Heretic's Faith

by Randall N Bills

  He thought of their last meeting, when he had shockingly found himself baring his soul to the scion of a House that just might be trying to destroy his Clan. How is it I reveal more to an almost perfect stranger than any other? Why he would do so hammered at him like depleted uranium autocannon rounds spewing from an enemy ’Mech.

  “And what’s the difference?”

  He looked up sharply from his folding, his eyes punctuating his point. “You cannot be someone you do not desire to be.”

  “But how do I know what I desire to be? Perhaps tomorrow I’ll want to be a geisha.” The slight coloring to her face spoke of the crudeness of her words and yet the determination in her eyes belied the apparent soft facade.

  There is muscle in you. Strength. But strength enough for what is to come? “And perhaps tomorrow,” he responded, “I will desire to be a Dark Casteman, selling my services to the highest bidder like a stravag mercenary.”

  She tilted her head, eyes holding his, before she responded. “No, I don’t think I could ever see such desire in you.”

  “Nor I a geisha in you.”

  She contemplated this as another two blossoms floated down, one settling peacefully into her lap as though it belonged there. Finally nodded, albeit grudgingly.

  “We can only truly be what we desire to be,” he continued. “And who we are, regardless of how much we rage against it, defines what those desires will be.”

  “That sounds like mystic talk.”

  He shook his head angrily, then smoothed it away as though he were pouring it into the stream. “I told you, we observe. And I observe this. The desire within us, that is what defines what we can be. You can go and do the things a geisha does, but you will never be a geisha. Blood calls.”

  She turned away slightly, breathed, “Hated blood.”

  He nodded, understanding of his own previous actions surrounding Yori beginning to crystallize. It is not simply that she is an outcast as I. But she is not within my universe. She stands on the outside looking in. And, in her, I can possibly find a slight reflection of myself. The admission hurt. He needed no one.

  But perhaps no one within the Clan. Aff, that might be it.

  “Aff, Yori-san. Hated blood. But despised or not, it will out in the end.” He said it with a resolution he did not feel.

  Yori turned back to him once more, her strength radiant. “And your blood, what does it call you to do?”

  He shrugged, as though to dislodge a feather, when it felt as though the whole of Tengoku Mountain rested upon his shoulders. “It calls me to be a mystic.”

  A small smile creased her lips. “I know little enough about you Nova Cats, much less you mystics.”

  He contemplated ignoring her, but once more found kinship calling—a rare moment when he might crack his own facade and, for a dozen heartbeats, allow another to feel part of his burden. “We are outcasts within our own caste.”

  She nodded, face falling into a mask of intent listening. But whether a charade or not, it only eased his tongue further.

  “And yet the greatest of our numbers is the Oathmaster of all the Clan. Protector of our traditions and advisor and vision seeker for the Khan.”

  “I thought, among the Nova Cats, the Oathmaster position was fought over every year. A Circle of Equals and a Circle of Law.”

  He nodded absently, fingers continuing their work with the grass, slowly staining his fingertips, while he responded. “Forum of Law. Aff. But none have defeated our current Oathmaster in long, long years. His vision is too powerful, his knowledge of The Remembrance and our traditions absolute.” Is that not so, old man?

  “And what of you? Is that your calling?”

  He shuddered slightly, as some unnamed fear stirred nightmares and his fingers shook momentarily. “I do not know.”

  “Then what do mystics do? Aid the Oathmaster? Do you walk among your warrior caste or civilians, making sure they maintain a dedication to Nova Cat traditions? That sounds like the reinforcement of loyalty the Internal Security Force has used in the Combine in the past.”

  “In a way, but nothing so large, so harsh, as that. We are assigned to detachments of warriors when appropriate, to provide council, to provide vision”—he managed to say it without a single hitch in his voice—“so they can emerge victorious in battle. In a way, we are the silent protectors of Clan Nova Cat. Or at least that is what is supposed to occur.” This time some emotion did stain his voice with an ugly tone.

  “If you mystics are so powerful, why do you appear to be so few? You should walk among the civilian caste and every other warrior should be a mystic.”

  She had allowed his comment about what was supposed to occur to pass. He glanced directly at her for the first time in his recitation to see that it was no accident that she consciously steered away from what he obviously did not want to talk about. He nodded slightly to acknowledge. “We have no interaction with the lower caste,” he continued, slightly disturbed and confused that she might think them worthy of needing interaction with a mystic. “As for ‘every other warrior,’ our numbers are very few because the training is . . . difficult.”

  She arched a delicate eyebrow as another cherry blossom passed into and out of his line of sight. He took a deep breath and for a moment thought cherries rested on his tongue.

  “Isn’t all Clan training harsh? I thought few warriors managed to graduate from a sibko, passing their Trial of Position.”

  “Aff. But mystics train almost exclusively along mystic lines, until our Trial of Mysticism, when we turn thirteen.” Once more, restless demons stirred at his direct invocation of training, but he forged on. “If we succeed, then we not only continue our mystic training but we also go through a crash course of warrior training. Then, when we turn eighteen, we must also pass a Trial of Position, along with every other warrior in Clan Nova Cat.”

  She contemplated him and for a moment fury sparked as he anticipated an outpouring of much-hated pity. Instead, he saw only a sense of yearning to understand. To accept.

  “And they hate you for it. Hate you for being so much more than they?”

  For that, and for other things. He contemplated revealing the final aspect of his training that so disarmed most warriors, but realized that would be going too far. “Aff,” was all he finally said. And so often we hate ourselves.

  “And that is where your blood calls you? But the last time we walked along a river, you told me you did not believe in these visions you must use to protect your Clan.”

  “Aff.” His stomach tightened.

  “And.”

  “Blood will out.”

  Her head sunk down, until her chin rested against her chest. “And my blood?” she whispered.

  “You can only be what your blood wants you to be.”

  “You are saying we have no choice.”

  He hesitated before answering, and glanced down to see what his hands had subconsciously wrought. His face went blank as he tried to grasp the meaning of the crude yet discernable crane made of grass in the palm of his hand. Dozens of different paths wove and skated around and through, as he strove for an understanding . . . that he could not find.

  “Kisho,” a soft voice interrupted and he zoomed out, features softening back to humanity, to find Yori, a disturbed expression molding a harsh frown onto her face. “What happened?”

  He shrugged off his lapse, presenting her with his creation. She glanced down and a brilliant smile smoothed away the clouds of doubt and fear. “A crane! From grass. I did not know you knew origami.”

  He smiled slightly. “I do not.”

  She pursed her lips, both pleased and puzzled, before looking at the crane once more, the earnest joy at his creation warming the small glade they occupied.

  “You keep it, Yori-san.”

  “What? I can’t.”

  “I must insist.”

  She gave him a mock frown. “And if I do not?”

  “Then I will refer to you as Kurita Yori-san everywher
e we go.”

  She winced and he almost regretted his statement. Almost. But Warlord Toranaga Matsuhara would use her blood, as the old man used his. She, like he, could only run so far from who she was. Even when you knew you could not possibly be what your blood demanded, you went through the motions. Because that was what was expected.

  What was needed.

  “Then I see no option but to accept your gift. But in return you must stop using that name.”

  He nodded, handed over the crane, then stood. “I have been in contemplation too long. The Oathmaster is expecting me.” He bowed his head, and abruptly spoke words unused to his lips. “Thank you.” As he turned to leave, she spoke again.

  “Kisho, you distracted me. You said ‘What a waste.’ Why did you say that?”

  He stopped, glancing back. “Is it not obvious? The cherry blossoms become what they are meant to be, falling from the trees. And they are beautiful in their dedication as they find the water and follow the course laid before them. But in the end, they simply follow those who have come before, all to their destruction.” He turned away before she could respond.

  As will we.

  3

  Unity Palace, Imperial City

  Luthien, Kagoshima Prefecture

  Pesht Military District, Draconis Combine

  15 May 3136

  Coal black eyes cut the room to ribbons as surely as laser fire, certainly with more hatred.

  Ramadeep Bhatia paced within the small confines of his office, a mere shadow of the size of his appointed quarters in the Internal Security Force headquarters of New Samarkand. However, despite the strength of the ISF position on that world, it remained too far from the halls of power to be truly useful. Yet Ramadeep knew it remained a bolt-hole, a place of refuge, should the Dragon be roused to turn on its guardian. Until then, the halls of Unity Palace, despite the dangers, would remain his home.

  Another circuit brought him back to his desk like a wolf to its kill, where he collapsed in exasperation, the chair creaking loudly despite its expense. He brushed calloused palms roughly across his face as though to scour away the malaise of sleep deprivation and the paralysis of anger. Concentrate!

  Sucking in a huge breath, he tasted a hint of jasmine and freshly trimmed bamboo. Despite the despised sweetness in the air, the tension abruptly drained from him, water sloughing off the wolf, leaving him refreshed and even invigorated. Must the Peacock insist on his jasmine and bamboo in every hall?

  He leaned forward slightly, resting his palms on the desk, taking in the four holodiscs before him. Four separate possibilities; four separate potentials; four separate outcomes. Any of them desirable, any of them able to raise his star more. You may have learned a thing or two from me on how to play the game, Peacock, but your extravagant vanities will be your downfall in the end.

  He reached forward and casually raised one holodisc, and began spinning it through his fingers, as though it were an oversized coin, while his right hand touched small studs inset in the rim of the table. A small holoprojection blossomed before him—bust of a nondescript man, with the classical slanted eyes of the Japanese of the Combine, short-cut black hair, black eyes, slightly sallow complexion as though too long in an office cubicle, or hailing from a world where the sun never shines. A man to lose in a crowd or to overlook as you looked right at him. The perfect spy.

  We have confirmation of movement. The target departed weeks ago, destination unknown. However, considering the target’s last such foray, assumptions can be made. Will continue for confirmation of destination.

  And that was it. It took weeks for the man to discover the bitch was off-world—his replacement was already in route—and then four weeks to arrive on Luthien so as not to arouse suspicion by coming through a command route (damn the downed HPG net!) and he’d been sitting on it for a week, slowly fomenting plans. Where have you gone, geisha? His pet name for the she-bitch always brought a smile to his face; he ignored the whispers within of the she-bitch comparison to his wolf. Eight weeks. He tapped another stud and the holoprojection message swapped out for a map of the Inner Sphere, centered on the Combine and The Republic. With deft finger movements he spun up quick schematics, overlaying jump routes and possible paths.

  The first grid, in bright indigo, used the traditional JumpShip routes, with star systems and their recharge times determining how far she might have traveled in that time. Another grid, in a glowing crimson, outlined the expanded territory she might reach, based upon her possible use of known space stations where she might barter/steal a quick charge. Finally, a dark forest green grid added in the potential based upon known JumpShip merchant routes. He knew the last was completely suspect, as most of the charts were months out of date. And with the loss of rapid communications, a merchant ship could’ve been commandeered by a new, upstart warlord looking to secede, attacked and destroyed by pirates, or simply stranded due to a blown helium seal, and it would be long weeks, if not months, before anyone knew about it.

  And if you put together a command circuit, you’d be anywhere by now, eh, geisha? His dark eyes scoured the intertwining lines of possibilities and slowly discarded things one by one. No. You may have risen kilometers above your station, geisha, but no way do you have the resources for a command circuit. The Peacock? He leaned back and gazed up at a Spartan ceiling unseeing, as he contemplated several possibilities, then flipped them away as well. No, the Peacock doesn’t have the resources either, not with the damage done by the fool Sakamoto and now with the other warlords agitating. . . . Not to mention, I would know.

  Ramadeep’s eyes once more pierced the skein of the holomap, slicing away prospects too remote, trying to untangle the mess. His eyes finally began to itch and he blinked rapidly to wet them, realizing he’d been staring far too long. I’ll not untangle this today. Nor tomorrow. But it will untangle. You have to surface somewhere. And where could you possibly go for more help? The yakuza helped you once. They’re unlikely to be so generous next time. Where?

  An ache intruded and he glanced at his left hand, realizing he still spun the holodisc. He sighed in exasperation and carefully placed the disc back into its row, and massaged the tired muscles with his right hand, while his mind bounced from one disc to the next.

  He slowly began to smile, stretching muscles unused to such facial movements. You’re just now beginning to truly understand the albatross the Peacock threw around your neck. And despite your allegiance to Vincent Kurita, his Peacockness will cast you aside as easily as one of his once-used, ten-thousand-K-bill robes if you fail him. You’ve got to build your District and you’ve got nothing to build it with.

  Ramadeep slowly reached into his desk, pulled out four separate holodisc envelopes, preprepared with appropriate addresses. With exquisite care, he packaged each, sealed them, and then stacked them on the edge of his desk. They would go to wolf pups learning at the knee of the alpha male.

  And you’ll soon learn who that is, geisha. He tapped another stud, calling for his aide to send the dispatches out by JumpShip to far star systems and their waiting agents.

  Yes, geisha. You’ll soon learn.

  4

  Hall of the Nova Cat, Barcella

  Nova Cat Reservation, Irece

  Irece Prefecture, Draconis Combine

  15 May 3136

  Despite Kisho’s anxiety, as he entered the hall his mouth slowly opened wide, eyes dilating until the pupils swallowed the whites in surprise.

  An entire phalanx of Nova Cat warriors filled the Hall of the Nova Cat’s Clan Council Chamber. Not only Khan Jacali Nostra and saKhan Niko West, along with Oathmaster Kanaye, but a bevy of Bloodnamed warriors, from the two on-world Galaxy commanders down through a dozen Star colonels and even a Star captain or two. Though not a true Clan Council discussion, requiring a quorum of Bloodnamed warriors, Khan Nostra nevertheless made the decision to meet the strong delegation from Katana Tormark with an equally strong show of force. The leathers of their ceremonial outfits created a w
ash of blackness—liquid void sloshing against the bottom steps of the tiered council chamber, swallowing almost the entire bottom circle and the Khan’s dais.

  Against this mighty display of Nova Cat power, a single, diminutive female entered the chamber, eliciting a similar chagrined reaction from nearly every warrior present.

  Against the black army below, Katana’s outfit stood out in bright, vibrant colors, as though disdainful at such lack of originality. Black, loose pants tucked into red, knee-high boots, overlaid with a pristine white jacket, trimmed in orange down the front and on arms and cuffs, with a red belt woven into the jacket, a dragon etched into the belt buckle. The red piping on the pants and a slash of red on the shoulders denoted her status as a MechWarrior. Even at this distance, her high collar could be seen displaying the logo any warrior here recognized as belonging to a tai-shu. After Warlord Kiyomori Minamoto’s partially successful attempt to forcefully integrate the Nova Cats into the Combine, no Nova Cat from the highest warrior to the lowliest born labor casteman would fail to recognize that rank insignia.

  With great will, Kisho finally pulled eyes away from her serene face (as though she were attending a simple tea ceremony?!) and searched in vain above her, waiting for the rest of her troops to arrive. She took almost a half minute to sedately move down the entire length of steps in between the various tiered, circular benches, before coming to rest on the last step, as though afraid to step down to the bottom floor and its ocean of darkness.

  Kisho gave up waiting for the small army of Kuritans that would never arrive and took in her presence once more. She openly looked around at each warrior. As their eyes connected for a moment, an almost electrical charge bounced through Kisho, sending the hair on his arms and the back of his neck erect, the puff of spines of a startled nova cat.

  No, not fear. Not that one. Simply waiting. For what?