, lowering her fork to spear some lettuce. “We could argue some of that, but I’d end up agreeing. What was your second point?”
“I would challenge your assertion that we are really thinking creatures.”
That brought my head up. “Okay, my not using gloves to help with the roses is probably not going to work in my favor when I defend mankind’s sapience, but all of us here, at this table, in this place, we’re thinking in high gear.”
“Your hands aside, Mason, you are slipping past my point. Yes, those of us gathered here are thinking, and thinking hard and long about events, but we have the luxury of being able to do that. We also have the basis of experience that allows us to do that. While we can hope we are wise, most of mankind is barely sentient. When you look at Maslow’s Hierarchy of Human Needs, it is concerned mostly with food, shelter and reproduction. These are all the biological urges and while some abstraction might occur—like having to work a job to secure food and shelter—they really don’t rise much above the levels of creatures who are just out satisfying those basic, biological needs.”
Janella arched an eyebrow. “You’re not trying to say that humans are cattle, are you, my lord?”
“Not at all. Sheep is a preferable comparison because it allows for the existence of shepherds and wolves.” Resting his elbows on the table, Victor pressed his hands together, fingertip to fingertip. I could see the delight dancing in his gray eyes, just like the reflected light from the candles on the table. “When you think about it, experience almost divides humanity along species lines. Just the four of us here at the table, we have traveled to how many worlds. Hundreds? Thousands? We’ve traveled further in light-years over a single year than some people will travel in kilometers in their entire lives. Some worlds are fabled places to people, and I’ve shed blood on those worlds. We have, by dint of our experience, a perspective on events that far too few people possess.”
Nessa nodded. “This is why we are the shepherds.”
Her grandfather frowned. “But why are we not the wolves? Those out there who will take advantage of the chaos have the same experience we do. Why aren’t they making the same decisions we are? Why would they risk war with each other while we have a threat hovering out there?”
“Perhaps they have made the same decision.” Janella toyed with the stem of her wineglass. “Those we call wolves probably see themselves as shepherds. They define their flock as different than we do, and they are gathering their forces to protect their constituency. Perhaps they see their rivals as the wolves behind the grid’s collapse. They view our inaction and warnings of a foe unseen as our folly, and they move to secure things for their people.”
“A very good point, my lady.” Victor gave her a half-smile. “Several, in fact, which just makes everything that much more complicated.”
I shook my head. “I can’t believe someone like Jacob Bannson would ever think of himself as a shepherd. He sees himself as a wolf, as the Big, Bad Wolf, and he’s out for sheep and piggies and any shepherds that get in his way.”