With his pulse laser, Aidan aimed for the joint that connected the Warhawk's right arm to its torso. Disabling the arm would rob the 'Mech of nearly half its weaponry. He knew from study that a Warhawk, in its primary configuration, concentrated too much of its armament in its arms. Aidan yelled as his shots rang true. The enemy 'Mech's right arm suddenly dropped, still connected but rendered inoperative.
As he had hoped, the Hellbringer closed ranks, edging in toward the Warhawk. Between them was a large rock. It was time for his calculated risk. Using the left-leg jump jets for a quick leap backward and sideways, Aidan simultaneously released a long-range missile barrage, aimed downward so that it would land between the two enemies, impacting against the rock and sending enough shreds and shrapnel against the two 'Mechs to send them both to the ground.
Even with the jump, his 'Mech was still rocked by the explosion. The Summoner came down on one foot and toppled sideways. It was all he could do to keep his 'Mech upright. Checking his sensors, Aidan learned something about the experienced pilots in the pair of 'Mechs. They, too, had each jumped sideways, away from the impact. The explosion had riven a great hole in the right side of the Warhawk, but it remained upright and functional, despite the extensive torso damage and its disabled right arm. The Hellbringer, however, had fallen onto a patch of trees, which held it over the ground at an oblique angle.
All right, Aidan thought, now it is time to finish off the Hellbringer. Then, with any luck, he would whirl around and get the Warhawk. The latter 'Mech had jumped far enough out of the way to be effectively out of the action for at least a few seconds, especially as it was now showing Aidan its already-damaged right-arm side. The Dire Wolf was still positioned poorly for encounter.
Any hope that the Hellbringer's pilot was hurt or unconscious because of the fall was dashed when Aidan saw the 'Mech's knees bend into a kneeling position to push itself away from the top of the clump of trees. Its torso rotated ominously toward Aidan's charging 'Mech. Despite the extensive torso damage, verified by the way armor pieces littered the countryside around the Hellbringer, all its weaponry appeared to be functional. PPCs in both arms were blasting at Aidan.
With the 'Mech kneeling, however, Aidan still had the tactical advantage. He managed to maneuver out of the way of some bursts aimed at his 'Mech's right knee. Bringing his own weaponry to bear on the ill-positioned Hellbringer, he rocked it with another salvo of coherent light and elementary particles.
He moved in for the kill. Every one of his senses seemed heightened, almost as though he had developed another two or three. His damage-control screen showed only a few ineffective hits from his adversaries. With a sense of victory expanding his chest, he looked at his heat scale and saw there was no time to lose. He had to act now, or else find a quick retreat to cool down and recharge, giving the second and third opponents a chance at him. He saw that the Warhawk was, in fact, already getting into position for a good shot at him.
He figured two bursts from his right-arm pulse laser should be the fusillade that earned him qualification as a MechWarrior, and he lined up the Hellbringer in his sights.
Keeping track of his proper trio of opponents, Aidan had not seen the fourth 'Mech that came toward him, running. It was a legal Trial move, for he had opened up the combat into a melee. But with all the others so actively engaged, he had not expected a move toward him.
His hoped-for finishing shots at the Hellbringer went wide as the intruding 'Mech made a direct hit against the cockpit of Aidan's Summoner. He could feel the heat of fire rushing at him as the computer announced the beginning of the automatic eject sequence. Desperately, he wanted to get off another barrage, hoping for a lucky shot before his 'Mech expelled him.
He flew high into the air as the cockpit area of his Summoner exploded behind him. His consciousness left him just as he realized that he had been beaten by Marthe. She had not only shot him down in the Trial a moment before he would have qualified, she had obtained her own second Trial victory, earning her the right to enter the Jade Falcon Clan as a Star Commander, the very rank for which he had been aiming. Now there would be no rank for him, no chance to become a MechWarrior. Marthe had destroyed those chances for him. Marthe, to whom he had been devoted from the earliest days of the sibko. Marthe, who had once thought she might love him. How could she have double-crossed him just as he was about to qualify? Was this the true way of the Clan? It was with these last thoughts that Aidan hit the ground in his ejection seat, immediately passing out from the excruciating pain in his left arm.
22
I saw my chance and I took it," was Marthe's succinct explanation as she stood by his hospital bed, casually holding her brand new Star Commander's field cap in one hand. Aidan wondered if the cap was meant as a further insult as he gingerly touched his legacy from the battle, a broken left arm.
"But the sibko, Marthe, what about the sibko?"
"What about it? There is no sibko any longer. We outgrow the sibko. That is the way."
"We were once so close."
"As children. We are not ..."
"I know, I know. We are not children now."
"Do not be bitter."
"What do you expect me to be? I needed to be a warrior. "
"Need is not a good warrior trait, I suspect. We are trained, we succeed or fail, we find our place in the Clan. Those who succeed at being warriors earn their Blood-names and find their place in the gene pool. That is all that happens, or should happen. You nearly succeeded in becoming a warrior. So few get even that far. Now you are assigned to the technician caste. You will be a good Tech. The Clan has found the proper place for you, and you accept that, quiaff?"
He wanted to deny it, but he said, "Aff."
She turned to go.
"Marthe?"
"Yes?"
"You had already made your first kill, and you had a fine chance at a second among the opponents selected for you."
"I remind you that one of them did defeat me finally, stopping me from achieving a third triumph."
"All right. But you might have won, without turning on me, without—"
"Do not say more. I did what was proper. The rules provide that, in a melee, any 'Mech on the field is a fair target in a Trial. You were a fair target."
"But what of all the time we spent together, all the feelings, all the—"
"Do not talk to me of feelings. Such things are illusions for which we have no time—"
"But once you said perhaps you loved me."
"A child's game. It was only the foolish stories Glynn told us that led to such statements, not any so-called feelings. I was merely a child imitating what happened to be in my environment. We grow up. Or, at least, I grew up."
He could not mistake the sarcasm in her last statement. Not only did she place herself above him, but in terms of Clan castes, she now occupied a higher social position. He would never persuade her of the unfairness of her tactic—nor, deep down, did he actually believe it was unfair. It was unfortunate, yes, and he was bitter about it, but he could not call it unfair. No matter that he had formed an excellent strategy. He had not been able to achieve it because, like a failed commander in a battle, he had not anticipated something in the forces aligned against him.
"It makes no sense for us to talk together any further," Marthe said. "I came, obeying the customs of politeness. Defeated and hospitalized enemies must be visited once. So I have done. If we meet again, it will be as members of different castes, and caste rules will apply. Goodbye."
"Wait."
She turned wearily. "Another question?"
"One more."
She spoke like a queen bestowing a favor. Her tone made him feel helpless, inferior. This must be what it was like, he thought, to realize for the first time, the caste difference.
"Do you know," he said, "that had I been in your position, seeing you vulnerable in the melee, I would never have attacked you?" She sighed.
"I thought you might say that. And I admit having
given the matter some thought. Aidan, I know you would not have . . . not have attacked me in such a circumstance. But perhaps that shows the essential difference between us, the one that made me a MechWarrior and you a Tech. I took the opportunity that you would have refused. Perhaps you were not destined to be a warrior."
"Marthe, you have become so—"
"I have not become anything. I am a warrior, and that is everything. You have had your question. Now I must leave."
He let her go. What more could he say to her? All he could do was lie in bed, refighting the Trial over and over in his head, wondering if he—had he seen Marthe coming—would have shot her down in self-defense. He was not sure he could have, although in his thoughts he killed her over and over.
Was she right? he wondered. Was it destined that he not succeed in the Trial to become a Mechwarrior? Yet he had come so close. If Marthe had not intervened, he would have defeated the Hellbringer, he knew it! He could probably also have taken out the already-wounded Warhawk. Even if the Dire Wolf had lumbered into the battle, he would have had a chance at it, too. Well, that was perhaps getting too carried away. The one victory was certain, the others he could fight in his mind for the rest of his life laboring away as a Tech.
Aidan shuddered at the thought. He had never even considered being assigned to a subcaste. Marthe might have been able to accept whatever came, but Aidan was not so comfortable with that attitude. He had to accept it, yes. It was, after all, the way of the Clan. But he did not have to like it. He did not.
As he eased into sleep, a new thought came to him: Did he have to accept it? It was the way of the Clan, yes, to fulfill the proper role. But people walked away, did they not? If he could get help, or learn schedules, or something, he could hitch a ride on some ship going away from Ironhold, pursue life in some other place, find new uses for whatever skills he proved he did have. Clan society held wanderers in almost as much contempt as bandits, but what had he to lose anymore? So far, he had known only the sibko and then the life of a cadet. Perhaps there was another life out there for him among other parts of the Clan, among other Clan worlds.
Did he think these thoughts or were they just figments on the threshold between waking and sleep? As Aidan drifted off, the questions dissolved into dreams where he fought mighty battles—sometimes in BattleMechs, sometimes on his own, sometimes in bizarre vehicles or on fantasy animals. He kept winning. Nothing or no one could defeat him.
23
Damn, wrote Falconer Commander Ter Roshak. Damn it to some appalling Inner Sphere hell! Warriors are warriors and the Clan is the Clan, but sometimes the rules do not fit the game; the standards do not apply to the particular social action or even the individual experience. As I watched the risk-taking cadet fall to a barrage that was more luck than skill, thoughts raced through my brain and I felt an uncharacteristic frustration, even a sadness for a fate I did not believe in. It was all I could do to keep a tight rein on my emotions before Falconer Joanna and the other training officers in the control room.
We all know the necessity for luck in warfare, yet I do not like to see a cadet defeated by shots fired from virtual ambush, especially when it is another cadet rather than one of our Trial cadre doing the shooting.
Yet, Cadet Marthe is to be praised. Her improvisation was brilliant. She will become a fine MechWarrior, a fine officer. Aside from the personal interest I have taken in Cadet Aidan, I have other reasons for regretting that the incident occurred. Aidan's strategy was clever, too. Indeed, he accomplished something that had never been done before. He threw the whole Trial into disarray, and then would have won it with actions that would have been heroic in a real battle, but for Cadet Marthe's tactical quickness. As a good tactician myself, I appreciate her skill, but it is not pleasing to see it used against another candidate who was equally deserving of success.
At one time, I used to believe that exceptional cadets should have a second chance at the Trial, but I was voted down by chiefs of staff. Eventually, they won me to their point of view, which faithfully adheres to Clan military beliefs.
But any rule has its exception, and I believe Aidan should be one of these. If I had it in my power to reinstate him, I would.
But there is no way.
Or is there?
I know I am not through with this Aidan, this generational twin of my old comrade, Ramon Mattlov. The first thing I will arrange is to keep him within my command. That strategical maneuver is, at least, within my power.
And then—
And then—
Who can say what will happen then?
24
After his first week as a Tech, Aidan knew he could not stand the life, especially not here, in the same place where he had failed, where hopeful cadets, confident in their abilities, were still in training and reminding him of what he had been. When he chanced to pass by Falconer Joanna on several occasions, she had looked right through him. That, more than the hard work and the certainty that being a Tech was a demotion in caste, discouraged him. He could not abide being continually reminded of his failure in the Trial, but neither could he avoid the constant reminders.
Nomad, for whom he now worked as an apprentice, perceived Aidan's problem from the first day. "Take the work as it comes," he advised. "Work is the best cure for anything. It numbs the feelings."
"What makes you think I am feeling anything, Nomad?"
"If you say you're not, you're not. I don't argue what's in somebody else's head and body. That's a problem for them and any doctors whose scrutiny they have the misfortune to come under."
"Do you have to use so many contractions when you speak? It sounds coarse."
"Away from your old friends, the cadets and warriors, we are by their standards—coarse. We use contractions, we use ancient cursing styles. The lesser castes do; the freeborns have made a ritual of it. We chat about forbidden subjects. You'll have to learn all this. You're a Tech now, Friend Aidan."
"Do not call me friend either. I will work with you but . . ."
"With us, Friend is just another title. Like Cadet or Falconer or Commander. You'll get used to it."
"Never."
"Techs are not petulant either, Friend Aidan."
Now that they were Tech to Tech, Nomad was more talkative than when he had been Aidan's virtual servant. The outcome of the Trial had dissolved the class barrier, Aidan realized, and Nomad had dissolved the emotional distance between them almost immediately. Cheerful when away from warriors, he had done much to ease Aidan's immediate transition into a new caste. Aidan's chiding of Nomad's speech flaws was done with a similar affability. Indeed, he experienced an almost sibko-like friendship with the other man now. Perhaps, after all, Aidan would someday fit in as a Tech.
But he could not accept Nomad's counsel, could not lose himself in work. The work was not a cure. If anything, it depressed him more. So much of it was meaningless. Awaiting their assignment to a 'Mech, they were doing futile mechanical tests on transport vehicles, repainting surfaces, adding plates of new armor, adjusting weapon calibrations, learning to reconfigure 'Mechs in the field, all dull work from which Aidan could not find the sense of accomplishment that it seemed to provide Nomad continually.
From the first day, Aidan realized that he would have to find some way to numb his mind in order to perform the monotonous tasks that were now his lot. Not that Nomad's mind was at all diminished by it. He seemed to relish the least task, taking a high degree of satisfaction from transforming something that was not working right into an efficient component.
One day, after finding that a chest-mounted medium laser was jamming because of a structural flaw in the surrounding casing, Nomad sang while tearing one section out and welding in a new one. Except for the chanted, almost monotonous tunes of the warrior rituals, Aidan had never heard much music. Nomad's song was lively and melodic. Some of the words, too, were unfamiliar.
"They're farmer's words," the Tech said. "Rural language. All the castes have some music. But we
don't all have to warble that dry stuff that cadets are stuck with in their stiff and stuffy rituals."
"You find our—their rituals unappealing."
Nomad looked all around him before speaking, then he kept his voice low: "I never said that. I meant that their songs or chants or whatever are not as lively as the music in the lower and freer castes."
"Free? What does that mean? You work all day, lead a subservient existence, are dominated by routines and restricted by laws, follow caste customs—how is that free?"
"We don't have to jump into magnificent dustbins and risk our lives at the command of others."
"But that is honor, glory, hero ..."
"That is just so much of what the bull leaves behind him on the road."
"Sometimes I do not grasp your slang, but it is as repellent as your overuse of contractions."
"You make too much out of contractions and slang. You're headstrong but a bit dim, Friend Aidan. Contractions, slang, they're just words, words like your honor and glory and such. Just words."
"That sounds like treason to me."
"In a cockpit, maybe, but down here, among the Techs, it's just chatter. Do you seriously think a warrior is going to hang a Tech for treason? They need us. There are not enough Techs to go around. Nobody ever gets hanged who's indispensable."
"You pretend to a wisdom beyond your station, Nomad."
"Who's pretendin'? And it's your station now, too, Friend Aidan. If you want to keep from steppin' into the pile of wisdom that's available to you, that's your business. In the meantime, hand me that wrench."
Every morning, Aidan found it more difficult to roll out of his bunk. He dreaded facing another day of tinkering with some piece of machinery while cadets and training officers passed him by, oblivious to him. Their snobbery enraged him. What right had they to ignore the people who maintained the essential vehicles, the buildings they lived in, the 'Mechs they might fight in? Now they cut him dead, but a few weeks ago, he had been one of them. (And, Aidan realized suddenly, he had ignored Techs just as blithely.)
Way Of The Clans Page 18
