Heretic's Faith

by Randall N Bills

  Tongue darted several times to wet lips, as she forgot to maintain a distance from her desire. “What about the other captains? You don’t expect me to share this, do you?” The perpetual violence in her eyes flowed back, occluding avarice.

  Permanently flawed. In the Clan, I would call for a Trial of Annihilation against you . . . perhaps against all your genetic offspring. But I am no longer in just my Clan . . . and must make accommodations to accomplish my goals. Quiaff, old man? The bitterness quickly tempered any elation over playing the captain to a mystic tune.

  “I care not, Captain,” he abruptly said, gruff and direct. “You toss them whatever bones will slave them to our desire.” His tone deepened, hardened, eyes piercing hers, mirroring back all the violence she could muster. “And Captain, remember this. We will know if you do not keep your side of the bargain. We will know and we will come for you.”

  Anger flashed across her face and darkness sparked in her eyes, but it eventually lost to overflowing greed. As he knew it would.

  Kisho unfastened the locking mechanism and stood, finished with his part in the Oathmaster’s plan, and began to leave. I have laid the groundwork. A net cast to the void as you wished, old man.

  Now let us see if it will bring up anything from the depths.

  Nearstar, Outpost-class DropShip

  Nadir Jump Point (Initiating Intra-system Burn)

  Not even twelve hours from his meeting with the merchant and now he faced a different situation, if one of equal distaste.

  Kisho moved stiffly into the conference space on board the Nearstar, an Outpost-class DropShip. With thrust pounding out behind the vessel, propelling them on the start of their journey to Athenry after so long, a standard gravity pulled at his body with strange yet incessant fingers.

  Star Colonel Tivia, already in the room, glanced up and nodded in his direction, before turning her attention back to the other occupant. Kisho moved to the bolted-down table and eased into the hard-backed seat.

  Tai-i Jing Smith was full of whipcord muscles, and Kisho felt sure the Dragon’s Fury (wait, now the Combine?) officer would look Kisho eye to eye if they stood together. The short-cropped dark hair and smooth features gave him an ordinary look, like someone to dismiss. Yet a commanding aura nestled easily on his shoulders, despite his casual attitude. A good commander, despite appearances?

  “Look, I’m just telling you how I see it, Star Colonel,” Smith said, tapping the table as though to draw attention to the terrain of Athenry displayed in three-dimensional detail on the holoprojection. “This should be a total cakewalk. We’re in, we’re done, we’re on to a world where I actually might want to vacation.”

  Irritation and amusement surfaced in equal measure as the commander continued to ignore Kisho. He poured his senses into the man, noting all the small biological tics and signs, which always told the truth no matter the words spoken, and came up even more amused. Something large lay under the surface, but he couldn’t draw it out just yet. Emotions the man held under an absolute iron will, the only reason Kisho might not pull the truth from him immediately.

  “As you say, Tai-i. However, is there a reason to not follow my plan? We are coming to this war fresh, relying on your intelligence,” Tivia responded, while pausing momentarily—her desire to not offend an officer they must deal with was as plain to Kisho as the holographic display before them. “And despite you calling the Raiders ‘rabble,’ they have managed to survive for over two years, against repeated probes by Fury forces. Not to mention the original Republic forces they pushed off the world. This does not sound like a force that should be taken lightly.”

  Smith waved his hand, as though to dismiss these concerns. Tivia masked her response, but anger bristled.

  “Tai-i Jing Smith,” Kisho interrupted; he might hate the assignment, but he might as well get on with it.

  Smith turned a ready smile and a nodded head towards him, but his cool eyes bespoke something else altogether. The look in his eyes, combined with the other minutiae already taken, dropped Kisho immediately into a light trance—his features fell away into inhumanity as he wove paths and hunted clues for a pattern. After several moments he came up, anger and disappointment and no small sense of inevitability sloshing within him until they seemed to permeate every pore.

  “Damn, that was freaky. What the hell, you have a seizure?” Smith cursed, amazement opening up greater fissures in his facade, simply confirming what Kisho knew to be the truth.

  “He is a mystic,” Tivia snapped, anger and astonishment painting her voice in equal measure. “Have respect.” She turned towards Kisho. “A vision,” Tivia said, doubt and hope warring on her face in equal measure.

  Kisho looked in her direction, restraining a sudden contempt. A vision. Right. And will I deny it? Or will I use this chance to resecure my facade once more? To start a new phase of the game with a better layout of stones? Thoughts of the strained good-bye with Hisa jounced, before he ruthlessly pushed them aside. Of course I will use it to bind Tivia closer to me. Right, old man?

  He turned his gaze away from Tivia—knowing full well that no denial would turn to affirmation in her mind—and took in Tai-i Smith. You have lived your entire life in The Republic and yet you also harbor the same sentiments held by so many still within the Combine. Despite the decades, despite all we have done to cement our loyalty, you still cannot trust us; you still consider us inferior.

  After Hisa, after the distasteful meeting with the merchant, this was too much. He uncharacteristically poured that frustration into venom as he spoke. “The Nova Cats have not fought alongside another nation in long years, for reasons I am sure you are well aware of, despite your birthplace. As such, it is by my hand that we choose this path. We will honor the oaths made to Katana Tormark, but we will do so in a manner of our choosing. You may ground as you will, but the orbital insertion goes forward as planned.”

  Smith leaned back as though trying to distance himself from a large heat source, while throwing up his hands, a surprised look seizing his features. “Wow, vision man, calm down. Just throwing out options, here. Orbital insertions are dangerous business. Just don’t want you all splattered across a thousand klicks while my troops are left to clean up the pieces.”

  “You will show respect,” Tivia once more cut in, before Kisho could raise his hand to cut her off.

  Kisho leaned forward, the cool metal of the table a balm against the heat washing through him—frustration at his losing control, of this situation; of everything, it seemed. His iron control over the game slipping away as though greased fingers to ferroglass. You may have your mask back in place, but you cannot hide your contempt from me.

  “I believe,” Kisho continued, reining in his volume, but retaining the edge of mutual contempt, “that is our decision to make. And though you may find it difficult, we do not. We proceed as planned.”

  Unable to bear the situation any longer, he abruptly stood and left the room without a backwards glance. He would likely pay the price later with Tivia—even though, regardless of how much Tivia would deny it, he had just taken on all the burden of blame for any rough spots between the Star colonel and Tai-i Smith, allowing them, hopefully, to work together more smoothly. But he would also convey his . . . vision. They would need to be careful around the Dragon’s Fury, especially Tai-i Smith, else they might find a PPC at their backs at the worst possible moment.

  As he stormed down the corridor, no destination in mind, his shoulders hitched, as though he felt a phantom PPC already pressed to the nape of his neck, energy capacitors already charging.

  12

  Nearstar, Outpost-class DropShip

  Orbital Insertion, Athenry

  Prefecture II, The Republic of the Sphere

  1 October 3136

  Kisho walked across the ’Mech bay of the Outpost-class DropShip as the ship’s mammoth fusion engines bled off transit inertia, the resulting pressure almost mounting above a standard gravity. Coming to the berth, he stepped
forward and laid a hand on the foot of the Wendigo as he glanced up, the metal almost alive to the touch.

  The fifty-ton ’Mech, with all its rounded edges and smooth, sloping shoulders, bespoke power and feline grace—a fitting epitome of a Nova Cat ’Mech. Even the forward-thrusting cockpit and the unique design of the ferroglass reminded one of a stylized nova cat head. Off the hips of the Wendigo, small twin stanchions of rank and power thrust down, to mirror the spirit stav bound to the left leg of his formal mystic attire. The combination of back-canted legs and a clean star of five weapon ports placed in arms and head beckoned Kisho to lay aside his worries and problems and take up the latent power in the walking titan of metal; to solve his anger and frustration with the stomp of metal-shod feet.

  It has been too long, old friend.

  “Mystic, I beg your pardon, but time is short and yours is the last ’Mech to be cocooned. Insertion in one hour, quiaff?”

  He turned towards the technician casteman, irritated at the interruption, then stepped back with a nod, said, “Aff,” and continued moving well away, until he backed up against the bulkhead. Only doing his job. And doing it well.

  The man, along with almost a dozen subtechs, swarmed around the machine. He’d not noticed as he approached the cubicle, but the technicians had already laid the groundwork for what was coming. A huge myomer hoist at the back of the ’Mech berth—clawed hand latched onto the ’Mech across six points to relieve undue pressure—slowly began to lift the ’Mech into the air. Shutdown and rigid, it looked like nothing so much as a Spheroid child lifting a metal toy soldier. Ah, but this one is ten meters tall. He chuckled. Am I the child, then?

  As the ’Mech reached the minimum height required, the technicians exploded into action. Myomer operation (and even hydraulic) machinery whined and hummed in the almost vacant bay as several different exoskeletons and larger pieces of equipment were put to use. Ozone—from the sheer volume of electricity used to power the various myomer hoists—stung the back of the tongue and wrinkled the nose.

  First, an endosteel framework was rapidly built around the ’Mech—the image of the toy escalated, a child placing connector rods around the metal soldier. Pressure points were heavily padded where they met the BattleMech, with dozens of studs extending out in every direction, especially along the base, where the feet were tightly ensconced in a latticework.

  Once the framework was finished, monstrous slabs of geodesic ceramic were elevated into position from other myomer hoists (for the larger pieces) and a few hydraulic arms (for the smaller sections), operated at several different levels of the gantry works on three sides of the ’Mech. Predetermined indentations in the ablative ceramic sheets took the framework studs like finger grips on a well-designed rifle butt. Heat-resistant metallic foam, prelaid in the edge of each section, grew white-hot under several thousand watts of electricity, molding together with almost no change in form as the sections quickly cooled. Kisho covered his nose against the chemical stench, but still sneezed several times before the ship’s scrubbers could dump the toxic mix.

  Another set of technicians sheathed in heavy exoskeletons manhandled a giant cradle into place, locking it into the recessed track that ran all across the deck of the huge ’Mech bay. The whine of exoskeletons changed pitch as they backed off, then powered down, as the myomer hoist lowered the half-shelled ’Mech into the cradle. The construction and sheer number of studs on the inside of the ceramic cocoon distributed the weight of the entire ’Mech without distressing any plates, or rupturing seals.

  Kisho began walking to the gantry as the crane disengaged and hoisted out of the way, while its smaller cousins hoisted the final plates into position. He began to climb, while the rest of the plates were sealed—remembering, this time, to hold his breath—and reached the top just as a gantry swung into position, allowing him to move to the very top of the ceramic egg and the hole preserved there for his own insertion.

  “All set, Mystic,” a technician said. Kisho couldn’t tell any of them apart and didn’t try. He waved absentmindedly as he scaled the short ladder down into the interior of the orbital insertion pod. Darkness took him, as though he moved into a giant’s crypt. A giant I intend to awaken.

  With long familiarity, despite the waning illumination from the opening just above, he found the hatch in the back of the ’Mech’s head, spun it open, and slid through. If it were dark before, now almost pitch blackness greeted him with its soft, velvety hands and its promise of an eternity of nothing.

  Again, from long practice, he stripped out of his suit down to a small T-shirt and shorts, pulled out the cooling vest, and stowed the jumpsuit in the back of the command couch. Having dressed, he sealed the hatch, then slipped around the side of the command chair and dropped into the seat.

  A memory of mystic training from crèche days enveloped him. Totally blind and deaf, with only tactile senses to lead him through the cavern system to safety. Slick bone stabbed into his thigh, and the putrid stench of failure assaulted him until vomit flecked every stitch of clothing and he blacked out.

  He came back to the present, momentarily rubbing the scar on his leg where the puncture wound had gotten so infected he almost died . . . yet survived. Like you will this? Not the coming battle, of course. But everything else. Of course, you will. His usual arrogance almost reasserted his confidence in his ability to play the game. Almost.

  Reaching over, he threw a switch and the beast beneath his feet awakened, fusion reactor powering up systems and forcing a rapid series of blinks as the too-bright lights sparked a constellation across numerous consoles, monitors, and secondary screens. He reached forward and toggled several switches, initiating a full systems inquiry. He knew the technicians would not have released the machine without their own pre-system check, but at times a warrior must make such checks as well.

  “Voice authorization required,” the battle computer spoke.

  “Kisho,” he responded. Of a sudden he wondered if a warrior who gained a Bloodname actually changed the voice pattern recognition code, so he could speak his full name. Though Kisho banked many coals of anger within himself, unlike some in the mystic caste, he never questioned their inability to claim a Bloodname. Simply a consequence of who they were. A consequence of the blood that every new mystic sibko carried from the same genemother. First Mystic. Yet a melancholy set in. Did they know? Did they have a vision of what they would create in the mystic caste? Of the suffering we outcaste warriors would endure for the greater glory of the Clan?

  “Voice authorization confirmed,” the electronic voice interrupted his reverie. He slowly shook his head, knowing there could be no answers.

  “Authorization code required,” the modulated voice responded.

  “No blind paths.” He gritted his teeth. It was not about a lack of faith. It was about finding the faith and accepting the path yourself. Not simply because someone else showed it to you. Rumblings of Hisa reared and he pushed them aside. Not now.

  “Authorization confirmed. Command transferred.” With that, power cycled up to full parameters, and the remaining darkened monitors and systems sparked with inner life. He reached with his left hand to expand the systems check, taking in the weapon systems now unlocked for his use. The particle projector cannon and twin medium pulse lasers in the Wendigo’s right arm registered a cool green of capacitors charged and focus mirrors aligned, while the LB 10-X autocannon in the left arm showed a full complement of ammo. The small laser in the head, almost an afterthought, shone its small glow of readiness.

  Even the small laser is accepting, regardless of how little it will do . . . The sigh slipped out then, full and heavy. Not now. Not now!

  While the ’Mech cycled through additional systems, he pulled out medical pads, attached them to his thighs and arms, plugged in electronic cords, then reached for the neurohelmet shelved above and behind him. Sliding the helmet on, he cinched it tight, then tied the medical monitors into the helmet. Finally, he withdrew a cable from the comma
nd couch and snapped it into a mate at the bottom of the vest, as liquid squirmed across bare skin, with only thin ballistic cloth to keep possible shrapnel from his flesh. Then again, if shrapnel is flying around the inside of the cockpit, I will have much bigger worries by that point.

  “Lancer Alpha Trinary, this is Star Commodore Sollic,” a voice bounced around the inside of the ’Mech cockpit, from the now-activated commline. “Insertion in two minutes.”

  The first tremors hit.

  At seven thousand tons and one hundred twenty meters in length and height, the Outpost-class DropShip could rightly be called huge by most human scales. Especially for a ship meant to ground on a planet, as well as traverse solar systems. Though not truly gargantuan in size, like the assault Nekohono’o at sixteen thousand tons, or the mind-numbing civilian Mammoth, at fifty-two thousand tons, the Outpost nevertheless represented a wonder of technology; a virtual small city in transit.

  It trembled like a child shaking a toy ship as the vessel slewed into the soup of the planet’s upper atmosphere. All relative. To Athenry’s atmosphere, the Outpost was a gnat. One it would swat from the sky without a thought if they were not careful. He chuckled darkly as he checked final systems.

  Suddenly he swung back slightly with the entire ’Mech, and the giant egg enshrouding the Wendigo moved, then settled into the cradle as it began to track across the deck plating. Without needing to patch into the ship’s video feed, he knew four other identical cocoons housing the rest of his Star mates were moving from their positions as well, heading towards the launching doors. Twenty-five miniature pods for the attached battle armor were also moving into position. The fighters would already be airborne, providing insertion cover should the defenders decide to match the assault, while the ten vehicles would wait on the Outpost until the ’Mechs and battle armor secured their landing zone and the Outpost grounded.