Heretic's Faith

by Randall N Bills

  In an effort to stall, he reached forward and toggled several switches. The holographic display flickered several times, then spun the main projection down thirty percent in size and moved it slightly off center, while a new projection blossomed, showing near space in The Republic. As he stood on this stinking rock island, Nova Cats were also assaulting Styx and Saffel, along with small liaison Fury forces. Meanwhile, Fury forces under Warlord Tormark’s direct command were attempting to solidify holds on the worlds taken during Sakamoto’s fourth wave of assaults, including Deneb Algedi, Nashira, Telos IV, and Kervil.

  No more than three months. The words rang as though spoken from Katana’s lips. And with minimal casualties. Because just beyond, less than a jump away, across the imaginary border into Prefecture X, the ultimate prize hung like a ripened fruit, waiting for the right warlord to grasp it and bite into its sweet flesh of victory: Dieron.

  And to do that, and to keep to the schedule Katana outlined, they could not waste time. The four chains on-world contained literally thousands of islands. If the defenders were looking to make the assaulting force’s life a true hell, all they needed was to go to ground. A single ’Mech to an island, or move it out and plant it under a coral reef, and they would never be found, unless they wanted to. Never.

  But Tivia held a secret weapon. Her pocket mystic, to pull out and rub like a lamp, awaiting the magic genie who would pop out and grant her wish. Quiaff?!

  A tremor moved down Kisho’s leg and he gripped the edge of the table to hide it.

  “Well, Mystic,” Jing spoke with no attempt to hide his doubts. “Throw your dart and let’s get this going.”

  “You will not—”

  Kisho leaned back from the table, raising a hand to cut Tivia off as he glanced in her direction. Though she tried to hide it, he could discern her thoughts as though the words blazed in the air between him, her eyes flickering away from his. Though she felt true anger at Jing for disrespecting a Nova Cat mystic, her own doubts caused her shame. Doubts over Kisho and his strange behavior of late, his storming out of the command space, only one of many such erratic behaviors that seemed to plague him of late.

  The knowledge brought pain, despite the clear truth that cut like a glass shiv. She does not doubt mystics. She doubts me. For all the long years of playing the game, he had always managed to convince. For the first time, he witnessed the power of doubt towards him . . . it brought real pain.

  He turned back to the table, ignoring Smith for now. We will have our confrontation, you and I, but not now. He stared at the table. How do you do it, Hisa? For a moment he tensed, afraid he’d asked the question out loud. How can you believe we can simply stare at a table and a vision will come? How?

  He swallowed in a throat parched to sandpaper, despite the one hundred percent humidity soaking everything to the bone. The words from their encounter on the lift surfaced, like a neodolphin cresting the water in a breach that sent it soaring into a sparkling, red-tinged sky. Spray. A halo.

  Testimony.

  He closed his eyes, her words focusing actions, slowly opening his mind as he began ransacking. Where would I be if I were a Raider? Where would I hide? All the reports he had pored over stacked up before his inner eye and he allowed them to fall down. Not sorting them, but instead tossing them to the winds of thought and waiting until their flutterings ended. Then he would open inner eyes to find their surprising design laid before him.

  Three quick breaths and everything fell away as he dropped into a first-stage trance, his humanity dropping unconsciously from his face, and then into a second and third stage, quicker than any previous time in his life. His inner universe seemed to expand like a living breath, as though his own lungs ballooned reality into existence. Everything took on a distorted image, as he continued breathing, hot and humid breath loud as a universe awakening, yet as silent as the moon slipping through a starry landscape.

  Suddenly, he opened his eyes, fear gone and finger pointing determinedly towards a single bright blue spot. Without hesitation or doubt, he spoke. “That is where we will find Raiders.”

  Lightning forked into the fleeing hoverbike pack. Bodies hit directly were vaporized, leaving afterimages on retinas, while the concussion of the energy bolt’s passage skewed the light, one-man machines to the sides, or outright flipped riders headlong into tangled, moss-covered trees, leaving smears of bright red against dark greens and wet browns.

  Kisho relaxed his index finger from the primary target interlock trigger on the right joystick. Spoke loud enough for his throat mike to activate. “They are fleeing.”

  “Of course they are fleeing,” Smith responded, the sarcasm easily transmitted even through the electronically reproduced voice. “You expect them to stick around for a welcoming committee of ’Mechs and battle armor? With an aerospace strafe thrown in for giggles?”

  Kisho ignored the words, wondering why Tivia did not respond to such words. Using foot pedals, he maneuvered the ’Mech around the smoldering remains of a Hatchetman, caught between the furious fusillades of power projected by Tivia’s Shadow Cat, Jing’s Thunderbolt, and the Wendigo. Even as the ’Mech stepped past, the impact of fifty tons of walking metal on the hardened ground caused the armored carcass to cave in, the internal structure of most of the center torso of the hapless Hatchetman completely vaporized, a rotted corpse unnaturally dug up from the comfort of the grave, collapsing under the harsh light of day and the truth of its death.

  A sympathetic explosion snapped Kisho’s attention towards his secondary monitor, but sensors registered no additional enemies. The small encampment only held a single ’Mech, a half Star of vehicles, several squads of infantry, and the elusive hoverbikes. He knew most of the battle armor, after a quick defense, had melted away into the underbrush after the Hatchetman and the four vehicles were annihilated in short order. Beyond that, a few burning buildings were all that marked the spot for this cache of Raiders.

  But to where? He pulled the Wendigo to a halt as fear began to worm its way back from its trapped cage deep within him. Has to be another camp . . . not the primary camp.

  “Well, seems like you sure did find the Raiders’ camp.”

  The words burned like laser shots from a pulse rifle, stitching a bruised soul, tearing away the last vestige of the cage. His pulse quickened and breathing became claustrophobic in the tight confines of the cockpit as realization dawned. I made it up. There was no vision. I just pointed and pretended I found a vision. Found anything . . . and I found nothing.

  He began to tremble, as not even Tivia responded to such a provocation.

  How did Hisa . . .

  15

  Spirit Cat Encampment

  Addicks, Prefecture III

  The Republic of the Sphere

  10 October 3136

  Kev Rosse, one time senator of The Republic of the Sphere from Prefecture III, now leader, commanding officer, and cult of personality for all those, civilian and military alike, who wore the name Spirit Cat, held the data cube in a curled hand with rigid fingers, as though to ward off the poisonous strike of a hissing serpent.

  The secrets you hold.

  An echo of his vision spiraled through the room and the tent flaps seemed to waver into the image of wet stone walls.

  “The vision?” the old warrior said almost immediately upon entering.

  “Do you think?”

  “I asked you.”

  “Stop that.” The easy banter drove the fluttering wings of doom away, though he could sense the vultures settling into treetops just out of sight, waiting for their chance. His breath sounded hollow for a moment, as though the sound bounced within a small, underground room. “So quickly?”

  “That your vision has actualized?”

  “No,” Kev said impatiently, waving a hand and staring at twinkling eyes and bearded face. “It came right to us. You heard the captain’s tale.”

  “Do we believe it?”

  “Do we dare not?”

  “
Does it matter?” the Visionmaster said, shrugging as though casting aside an unneeded weight.

  Something I cannot do, Davik. Especially not now. “Perhaps it does not. But she acquired the cube from this Kisho in the Athenry system and then jumps to Nirasaki, then Helen, and then Addicks? A merchant ship passing through two systems without stopping except to charge solar sails?”

  “She had business on Addicks.”

  “Of all the ships, in all the void this Kisho might contact, and he connects immediately with the one with business in our system?”

  “Convenient.”

  Kev searched for levity, or seriousness, and only found shadowed eyes. “Aff. Convenient.”

  “Play it again,” Davik said, coming around to the side of the table.

  Kev nodded, opening a small drawer to retrieve a player, slotted the cube into the device, and turned it on, placing it so both could view the message. An ancient head coalesced out of scintillating lights, craggy face and deep-set eyes a map of knowledge that even put Davik to shame. Eyes flickered to the Visionmaster to find blanched features and glued eyes.

  You feel the power too. Across half a thousand light-years and through a holorecording and you can feel his power. It can only be the Nova Cat Oathmaster. Chagrin and anger mixed in equal measure. At the power of this man and, though Kev had never set foot within the Combine, much less on a Nova Cat Reservation, that he felt the pull—at himself.

  “Welcome,” the ancient began, voice warm and knowing. “During the dark days following the collapse of the second Star League, Khan Santin West beheld a vision. A searing portent some say blinded him. A summons that, unless the Nova Cats joined the fighting against the zealots, all would be lost. And so we answered the call before any other, sending our warriors to stave off the collapse of humanity.” The singsong cadence of the delivery and the power of personality projected, even through the holodisplay, almost conjured images, until a kaleidoscope of history swung before their eyes.

  “And during that quest, our warriors found a Spheroid worthy of respect. More, a warrior to follow. Devlin Stone proved his loyalty and integrity and honor on countless battlefields and on countless occasions, facing down despots and the corrupt of the Inner Sphere in his quest to rebuild from the shattered remains of the Jihad. To build his golden halls. The Republic. And so those warriors stayed; to find a dream of a Star League we survived Abjurment to obtain and watched collapse around our ears and flow like mercury through helpless fingers.”

  The Oathmaster paused and Kev let out a pent-up breath, fascinated by his own reactions. A history any Spirit Cat knew like a Spheroid quoted nursery rhymes. And yet, the power of its delivery! He clenched and unclenched fists, as though to crush the data cube, remove its existence . . . yet knowing he would not.

  “And generations passed in progress. Yet the snake head of the past, ever devouring its own tail in history, is swiveling into our present. The golden dream dies and the darkness takes our kin. Those who chose a different path now find it blocked. Can they return to the fork in the road? Can such a great distance be retraversed?”

  The eyes never wavered in their grandfatherly delivery. You are good, Oathmaster. So very good. Makes my Visionmaster look like a charlatan. Shame sparked and he once more gazed at Davik from the corner of his eye, only to find a similar expression. He knows and is not angry, but awed. He sees a goal he wishes to reach.

  Kev resettled into the chair, back creaking from the long strain of sitting, and refocused on the holodisplay. And what are my goals?

  “Aff. Of course they can. Never once was Abjurment considered. Never once were those who chose this path in danger of being cast out. Instead, like prodigal sons returning from a far land, we would slaughter the fatted calf and welcome our brothers home. A new festival should be dedicated and lines added to The Remembrance, so that, for centuries to come, the reunion of our two peoples will be sung in chronicle and rituals of battles. My saOathmasters are even now within The Republic, answering the call of duty. Yet they are there to receive any who would answer this call. Who would hear their blood sing and respond . . . Seyla.”

  The holoimage went dark and the two men stared into space, afterimages ghosting above the table, before their eyes finally adjusted to the dim light.

  “Such power,” Davik breathed, awe coloring his words.

  “Aff. But should we answer the call?”

  Eyes met to find no answers as they stared at one another. Davik finally dropped down into a sitting position, as though no longer able to stand. “I cannot tell you. But we can, at the least, meet with this saOathmaster. This mystic.”

  The strange way Davik wrapped lips around the odd words reminded Kev of how far the Spirit Cats and their brothers in the Nova Cats had moved apart, despite so many similarities. He chuckled darkly, realizing the visionmaster was a title and office unique to the Spirit Cats, albeit a pattern of the oathmaster. And these mystics? A new caste? Will wonders never cease?

  He bowed his head into calloused hands, scratching his scalp against the heavy pollen in the air, the tickling sending shivers down his back. You say one of us can move back to the fork in the road, Oathmaster. But who will do the moving? And the mover will then have to move again; forward down a road long ago trod to try and catch up. Who will move?

  He knew the answer, as surely as he knew he would answer this message. Would travel to meet this Kisho. “As usual, Davik, you are right. We must meet with this man. This mystic,” he responded, tasting the strange word as well.

  The look of relief on the visionmaster’s face almost brought pain. Are you so quickly cowed? Have you so quickly forgotten all we have done? His sight wavered as the doom of his vision pressed once more. His right hand plucked out the data cube and began to squeeze, until it cut into his palm before collapsing and twisting beyond recognition.

  I will meet you, Kisho. But I will not come as a lamb to the slaughter. You have a vision of the future? Well, so do I. And it may not include you, or the Nova Cats.

  16

  Kaona Island

  Wandessa Chain, Athenry

  Prefecture II, The Republic of the Sphere

  14 October 3136

  Kisho hefted another pile of moist dirt out of the trench, onto the growing mound. A myriad of wiggling alien fauna squirmed like dead, white fingers twitching in the sunlight, before burrowing back to the safety of the dirt and its protective darkness. He rested the shovel against the ground, leaned, and partially wiped away a flood of sweat from his face. Hoisting up the bottle dangling from a belt harness, he took a warm swallow, then got back to work.

  “Mystic, that is deep enough.”

  He glanced up to find a labor castemen standing next to his rather large pile of dirt, a distinctly uncomfortable expression twisting his features. Straightening from the last thrown shovelful, he stretched his neck and felt vertebrae snap and crackle as he arched his back. With a swift jump, he leapt out of the trench he’d help dig. “This will do?”

  “Aff, Mystic. More than do.” The man bowed more deeply than strictly necessary. “I thank you for your efforts. You did not need to aid us.”

  “Aff, I did not. But the stink was getting worse and with most personnel drafted into repairs . . .” He shrugged. “Someone had to help dig this new latrine.”

  The man bowed even lower, a pained look etching deep lines as Kisho verbalized what he’d been doing. No matter. The stink was getting bad. And sanitation is needed on this stravag ball of rocks and rotting vegetation, or we will all die before we even find the stravag Raiders.

  Without a backwards glance, he left the shovel standing in the mound and began walking towards the small shower stalls set at the far edge of the clearing. As he moved through the camp he made several detours around working groups of individuals, and soon anger began to replace the calm he found in simple, manual labor. Several vehicles (those that could even traverse such rough terrain), two ’Mechs, and even several suits of battle armor, were cur
rently under repair. The damage to only one of which came from enemy fire. The rest were the result of the pitfalls of the rocky terrain. The ’Mech had almost completely snapped off its foot assembly when it punched down into an empty lava tube; they were lucky not to have lost the entire machine.

  And now, almost everyone was drafted into repairs, while three different probing raids—one included a suborbital hop of the Nearstar to another island—were under way, each trying to locate any sign of the Raiders. After their first brief taste of battle—the pain of failure still lanced, white-hot as ever—not even the back of a Raider’s helmet had been spotted.

  He reached the stalls, mind wandering far afield, and began prepping for a shower. A quick twist set the pneumatic pump funneling water from the makeshift rain cistern, through a short series of tubes, to a nozzle head. Stripping out of the filthy single suit, he laid the garment on a wire rack where he’d spray it down shortly, then stepped into the stall, latching the chest-high door shut.

  The water, while even warmer than his drinking bottle, still washed away sweat and grime, bringing a momentary reprieve. Quickly sinking his head into the water stream (only thirty seconds of water allowed per individual every three days; warriors every other day) he didn’t initially hear the sound. Not until the tremble tingled his feet and worked up the backs of his legs did he jerk his head out, looking around.

  What? The next explosion rocked the camp, close enough to be heard distinctly across the breadth of the Nova Cat base, sending people milling about like a kicked anthill.

  Without hesitation, Kisho rammed through the stall door without bothering to open it—tearing the small lock completely off its hinges—already at a dead run. They are attacking? Attacking us?!

  Stark naked, Kisho ran on bare feet, unfeeling of the rocks tearing at flesh and leaving a trail of smeared crimson footprints. The Wendigo is the only operational ’Mech here. They will target it. “They’ll target it!” he yelled, devolving into the vulgarity of contractions in his anger and shock. They are attacking us? Despite the rage, a grudging respect grew. Such audacity. This leader is no standard Raider. No, no standard Raider at all.