Way Of The Clans

by Robert Thurston

  She stared at the cadets for what seemed to Aidan like an eternity. He set his feet for the run, wondering if he should just turn his back on this ritual and walk out of the clearing. He had an urge to defy Joanna, but looking into the face of the swordsman in front of him, her face dour but firm, he knew he was not afraid of the woman or her sword.

  Joanna's arms came down slowly. When they reached her side, Aidan and the others broke into a sprint. He bore down on the swordsman, focusing on the sword itself. There was no wavering. The swordsman held it firmly. Was it possible this was a suicide ritual because Joanna or Ter Roshak had decided none of the four were worthy of becoming warriors, so they must be killed? No, Joanna had said they must trust. He must trust this woman, even though he had never seen her before. And only because she was a warrior of the Jade Falcon Clan. At his last free step, with the sword still pointed at his chest, he leaped at it.

  And landed at the woman's feet, on his face. As he learned later, all four swordsmen had whipped their swords out of the way at the last possible instant. It was, as Joanna had said, merely a ritual.

  As Aidan and the others stood up, Joanna walked around the line of swordsmen. "You see," she said, "the act of running at the sword required trust. You had to know deep down that you can trust your comrades—that is the way of the Clan. It is essential to know that completely. If you doubt us, then we doubt you."

  She walked slowly among the group of cadets. Aidan and Bret were brushing dirt off their clothing. Marthe apparently had run at her sword without falling to the ground as a consequence.

  Joanna stopped by Rena, who stood quite still. Without warning, the falconer, with a clean swift stroke, drew her sword across Rena's cheek. Rena backed away two steps but did not bring her hand up to her face. A line of blood appeared at the cut and began to drip down the side of her face in several thin lines. Aidan noted that the blood seemed dark, almost black, but perhaps that was a trick of the firelight.

  Joanna peered into Rena's eyes. "You hesitated," she said. "It was perhaps only half a second and you did not quite stumble, but I saw clearly that you nearly dodged sideways, that your step slowed before you completed your run. For an instant in time, your trust deserted you. Perhaps you are not ready to be a warrior, quineg?"

  "Not so," Rena said. "I am ready. But you are correct, Falconer Joanna, I did—I do not know how to describe it—I did flinch, nearly hesitate, had a moment where I did not expect the sword to move. I deserve the punishment you gave me."

  "Of course you deserve it. You have no reason even to hint at a doubt. The hint is like the flinch before the sword. Yet let me say your honesty is to be praised. Do you wish to continue your warrior training?"

  "Yes!"

  Joanna nodded her head. "Then you will. Everyone, form a circle and link hands."

  The training officer who had held the sword for Rena gave her a med-cloth, treated to staunch blood at a touch. Rena held it on her cut for a short time. When it came away, the bleeding had stopped, although the cut itself was red-rimmed and appalling to look at.

  In the circle Aidan linked hands with Marthe and an orderly. Joanna stood in the center of the circle, by the fire again, now holding one of the swords. New wood had been heaped on the fire and the flames burned high. When Joanna began to speak again, she swept the sword through the highest flames at her words' many points of emphasis.

  "Hail the Jade Falcon as it swoops down on its prey!"

  "Seyla," came the response of all.

  The Clansmen in the circle, including the cadets, affirmed in the same ancient way each of her bellowed statements. They were all used to the ceremonial forms. Most of her words described the greatness of the Jade Falcon Clan. There were praises of heroism, war, the proper behavior of warriors, the values of all the Clans, the greatness of the Kerenskys. The ceremony lasted for more than an hour, at the end of which Joanna's voice had become hoarse. She ended by yelling, "Thus is the way of the Clan!" She attacked the flames with her sword as if they were the souls of her enemies.

  "Seyla," the circle breathed as one.

  Then Joanna repeated the phrase, her sword working at a feverish pace now.

  And again did they affirm, "Seyla." Several times more did Joanna bellow, "Thus is the way of the Clans!" Each time there followed the chorus of voices, "Seyla!"

  Then Joanna held her sword pointed high above her head. "The Clan will prevail!" she shouted.

  "Seyla," came the answering, massive shout to the heavens.

  Aidan was exhilarated, adrenaline rushing through his veins as the fever pitch of the ceremony combined with the way he had risked his life at swordpoint. He had always wanted to be a warrior, but sometimes had doubted his own worth. Tonight there were no doubts. He would be a warrior of the Clans. He had to be.

  15

  How well I remember the first time in a heavy BattleMech, Ter Roshak wrote. It is a sensation I recall so vividly, though it happened so long ago. I envy our current cadets this unforgettable moment. There is something different about getting into the cockpit of one of the big ones. After all the training in the lighter models, where you get used to a certain ease of movement, the heavier 'Mechs at first seem graceless and hard to maneuver. All that tonnage underneath their feet gives the neophyte pilots some qualms. They wonder how something as fragile as a neurohelmet working off one's brain waves is able to keep an unwieldy monster like a 'Mech in balance, keep it from falling flat on its angular face. And more than the balance, how can they trust the neurohelmet to make the 'Mech take its steps efficiently and naturally?

  If we were not of the Clan, the first time in a 'Mech would perhaps be a worrisome experience. But the Clan blood charging like cavalry through the intricate pathways of our bodies tells us that no large conglomeration of metal and other materials is beyond our capabilities. The basic sensory difference between piloting a smaller 'Mech and guiding one of the big ones is only a temporary setback, a fear that comes only once. We gain control, and from then on are either warriors or failures. No other outcome is possible in the Trial of Position. The failures either survive and go to another caste, or they die. Here in Crash Camp we have swept countless corpses off the battlefield.

  People I meet from outside the Clan, Periphery bondsmen and the like, often question the harshness of such trials, which, like so many of our customs, they find somewhat pitiless. They especially center on the Warrior Caste. They do not understand that the trials must be almost insurmountable; it is the only way to turn out exemplary warriors. Anything less, any cadet passed along and given the name of warrior while retaining flaws, renders the training meaningless.

  We are not here, after all, to churn out the kind of dispensable soldier that in the past was called cannon fodder. Such warriors were the products of a certain democratization on Terra, when mass man was recruited to fight battles by power-hungry leaders or zealous rebels. It was considered glorious to charge an entrenched enemy, leaving behind many dead heroes in a triumph that gained perhaps two centimeters of the battleground. If one side had significantly more personnel than the other, that side could win a battle—not through strategy or tactics but through attrition of the other side. Such situations were not war, but rather mere organized slaughter. Personal sacrifice was an ideal that sounded better than it ever was in practice.

  I do not criticize here the individual heroic act, which is admirable. In any kind of warfare soldiers who give up their lives to save others or whose acts of bravery damage or destroy enemy facilities to settle a battle that might have been costlier are examples of heroic deeds that stand apart from the issues of the war at hand. Victory or defeat, right or wrong, absurdity or glory—those concepts do not apply even to such deeds. The act justifies itself without benefit of doctrines.

  The war that wastes lives disgusts me. Unnecessary personal sacrifice is a waste; the heroic act that saves no one is a waste. General Kerensky was right when he proclaimed that war and preparation for war must be accomplished w
ith a sense of economy. The minimum number of warriors necessary for the battle is the only number that should be sent to it. Anything else is wasteful.

  The bidding system is the Clan's greatest contribution to the actual conduct of war. We declare to our opponent what the prize of the battle should be—factory, genetic material, whatever we think necessary for the advancement of our Clan. The defender responds by naming the forces he will use in defense. We then bid among ourselves for the right to fight the battle and then engage in combat. Only the warriors and materiel bid by the individual commander are allowed to engage in the contest. Reinforcements can be called only up to the point of the second-best bid.

  As a result, our warfare style saves lives as well as treasure. There are no crowds of noncombatants on the battlefield to be blown up by an errant missile. We do not engage in barbarous attacks against our opponent's industries or lower castes. We understand the necessities of war better than any force previously engaged in one because we so meticulously analyze how much of our own people and supplies to put at risk.

  The principle of economy works for the other castes, too. Few citizens live in anything approaching luxury, except those who have clearly earned it. Even those in the merchant caste, famous for its shrewd dealings and carefully calculated profits, do not often seek what they do not deserve. It has often been said that our major blemish, the bandit caste, are people who could not grasp the wisdom of this system, and they are all the more detestable for that. Most Clan castes are, however, devoted to our major goal, the return to the Inner Sphere and restoration of the Star League. The lives of our people are dedicated to making the overall machine of society function.

  I have prided myself on maintaining all my own commands well within the concepts of Clan utility and economy. Every usable piece of material is as strictly maintained as the 'Mechs themselves. I demand proper polish and the control of waste. Nothing is discarded without the approval of several of my subordinates. Anything that might be used again in any way gets a second, third, or fourth life. I know what they sometimes say about me and do not mind at all being described as the man who would rework garbage into gyros, crumbs into ammo, zombies into warriors if I could find ways.

  Do I digress again? That at least seems to be one skill of mine that seems to increase with age. It is easy to see why the Clan removes aging warriors from active service, why it shunts them off to rear-guard support positions or assigns them to training units. Again it is a question of husbanding one's resources. When instinctive reactions come slower and the eyes can not focus as easily on the monitors or the targets and the body takes longer to perform any action, it is only logical that the warrior be removed from active service; he has become a detriment to the others in his unit. Waste creates waste. A mistake by an aging warrior can kill a younger one. Though age, and the experience that accompanies it, may bring some valuable wisdom, it is also true that too much detritus collects in the mind as the years pass. When something is no longer useful at or near the front lines, it must be utilized in other ways. So the aged and injured, both categories to which I now belong, are salvaged in order to perform other roles in the warrior caste. Nothing should be wasted that is in any way still usable.

  Still, as in any cycle of waste and salvage, something is lost inevitably. I miss active service, and if ordered, would return to a combat unit without a second thought. Peripheral duties—no matter how important—offer no real satisfaction. Like any warrior, I still crave the pleasure of watching an enemy go down in flames or feeling a jaw crack underneath my fist or accurately slicing armor off the 'Mech in my sights.

  I miss war and I do not mind admitting it, in the privacy of this journal.

  But my fighting days are over and I have to live vicariously through these cadets. I am hard on them because my orders so require; I am even more rigorous because they are my enemy now. An odd thought, that. I had never perceived the cadets in that way before. With their innocent ways and their frequent ineptitude, they constitute all the obstacles to be overcome. I hate all their failures, want more from them when they succeed.

  When the sibkos have been winnowed down, I then focus on the useful material—that is, the cadets who definitely could become warriors. Potential waste (in terms of warrior potential) has been eliminated and reassigned to worthwhile roles in the society.

  Digression. Digression. Looking back over what I have just written, I seem to subscribe to what might be called an excremental view of history. Nevertheless, a control of human and nonhuman assets is essential to a successful military operation of any kind.

  Which is not to say that I am overwhelmingly dedicated to saving everything. I will dispose of even human lives if the objective is reasonable. I will sacrifice a 'Mech if it means demolishing other 'Mechs. In the battle that cost me my arm, I had to send one Star on a suicide mission, and I still remember every single one of its members.

  I pile digression upon digression. It is time for me to try to sleep, though I will probably be unable to. In three days the present sibko will fight its Trial of Position, and I think about that constantly. For the three who remain, I have ordered that they undergo the Trial together. I prefer that only two go out at a time, as is the declared custom, but when the number is odd, I reluctantly order three out against nine. Joanna is excited by the prospect, seeing the Trial as a kind of battle royal. She is a bit bloodthirsty, that woman. I think she would not mind if all the cadets were defeated. She has no sense of economy.

  It is a pity that we lost one cadet so close to the Trial. When that happens, it is always a minor tragedy, not so much for the cadet who is killed, but for the loss of a warrior at a time when more warriors are needed.

  16

  It might have been better, more meaningful, if Rena's corpse were not so twisted and bloody. Aidan definitely wished her eyes were closed, and would have closed them himself if Falconer Joanna did not stand between him and Rena's body. Joanna's face was emotionless, looking at Rena as if she had not known her for so long, taken her through so much training. Aidan edged closer, sensing Marthe and Bret also moving in a step or two behind him. He had seen Rena fall, seen the dark spots appear on her fatigues before he realized that she had been hit.

  "She was aware this was a live-ammunition exercise, quiaff?" Joanna asked.

  "Aff," Bret replied.

  "And she stood up suddenly, quiaff?"

  "Aff."

  "And there was no reason for her to stand up, quineg?"

  "Neg. No reason."

  "Then it is clear she was not meant to be a warrior. She was, like all cadets who do not succeed, a fool. She should have died that first day, sparing me the time I spent training her. Dispose of the body, the three of you."

  Joanna walked away without looking back. None of the cadets made a move to obey her directive.

  As Aidan looked down at Rena, he wondered if he should remember something significant about her, perhaps make some sort of valedictory before she was carted off to the medical facility, where her usable organs would be extracted and stored, and the rest of her cremated. The leftovers. That was what faced most of them, unless they were lucky enough to be disintegrated in battle and rendered not worth dissecting or burning.

  In idle moments, in classrooms or alone in bed at night, he had been able to call up all kinds of childhood memories, but now with the sibko itself almost a memory, he could think of nothing specific about Rena. No immediate image of her alive in pre-cadet days came to him. For that matter, he could remember nothing about any of them. All those memories he used to cherish about him and Marthe were, for the moment, denied recall. (Later, in his bunk, looking ahead to the Trail and back to the sibko, such incidents flooded his mind.)

  Marthe touched his arm. At first he thought it was a renewal of the old friendship, but then it was obvious she was pushing him aside.

  "We have a job to do. Bret, you take her feet. I will carry her by the shoulders. Aidan, you go ahead and make the arrangements.
"

  Aidan took a step in the direction of the medical facility, then he turned back and addressed Marthe: "What happened? Why did she die?"

  "It is beyond us as warriors to consider weighty abstractions, unless required for strategy."

  "I did not mean that! I mean what specifically happened? How did she come to stand up? All of us knew better. She knew better."

  "I suppose she could not have, considering that she did what she did."

  With Bret positioned at the body's feet and Marthe at its head, they picked Rena up at Marthe's signal. As strong as they were, the carrying of a body required no strong effort.

  "Unless she killed herself intentionally," Aidan commented.

  "That is not possible. Rena was a warrior. Warriors do not kill themselves. Go on to the medical facility, Aidan."

  "Are you sure? That is only classroom talk, as far as we know."

  "You doubt what we are told?"

  "No it is not that, it is just—I do not know what I mean. Forget I spoke."

  "That would be easy."

  "You sound more like Falconer Joanna every day, Marthe."

  She turned and glared at him.

  "And you sound like one of your hawks, squawking and growling at every chance. You complain too much, Aidan."

  "I speak my mind."

  "Whatever you call it, it is a bad habit."

  He started again on the path toward the medical center. Marthe called after him: "You say I sound like Falconer Joanna. That is a compliment, Aidan. A compliment."