As the stream of water from the gourd terminated and the last of it began the journey through the funnel to its ultimate resting place in the beaker, the Bloodmaster turned to the waiting warriors, held their coins out for them to see.
Jard, on the left, immediately spoke up. “I will fight unaugmented, Bloodmaster.”
Without any hesitation, Bek responded, “I choose to fight here, now.”
Both bowed deeply to the Bloodmaster, who in turn dipped her head in acknowledgment; with the efficiency she’d shown throughout the entire ceremony, she contained the last of the liquid (as far as Sha could tell from this distance, not a drop went uncounted for) and stowed her articles.
With another bow of her head, she grasped the struts of the platform and pushed off, sailing feet first toward her hatch; Sha tore his eyes away from the Bloodmaster as the warriors immediately began maneuvering.
Sha knew Bek would win almost before the Bloodmaster left the chamber. Though Jard, like all Fox Clansmen, knew how to maneuver in microgravity, Bek reveled in it. He immediately clamped both magnetic slips down to the floor, squatted to grasp the holding bar with his right hand and jerked his feet backward, pulling them completely out of his shoes and leaving him barefoot.
Before Jard’s face could do more than register his surprise, Bek yanked on the holding bar and shot forward—an eel through water coming for its prey. His outstretched left hand hit like a hammer blow against the side of Jard’s face, eliciting a grunt. Yet Jard would not lose so quickly; he let the momentum of the blow push him out and away from the platform with enough energy to reach the wall; as Sha himself discovered early in his microgravity training, no velocity, and no purchase to regain it, meant defeat.
As the two closed on the chamber wall and rebounded back for another pass at each other, Sha’s mind was distracted to its previous line of thought. If only he could change Petr’s way of thinking. No, changing it would not be enough. Sha would need to completely turn it on its ear.
Shifting his gaze away from the unfolding combat (though Jard landed a solid blow of his own, Bek’s return thrust sent droplets of blood cascading through the chamber), Sha fixed his eyes once more on the map of the Inner Sphere; on The Republic of the Sphere; on Prefecture VII.
A matter of semantics, perhaps.
Then again, semantics were what divided them from spheroids, kept them from falling back to barbarity and honorlessness. Yes, Petr brought great honor and glory to his Aimag, but only because he worked to bring honor to himself. As he had told Petr during their combat, such thinking would eventually bring a man down, bring down his Aimag and the Clan as a whole. Bringing honor to the Aimag for the sake of the Aimag . . . true honor lay in such currents.
Out of the corner of his eye, Sha saw Bek slice down to the bottom deck, landing on his hands, right by the bulkhead. He used the momentum to somersault into the bulkhead, where he drove off after a half-twist for realignment and vectored back in toward Jard—an aerospace fighter lining up for another blistering pass with charged particle cannons and loaded ballistic weapons. Sha nodded absentminded approval at their silence, despite the hard blows that continued to purple flesh and tear bleeding wounds.
Sha focused on a train of thought only he could drive. It went beyond trying to change Petr’s idea of outdated loyalties; it required trying to change the very way in which he lived.
Like this trial, Sha’s own trial continued. Yet this new phase would be much more difficult than the last: not simply defeating Petr—that victory could never be in doubt—but defeating his very character.
A genuine smile (as genuine as any for Sha) curved his lips in unaccustomed tautness. Could there be any greater challenge? To change the very essence of another person? Of another warrior?
Sha crouched and hunkered left—the cool metal of the platform a welcome sensation after the heat generated by the combatants—as Jard sailed through the space his head had occupied a moment before, piling into the bulkhead with terrific force. The metal actually vibrated with the force of the impact—the signal the trial was over.
Sha glanced at the body of Jard as it slowly floated away from him, limbs askew and blood bubbling up from the crushed nose.
Of course, defeat was always an option. Yes, if only death would make Petr see, then so it would be, regardless of the lost resource.
16
Beta Aimag Hospice, Near Halifax
Vanderfox, Adhafera
Prefecture VII, The Republic
18 July 3134
His skin did not feel like his own.
Petr swam up through a lake of malaise, his whole body and mind fighting against his indomitable will. Memories, like bubbles, rose to the surface around him. Each exploding in a miniature display of subconscious/conscious pyrotechnics—a sound-and-light kaleidoscope show only seen, only known, only heard by him.
Yet the bubbles did not proceed in any orderly fashion. Percolated by his rage, they swirled into an unknowable pattern, strobing memories from years past with those of recent design.
Petr tried vainly to roll over and crush the spheres
The scent of blood clotting in the nose of an eight-year-old, his first combat lessons begun. The shiv-trainer suspended in the air, a revolving god whose features never changed, never altered, whether handing out praise or a thrashing. The girl, with flashing eyes, short brown hair and heaving chest; triumphant smile; knuckle-scraped left fist, smeared with his blood; defeat, a bitter taste worse than any blow.
though the pain became a living entity when fed
A noble hall on a forgotten world. Strange, slightly noxious scents flooding the room—alien, local food. The viscount preparing it himself, only a loincloth covering his newly shaven body; his loss requiring that no hair be left to mark his manhood. The rump, with tail lashed around several vegetables—apples?—of a local dago, spit fried, served to Petr by the viscount’s own hand—victory sweet, supple, hard.
by such movements, yet he needed to
Brown hair grown longer, heaving chest now breasts; a sibkin, a friend. Eyes flashing ecstasy, sweat slicked bodies moving as Mech Warrior and ’Mech; becoming one on this battlefield; used and taken, given and gifted. Rhythm building, tongue, teeth and screams. Pain and loss forgotten in an endless flash of primordial need; spent, panting, bodies entwined, an embrace of love . . . of death.
stop the cycle, or fall once more into the abyss of his own
Laser fire punching holes in his armor. Muscles still learning, still straining to manhandle the thirty-ton ’Mech. A cheek two years from stubble slams into the neurohelmet; flotsam and jetsam of his subconscious explode around him, dragging him to defeat. Clenching joysticks, baring teeth, he pushes back, back against the odds. Success on his tongue, not the tang of his own blood sliding back, down, slicking each taste bud with his own mortality.
making.
Bubbles, bubbles, bubbles . . . his bubbles. His life. His memories. His defeats and victories. Petr realized it did not matter that they arose in such disconcerting numbers or such coalescing confusion. They were his.
Taking a deep breath, Petr relaxed. Felt the cool sheets under his skin, sunlight across his exposed left leg, the soft, warm breeze redolent with the scent of another monster storm waiting to be unleashed; scents of flora and fauna tickling his nose, still alien though he had been downside for weeks. He sucked in another deep breath until he felt his ribs creak with the pain . . . and pulled his memories within, where they burst like a decompressed chamber.
“And how are you this morning?”
Petr wanted to keep his eyes closed, but realized it would do no good; the witch would know he no longer slept. He cracked his eyelids, felt the not completely unpleasant light fill his vision.
“That is right. I know you are awake. You might as well open them farther.” It just did not seem right. Such a soft, comforting voice—not to mention her appealing looks of blue eyes, milk chocolate shoulder-length hair and freckled face—should
not belong to the witch; he knew her name, but refused to remember it. The savashri simply would not leave him be. Leave him alone. Leave him to wallow in his own pity. Witch!
“What, no words this morning? No cursing or whining?”
“I do not whine,” Petr said. Promptly began coughing lightly, his throat still scorched from the fire and heat.
“Ah, so you can speak today.”
Petr turned his head away, frustrated. What would a medico know of his disgrace? Of the pain that bit infinitely deeper than any wound or broken bone?
She hummed while checking her monitors; he tried to ignore her, but found it impossible. After his small victory over himself, Petr once more became powerless. He knew full well she strove to raise his spirits, to heal his physical and emotional wounds. Yet she could not know (he would not tell!) that her constant haranguing, her constant pushing to move him out of bed, to flex his muscles and stretch his flesh—his mind—only drove him deeper into himself.
He had suffered the most humiliating defeat possible: he had survived. And now he lay there, nursed back to a gross semblance of life he no longer cared to hold on to. He closed his eyes, but he could almost predict where her footfalls would echo next in the small room, where her ministrations would take her, in a path as surely determined as a hypersonic Gauss round slung from a ’Mech.
“You have a visitor today.”
“You can tell Jesup I do not wish to see him.”
“Has Jesup ever asked permission to see you?” The tone of disapproval in her voice lightened Petr’s mood a crack.
“I suppose not. Then who?”
“ovKhan Sha Clarke.”
For a moment Petr could not breathe. Her words were a firebomb that detonated within the small confines of the room, sucking all oxygen to itself, making it impossible to breathe, to talk. He could barely discern the soft beep of the monitoring equipment through the blood pounding in his head; the headache almost surged back. He restrained a gasp—refused to allow her to see such weakness—though he brought his bandaged right arm up to the swaddled portion of his head.
“Are you okay?” Her concern had no effect on his anger, rising hot and viscous as molten lead.
“What do you think?” She never gave him the courtesy of his title—a right he tried to enforce but lost. Another defeat to inferiority. What was he becoming?
“I think you need rest more than company. I will tell ovKhan Clarke to return another day.”
Combat ensued within. The cool embrace of silence and the morbidness of his own thoughts, or the contemptuous twist to Sha’s mouth at such weakness? After all, the surat had already defeated him. What possible additional humiliation could simply allowing the nurse to exert her authority bring? None.
If that was true, why did his rage then burn hotter? It sat like a four-ton broken gyro within him, crushing weight and chaotic tumble bringing vertigo and nausea. He tried hiding, only to see himself reflected in the broken shards of a million spheres within. He had to face this. Though he would gladly die at this moment, he would not die in weakness. Not in front of Sha.
He pushed himself up against the inclined bed, pulled the covers from his swollen and bandaged chest, careful to move his right arm as little as possible.
“What are you doing?” the witch said, a crack in her facade showing real emotion for once. Concern? True concern?
He swung one leg out over the side of the bed and gripped the edge of the mattress with his left hand as bats fluttered wings through his vision. For a moment, he almost gave in, almost dove back to the cool depths of his own void. He suddenly missed the caress of his hair on his shoulders, knew it all had been shaved away after it burned off in the inferno of his cockpit. The right side of his head would never grow hair again.
Cold eyes beckoned, mocked, cajoled. What days of the witch’s humming and Jesup’s endless, futile banter failed to accomplish, the arrival of Sha’s spectral form achieved.
He swung the other leg out and down, until bare toes met unyielding, cold tiles; they talked about wanting you up and around as quickly as possible, yet they made the floor as unwelcoming as possible. The thought quirked his lips in a tiny smile.
“ovKhan, you must stop. Please. You will hurt yourself.”
His smile widened; she called him ovKhan. The first time since he arrived. The first.
He unclenched fingers to wave away her concerns. Thought about trying for the chair only three steps distant, but it suddenly felt like the gulf between stars, and his Kearny-Fuchida jump drive absolutely remained broken. This would have to do.
“Show my guest in,” he said softly. Whether because of the tone of his voice or the expression in his eyes, she immediately withdrew. He allowed himself to show his pain for the first time that day. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply through his nose and tried to forget about his body. To forget about what Sha would see, the leverage he would instantly have, upon entering.
Petr was a mess. The final firefight broke into his cockpit. A residual lance of photons slashed into his right arm, severing muscles and flash-boiling flesh all along the arm and chest, up onto his neck and most of the right side of his skull; his hair caught fire and burned away, further scarring his head.
As ovKhan, he could order the extravagance of new skin to be grown to replace the scarred, puckered mess of his scalp; he could be made new, as though his defeat never occurred. Yet something stayed his hand. Something pulled him out of his delirium long enough to order them not to automatically travel that road. He still couldn’t articulate what had happened, but he felt its importance. Something . . .
Sha walked into the room.
No gloating. No sarcastic smile. No satisfaction. Just his endless cool exterior. A face devoid of any emotion—not even a flicker at seeing Petr’s condition—and eyes as frigid as the depths of space.
Anything would’ve been better. Any emotion at all. But this nothing . . . Petr fought to control his rage. Losing control would do no good here, only make him lose more ground.
“You are up?” Sha said, his voice impossibly neutral. Almost inhumanly neutral.
Does he actually practice? “Aff.”
Silence. Hot eyes met cold and a silence sharp enough to shatter ferroglass stretched for several long minutes. Neither was willing to speak first. Surprisingly, Sha finally broke the silence with a barely perceptible nod; Petr didn’t for a moment believe he’d won anything.
What was the new angle? There had to be an angle.
“It is good to see you up. Clan Sea Fox has need of such warriors. Such leaders.”
“Did you not say you would remove such leaders as I, quiaff?” Petr flexed his leg and butt muscles to ease his discomfort, kept his shoulder as immobile as possible.
Sha, who stood only a single step inside the room, slowly shook his head; his eyes never once left Petr’s.
“Neg, ovKhan, those are not my words, but yours in my mouth. I know your body has been ravaged, but we know it will heal. I only hope your mind has not been compromised. I hope it will heal properly as well.”
Petr barked in harsh laughter. “My mind has never been better, Sha. Never. Those were the words you spoke. Are you denying them now?”
“I have never needed to deny my own words.”
Silence. Fire and ice. The minutes once more stretched and Petr began to suspect Sha’s strategy. Wear me down. Drag the conversation out as long as possible. Force me to show weakness. A very good strategy. He dug deep, launched his own attack.
“ ‘That is why you will ultimately be brought down.’ Those are your words, quiaff?”
Those cool, frosty eyes. “Aff.”
“Then how could I be putting words in your mouth?”
“Because you assumed I would be the one to do it.”
“And you will not?”
“I did not say that either.”
“You are not saying a whole lot.”
“When important words need to be spoken, they are usually
few in number.”
Petr barked another laugh, used it to cover while resettling his shoulders, licking his lips against the pain. The dryness. He needed a drink.
“You are starting to sound like a philosopher. Warrior. Merchant. Philosopher. Who knew I would have such guests today?”
“Any great warrior is a philosopher, ovKhan. I would think you of all people would know that truth,” Sha replied. “The Founder understood it when he forged us. House Kurita and their bushido code know it. Are their warriors not poets and artisans as well? You can do much worse than be a philosopher. Especially when the philosophy you find leads you down a better path.”
“You still did not answer my question, Sha. Are you trying to lead me down a different path? A better path?” Petr smiled very unpleasantly.
“The answer, ovKhan Kalasa, already should have found you. I did not say I personally would remove you. I said that if you persisted in your selfishness, you would be removed. It is inevitable. As inexorable as the pull of gravity. The eventual death of stars. Our eventual demise as well.”
“Both? You are not immortal?” The sarcasm practically dripped off the walls.
“I have never entertained such grand thoughts, ovKhan. I am as much dust as the next warrior. I only hope to leave Spina Khanate with more glory and power than before. Better off.”
“Do you not mean Clan Sea Fox?” Petr probed.
’Mechs could shatter against such silence. Fire and ice.
“They are the same, quiaff?” Sha finally spoke.
“Aff. Yet I do not believe that to be the case for you, Sha. You accuse me of selfishness, yet you are the hypocrite. You are every bit as selfish as you accuse me of being. Clan Sea Fox is the whole, not Spina Khanate. Certainly not Beta Aimag.”
For the first time Petr could remember, something moved in the bleak arctic wastes of Sha’s eyes. He’d scored somehow.
“You accuse me of not knowing a thing about you, ovKhan.” Sha began again; if Petr had scored, it didn’t show in his voice. “I would return the sentiment.”
Hunters of the Deep Page 11
