Though he’d been present for several such rituals, Petr held his breath, enthralled by the simple majesty. Each time he saw it, especially when viewed from the height of the dome, he experienced momentary delusions of godhood, as though he watched an accelerated (if abbreviated) holovid unraveling a view from the Big Bang until the present.
It never ceased to awe him. To excite him.
The possibilities in the universe were endless, the currents to hunt unending. He automatically began to draw on the jump paths, trade routes and jump points—a skein of undeveloped deals and glory, honor and combat to be unraveled and traveled. The universe held in the palm of his hand, waiting for his ambitions to unfurl and engulf it like a giant’s hands.
A god’s hands.
“First warriors, advance.” Jet’s voice filled the room with a new tone and power. Perhaps he too felt the grandeur of the vision before him—likely the reason for such extravagance, to impart to those present the universe of possibilities for a Bloodnamed warrior and the honor it ultimately would bring to Clan Sea Fox.
Though Petr did not see the movement, he knew Jet had a small remote control attached to his belt, which he thumbed. An algorithm ran for a microsecond, then fired a microburst transmission, causing the Sea Fox insignia behind two randomly chosen warriors to light and chime. As with any combat, whether on the battlefield or across the negotiation table, fate and the luck of the draw held sway every step of the way.
The gathered warriors looked to the top center of the dome, where a clear polymer platform descended three meters. On the platform rested an opaque block of polymer; out of its flat top a length of clear tubing rose a meter and half before bending sharply and descending back into the block.
The two chosen warriors let go of their toe bars and thrust toward the ceiling. Though there existed the possibility of a warrior striking a planet, knocking it out of alignment, he’d never heard of such a thing occurring; the dishonor that would accrue to such clumsiness ensured that it never happened.
As the warriors drew close to the podium, Jet kicked off from his position and arrived just after they did, each grabbing one of three rods that held the podium to the overhead, pulling themselves to their positions on the podium, tucking feet under three identical bars.
“Trothkin,” Jet began once more, hands raised to encompass the assembly, “these warriors present themselves as worthy of obtaining a Bloodname. Should we not know of their deeds?”
“Seyla.” The individuals coalesced into a mob of one.
Jet pointed his right arm at one warrior. “By what right do you present yourself before this skate?”
“I am Heb, warrior of Blood House Sennet,” the tall, muscular warrior spoke boisterously; unusual for Beta Aimag, he had shoulder-length hair, which floated around his head like a frond of seaweed in a slow ocean current. “Many are my exploits, great my victories. However, for one thing alone am I sponsored for this Bloodright: I defeated a Knight of the Sphere in single combat.”
Even the warrior facing Heb was visibly impressed at this pronouncement. Though Petr could not care one way or another about The Republic, their Knights were warriors to be respected; for a non-Blood to defeat such an opponent in ritual combat spoke volumes about his battle acumen.
Petr shifted slightly, stretched his neck. Would be very interesting to hear the full tale; he is one to watch.
With his right arm still elevated, Jet raised his left arm, pointed to the other warrior. “By what right do you present yourself before this skate?”
The smaller female warrior drew herself up and projected a quiet, but firm voice—no hint of reservations over her foe. “I am Sanda of Blood House Sennet. I am sponsored for my Star’s victory against a far superior number of Oriente Protectorate raiders. Also, for the concessions into the markets of three new worlds I seized across the table following the combat.”
Petr almost laughed out loud. He’d been mistaken. Though she might lose this battle—Heb’s battlefield prowess would be formidable—he would be watching Sanda for the glory she would eventually reap. If she failed at this Trial of Bloodright, no doubt another opportunity would present itself. Someone who could fight equally well across the battlefield and negotiation table, worth a Star of ’Mechs. Though the Clan tried hard to instill such abilities within its warriors, few truly rose to the occasion; few held the versatility and mental agility to excel in both fields.
“You have both been found worthy before this skate. Present your tokens,” Jet said, opening up his hands, palms up. Both warriors reached to their waists to an unseen pouch, withdrew polymer coins the size of their palms, passed them to the Oathmaster.
Jet raised his hands, presented the tokens to the assembly and spoke. “As with the random selection of your opponents, any battlefield, any negotiation table can turn to savage you with the sharpest teeth. Who will be your opponent cannot be known. Where your conflicts will occur cannot be foreseen. Any warrior worthy of a Clan Sea Fox Bloodname must overcome any odds, any situation, any circumstance.”
He raised one coin. Though at too much of a distance to see clearly, Petr knew it showed the image of a sea fox with bared teeth, as though ready for the kill; the warrior’s name was engraved across the bottom. “The hunter lands on top and chooses the form of combat: unaugmented or augmented.”
He raised the other coin, which Petr knew displayed a sea fox with bowed head, protecting itself, ready to turn a setback into victory. “The hunted lands on bottom and chooses the venue for the combat. In this way, each warrior fights in a form not of his choosing.”
“Seyla,” filled the chamber, as though spoken by a single voice. A god’s voice, proclaiming the nature of blood and whose genetic material would be used to create another generation of warriors. Almost the definition of deity.
Jet moved to the mechanism on the podium. Used almost universally by the Clans, the funnel in standard gravity couldn’t be simpler. The coins were inserted; then gravity dragged them spinning down, chasing each other until one fell on top of the other.
In microgravity, this system could not work. In its place (and appropriate for the Sea Fox and their aquatic namesake) a water-fed tube system served. A continuous tube ran in a squished donut shape: two straight pieces approximately a meter and a half long, joined with two elbow pieces. The bottom third of the pipes sank into the funnel-shaped opaque base that gave a nod to the funnel used for centuries and hid the pneumatic pump tied into the system. The upper portions of the pipe were a clear polymer, which revealed a dizzying array of rods connected to the walls of the pipe, creating a maze through which the coins would fight.
Within this closed system ran freshwater taken from the oceans of Itabiana (one of the few worlds wholly owned by Clan Sea Fox), where the sea fox, transplanted on the brink of extinction in the last decades of the previous century, now thrived.
Jet moved to the base of one of the tube sections and inserted both coins through rubber seals, tapped a button. The surge of water as the pump created circulation sent the coins on their desperate bid to be the hunter. Almost hypnotic in their motion, the coins bounced, jittered and skated over and under the obstacle rods, inexorably dragged forward by the current. Up a meter, flattening along the top and pushed back down to brave another terrifying jumble.
A coin sank into the first suction trap, cutting off flow there and sending the other coin to the second suction trap; the pump cut off immediately and both coins cycled out through double-walled seals, dried on the way: the hunter on top, the hunted on bottom.
Jet reached forward, grasped both coins firmly and raised them for all to see: hunter in right hand, hunted in left.
“Heb, you are the hunter. How say you?”
Drawing himself up to his full 2.2 meters, he practically shouted, “I shall fight augmented.”
That surprised Petr. Heb towered over the diminutive Sanda; an unaugmented fight would be difficult for Sanda to overcome. Perhaps he knew something about her z
ero-g fighting skills Petr did not.
Jet held up the other coin and turned toward Sanda. “Sanda, you are the hunted. How say you?”
Without a moment’s hesitation, she spoke with a demure confidence Petr instantly took a liking to. “The moon of Coma.”
Jet nodded firmly, raised coins until he joined both in clasped hands directly above his head. “And so it begins.”
“Seyla.”
Petr watched as both warriors launched themselves back to their assigned positions; all would traverse this cycle of the ritual before any departed for their coming battles. Jet thumbed the remote at his belt and the sequence began again.
Though he fiercely loved the traditions of his Clan, at times they warred with the merchant within. Was this all worth it?
The extravagance of Trials of Bloodright were legendary. A DropShip would spend precious time and fuel reserves to burn to the moon of Coma, simply for the purpose of the fight, simply because Sanda requested it. Other such requirements would unfold this day as well. The battles would repeat themselves, as would this ceremony: the sixteen victors returning to be paired once more, the eight subsequent and so on until only one victor emerged. Until only one stepped forward—one warrior proving worthy to hold a sacred Bloodname.
Petr slowly shook his head. There were times to be a merchant (plenty of times), but today held room only for warriors, and traditions stretching back almost three centuries to the Founder himself. There could only be one answer to such a question.
Aff.
12
Tumbled Heights, Near Halifax
Vanderfox, Adhafera
Prefecture VII, The Republic
14 July 3134
The bivouac bustled with energy.
Technician castemen scrambled across mud-slicked ground, uncomplaining of the same conditions that elicited moans of protest only yesterday. Laborer castemen worked hard to clean up the mess the monstrous, gale-strength storm (whose claws tried to drag even the multiton ’Mechs across the ground) wreaked across a half week. Hauling away logs, righting tents, cleaning off vehicles, making small repairs where needed: a veritable labor of Hercules.
They bounced with anticipation.
An ancient J-27 ammo truck procured from the locals churned through the mud in a vain attempt to bring its metal food to the hungry bins of a waiting Thor. Spinning, slipping tracks kicked up a rooster’s tail of goop and slop that shot four meters into the air and a good ten meters back, splattering vehicles, ’Mech legs and personnel alike.
Nothing could dampen the mood.
Though the Trial of Bloodright began several days ago (an honor for all, whether one participated or not), today would be different—a different honor altogether. An honor—unlike the Trial of Bloodright—that allowed nearly every Sea Fox warrior, along with a significant percentage of the laborer and technician castemen, to directly participate.
Today began the Rituals of Combat, live-fire training exercises pitting everything from battle armor to ’Mechs to aerospace fighters against one another. Because they were so often in the depths of space for long months, if not years, Aimags took any opportunity to test their warriors’ edge, ensuring they did not become dull from lack of use. The Rituals of Combat were so much more than mere exercises—imbued with mysticism and invested in tradition; points won and lost in the Rituals impacted an Aimag’s honor and glory within a Khanate and even the rest of the Clan
Petr walked gingerly, trying not to splatter mud onto his calf-high ’Mech boots. Though the temperature had dipped precipitously during the storm, it now sat at a balmy 35 degrees and almost 100 percent humidity. Petr breathed deeply.
He stepped around a particularly large puddle and into shadow, recognized the dark embrace of his own ’Mech. Petr walked another half dozen paces toward the metal trunks towering before him and stopped. Slowly ran his eyes over the metal giant he called his own.
The Tiburon stood nine meters tall, the sun baking away the last of the moisture; Petr smiled at the idea of the ’Mech stepping from a fresh bath, air drying and priming for the coming show. A show far too long in coming.
“She looks ready. Strong.” Jesup stomped up through the muck. Petr watched him approach the last few meters to his side, obviously unconcerned about the droplets of mud flung onto his legs or caked on his boots.
“You are going to drag that into your ride?”
“Uh?” he responded, looked down, back up. Smiled.
“Unlike your prissy ’Mech, oh fastidious one, my Thor does not mind a little mud on the floor mat.”
Petr shook his head and felt the still-wet strands of his hair slap his bare shoulders, almost stick in the webbing of his coolant vest.
“It is not about prissy, my slob of a friend. It is about respect. I respect her and she respects me.”
“My Thor respects me because I control it.”
“You think you control it, but as in combat or negotiations, such control is fluid at best. In such situations you work within the confines of the circumstances to achieve victory. Never truly controlling them, only planting your strengths of will and knowledge in such a way as to create an outcome to your liking, quiaff?”
“Aff.”
“There is no difference with a ’Mech. You work with it to achieve victory. Quiaff?”
“Neg. I do not see it.”
“Perhaps that is why you have yet to defeat me, though your ride outweighs mine two to one.” Petr spoke without even turning toward his aide, and so missed the bitter look that transformed Jesup’s features at his words.
“Are you prepared for today? I would hate for Beta Aimag to defeat my aide. It would look bad,” Petr continued, turning his head and smiling.
“Me, defeated! Never! Only you, great ovKhan, can defeat me. A defeat I bask in.”
“I am serious.”
“And so am I. You have no need of fear from this quarter. Do you fear defeat in yours, oh omnipotent one?”
Petr waited for the normal irritation, but found none; nothing could bother him this day. “Why should I fear a loss?” Of course, he knew why.
Jesup returned the look, no emotion on his face.
Petr attempted to hold that gaze, but for once pulled away first, felt his breakfast sitting heavy for a moment, tasted the tang of bile before swallowing it away. “It will not happen again.”
“Of course it will not, oh mighty one.”
Petr’s anger sparked momentarily and he brought his jade eyes back online with Jesup, no evidence of sarcasm in voice or face. But always the hint of it, despite the apparent innocence. Always the stab into his sore spot. “Do you doubt your ovKhan?”
“I never doubt my ovKhan’s abilities.”
“That is not the same thing,” Petr ground out, trying to hold on to his good mood.
“Is it not?” Jesup responded, raising a quizzical eyebrow, though something danced in his eyes.
Petr drew in a harsh breath to respond, then bit it off; he would not let his aide’s propensity for pestering ruin this day. Of course Jesup did not doubt his abilities . . . or him.
“Then let us be about shaming Beta Aimag.”
Jesup hesitated for a moment, then nodded and moved away toward his Thor. Petr turned back to his own magnificent ride, the cooling balm of the moment washing away any vestiges of ire.
As ovKhan, he could choose to pilot literally any ’Mech within his Aimag. Yet he fell in love with the Tiburon in his first Trial of Position, and only death would separate the two of them.
Approaching the back of the ’Mech, he grasped the aluminum chain-link ladder dangling from above and began the ascent; the cool metal caused goose bumps to sprout along his bare arms and legs. Reaching the top of the ladder, he stepped onto the back of the shoulder, right where the head met the neck. Spinning open the dogged hatch, Petr swung it out with practiced ease; the sunlight splashed playfully into the dark interior, partially illuminating the metal cave where Petr lived more often than not (not
enough now!).
Stepping through the hatch, he swung it back, sealing out the sunlight and fresh air, dogged it closed. Sidling around the command couch, he eased himself over the side of the chair, careful of the throttle mounted there. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply.
Stale odor of his own dried sweat; acerbic tang of spilled chemicals from a torn coolant vest; slight musk from the synthetic material in the seat; slick whiff of lubricants; dull, flat aroma of metal and polymers; something (there!), barest hint of his own blood, spilt and forever wedded to her: home.
Opening his eyes, he reached up behind and pulled down the neurohelmet from where it rested, placing the light helmet upon his head, adjusting the fit until the neural receptors found their accustomed positions. Leaning to the right, he grasped a large yellow lever and pulled it firmly down, locked it into position; the growl of an awakening beast echoed up beneath his feet, as the first sequences of the fusion reactor initiated in preparation for startup. The aluminum ladder slapped the Tiburon’s rear armor plating as it automatically reeled in; it sounded like gnashing metal teeth.
A hunger needed to be satiated: the ’Mech’s, his . . . the same.
Opening a small hatch in the right arm of the command couch, he pulled out several wires and a small bag. The first cord he plugged into the bottom of his coolant vest. Next, he took several medical monitors out of the bag, stowed it, then stripped off their covering and adhered them to the insides of his upper arms and thighs, smoothly attached alligator clips, then ran them through a pinch loop on his vest to keep them from tearing out during combat, ran the ends to a central plug. Finally, he jacked in the neurohelmet.
Stretching, he felt the weight of the helmet and the slickness of the seat under him, sensations that increased his regret for being gone too long. One of the great joys of his life sacrificed for the glory and honor of his Aimag.
Hunters of the Deep Page 8
