Heretic's Faith

by Randall N Bills

  Then he was mad, ’cause he was crying, though Three was still scrunched up on the floor and Two looked at him and didn’t say a thing, just looked away. And that made him start crying more. ’Cause Two always made fun of him and that time he caught him crying, ’cause the Machine cut him when he didn’t do what he was supposed to in the drill and he missed blocking the sword and Two laughed and laughed and laughed and then he had to beat up some other kids, ’cause he couldn’t beat up Two, but you just couldn’t laugh at him like that and let him get away with it, or you’d be Forty-four, or Thirty-two and they’d have to come in to stop the fighting and clean up the blood and that was the only time they ever talked, and all the kids involved got extra Dark, but one time he wanted them to talk to him and yelling didn’t do anything, so he decided he would make them talk and so he picked Sixty-three, ’cause she was small and little and he just started to beat her up and five or six others started hitting her also and pretty soon there was just lots of blood on the ground and then they came and he felt bad, but he made them do what he wanted and that felt good, but he spent extra, extra time in Dark and that always scared him and made him mad and feel funny, like his thoughts weren’t his thoughts anymore and he floated and his mind went away and did funny things and when it came back to him it didn’t really feel like his mind and today would be the day and he cried and Two didn’t laugh and that scared him more.

  And then Three was there and they cried and they hugged and it felt good and it didn’t make the bad feelings go away, all away, but some away, and he stopped crying.

  “The bad feelings will go away,” he said in his most small voice. But they didn’t say anything back and they wouldn’t look at him and he knew he was still scared.

  All the kids cried out when the lights came on. The light hurt bad and everybody’s eyes got itchy and watery and One thought he would just die, ’cause his heart was beating just so fast and he knew they were coming for him. And he looked around and saw kids crawling over each other to move away from the door as it opened. And Two wouldn’t look at him and he kept looking at the black door and it was a monster’s mouth and it would eat him and Three grabbed his hair and gave it a yank and he yelled and looked at her.

  “The bad feelings will go away,” she said. Her lips were moving funny and she looked like she was going to cry again. So he wasn’t sure he should believe it. But he started trying to help her and then he cried and then she helped him. So maybe he could.

  “One, seventy-three, twenty-seven, forty-nine, sixteen,” the Voice said, but nobody came in. They never ever came in. Only when he made the blood happen. And yeah. He made the blood happen. And they had to come in. He made them do what they hated. Just like they made him do what he hated. Yeah.

  So he stood up big and tall and walked right at that big door.

  He’d show them.

  Chamber processed. Primary sequence initiated; five subjects prepped.

  Initiate initial submersion.

  Subjects inserted into deprivation chamber.

  Sequencing. Systems verified.

  Initiate full null-sensory feedback.

  Null-sensory submersion initiation phase executed.

  Verification of null-sensory automation.

  Null-sensory verified. Systems report nominal. Within parameters. Subjects are in the void.

  Drop for forty-eight hours.

  Sir.

  What?

  We’ve lost a lot of ’em, through several sibkos. Lots of shells to dispose of. Are we sure the modeling is correct?

  Hai. All the modeling converges consistently. If they can’t take total sensory deprivation for that time period by five, they’ll fail when we ratchet it up to the next level. After all, the big room should prep ’em for dislocation, as does the physical training mechic—those that survive it, that is.

  But we’re churning through subjects. And they’re just kids.

  The price to pay. If the Cats want their Oathmasters and the Abbess her Budojin Neophytes, can’t have a human upbringing if we don’t want them to think like a human. And you’re new, so don’t worry. Once past the room and the full depravition phase, they get coddled like kittens; they get beds and toilet. Besides, no sense in wasted resources past five if they can’t take it.

  19

  Kaona Island

  Wandessa Chain, Athenry

  Prefecture II, The Republic of the Sphere

  21 October 3136

  Kisho paced outside the command tent, a cat restless and on the prowl. The heat of the day waned, the sun sinking towards an endless cobalt ocean ready to quench its light and bring blessed darkness. Though he refused to look in that direction, the newly grounded DropShip’s pings and twangs of cooling metal reached his ears even at this distance.

  He spun around to continue the track in the hard-packed dirt, confident that at any moment he would be summoned. He’d been saying that for over an hour.

  Tanaka. Of all the people to deal with at this moment, it had to be Tanaka? Burnt ozone from the Spiritaker’s fusion fire stung the air and tweaked nostrils. His nose scrunched, not from the heavily laden air, but thoughts, rebounding like an out-of-control warrior in zero-gravity for the first time, slamming into bulkheads, crunching bones and spewing floating droplets of blood, spinning off into a new trajectory and another incoming bulkhead, unable to latch onto a ringlet or other handgrip to bring a halt to the chaos and pain.

  Tanaka. Tivia. Their failure on this world—his failure. Tanaka’s obvious victory on Saffel. How was Hisa doing on Styx? He ground to a halt, the slight dust kicked up settling unseen across boots. Hisa. Shame flared and caressed skin pink. I have not thought of her in so long. Too long. How? So much . . . so much to think about.

  And the fight? A vision?

  He shied away from that last thought, launching again into a purposeful stride, using physical movement to bank away mental activity. But it didn’t work.

  “Mystic,” a voice broke across chaotic thoughts like a wave to a blazing beach campfire. Kisho stopped, turned to find Tivia holding open the tent flap. Her eyes were angry, restive. More like liquid hydrogen, not water. He kept a shiver at bay, inclined his head lightly, and moved towards the door flap.

  He almost expected her to drop the tent flap and force him to move it aside. No. Never such pettiness from Tivia. Too respectful of mystics, even in her fury and confusion.

  He ducked in and shivered despite willful attempts otherwise. The squat form of Tanaka seemed to fill the entire space. What I feared from the beginning! So many long months past. I am breaking down. They will expose me. I know it.

  Hisa! The name conjured strength to fortify suddenly weakening knees and allow him to push onwards into the tent and stand slightly to one side, while Tivia worked around her makeshift desk, but did not sit down.

  “Tivia has spoken of your actions,” Tanaka said in his usual clipped, deep voice.

  Which could mean anything, he tried to console himself, but found it useless. Sure, she praised me for my visions and expert handling of each situation to hand us victory, aff? He remained impassive, staring at neither individual, hoping his self-scorn did not translate. After all, another truth-reader stood across the way. A truth-reader, as far as Kisho believed, who would as soon skin him alive as allow him to walk out of the tent.

  “What have you to say?” Tanaka asked after only the briefest pause.

  Expecting a lengthy silence in a test of wills to see who would speak first, Kisho involuntarily glanced at Tanaka and made eye contact. Surat! He traps you so easily! Now unwilling to look away, he responded methodically. “I am sure the Star colonel’s report speaks for itself, quiaff?”

  “Oh, aff. An endless series of fights. Which have accomplished little, but drain us. And no closer to victory. Aff, it does indeed. Mystic.” The silence this time did stretch, after the obvious accent Tanaka tossed onto his title.

  A slow anger burned at disparagement from such an arrogant surat. Uncowed
, eyes met eyes, like discharging PPCs. The Spartan room, with its handful of chairs, small holotable, and makeshift desk spun out of focus as the world tunneled down to Tanaka’s challenging eyes. Who are you to question my faith? he raged, ignoring his own questions that plagued him even in dreams. The nightmares that refused to leave, old and now new, no matter how much meditation before slumber.

  Heretic. The word almost hung in the air between them, as though fallen from Tanaka’s lips. And what if I am? Kisho breathed deeply, the swell of chest against cooling vest a remembrance of all he gave to the Clan. All I give. Every day. Everything I have. I hold nothing back, regardless of what faith or lack of it I may espouse. Nothing.

  Fury replaced anger in a wash of emotions threatening to choke off breath. A half-hundred words battled for egress, to assault the surat. An iron will sealed his lips. I will not respond to the likes of you. If I am to be taken to task, it will not . . . be . . . by . . . you.

  Soundless laughter once more seemed to come from dry lips at a horrible distance. Kisho almost glanced aside, then pushed the impression away.

  “Mystics,” Tivia finally cut in, voice aggravated. “This accomplishes nothing. What we need to accomplish is the winning of this war. Of fulfilling the contract bid and won by Warlord Tormark, so that we may return to our worlds. With the additional forces brought by Mystic Tanaka, we should be making plans.”

  The words might as well have fallen among bull mastiffs, for all their effect, though Kisho did note how quickly Tivia seemed to want to step away from his lack of visions. Yet something moved across Tanaka’s features. Only another trained for reading subtle muscle movements might have noticed the ever-so-slight shifting of eyebrows and eyes that moved from stern to slightly less so. Into . . . what? Confusion? Hesitancy?

  Relief began to surge, yet Kisho wrangled it ruthlessly, hurling it back down. You could never be too careful around another mystic, especially one like Tanaka. One who could play you like a finely tuned guitar, regardless of your own defenses.

  “Mystics.” Her voice rose a notch, unused to being ignored. Once more, neither even blinked.

  Who will cave first? Kisho moved an eye muscle a trifle in question. Another moment and an answering slip from Tanaka’s mask. But an answer to his question, or one in return? Truth-readers they might be, but when two played the game, they might as well be norms and just as deaf, dumb, and blind to the larger world.

  “Star Colonel,” a voice interrupted, coming from outside the tent.

  An annoyed sound erupted from Tivia. “I was not to be bothered.”

  “Aff, Star Colonel. But we have an incoming DropShip, two hours from insertion and already broadcasting in the clear.”

  That turned all three heads towards the flap as Tivia responded. “Enter.”

  A tall, lanky warrior stepped gingerly inside, but halted with the flap still open. Kisho detected the man’s uncomfortableness over the tension in the room, like an oil slick on water.

  “Who is it? Why are we not moving to defend?” Tivia demanded.

  Confusion swept the man’s face. “Star Colonel, it is a broadcast from Galaxy Commander Kev Rosse of the Spirit Cats. He comes in invitation to the mystic’s call,” he finished, nodding towards Kisho.

  If the man had said the corpse of Warlord Minamoto was descending with legions of dead, he might not have dropped a bigger bombshell. Stunned momentarily, Kisho recovered, as an idea effervesced with strength. He slowly turned back towards Tivia, ignoring Tanaka, as though he were a freebirth.

  “It would seem my visions have led us here, Star Colonel. After all, the mystics call was not simply to fight, but to bring the Spirit Cats home.” It was not an outright lie. Yet pain seemed to dance through tightening stomach muscles over such a twisting of the truth. Completely unexpected that Kev Rosse would so quickly answer the call.

  Tivia matched Kisho stare for stare, unrelenting. She slowly nodded, yet gave up nothing. “It would appear so.”

  With a salute to Tivia and a stiff nod to Tanaka—he would not be completely rude after Tivia’s example—Kisho withdrew quickly before they might trap him. The air—despite ozone and lacings of less pleasant volcanic chemicals—tasted like freedom.

  Yet a hand strayed to massage an unforgiving stomach and bad feelings still nipped at his mind, threatening a convergence of new and old nightmares alike.

  20

  Kaona Island

  Wandessa Chain, Athenry

  Prefecture II, The Republic of the Sphere

  21 October 3136

  Flames.

  How many fires have eaten wood and cast their ash and light to the sky in my presence? How much warmth have I siphoned from a heat source first used at the dawn of time, while I ride the greatest military technological marvel ever created by mankind, making war and seeking visions across the stars?

  The irony could not be avoided, making him slip a smile on like an unused glove, while Kisho waited for Kev Rosse to speak. But Kev hoarded words like a nun her virginity; almost twenty minutes with two brief eye contacts, and an endless stretch of staring into spitting, hissing flames. Even so, the charisma of the man could not be denied. No wonder so many follow you.

  The other man’s long mane fell like a river of blue-black equine hair, heightening the flame’s effects on Kev’s face. A glow permeated the strong lines, pushing features firmly into Kisho’s mind and soul. No, not equine. Feline. A nova cat. The smile tugged; pushing, prodding itself more firmly into place.

  And how would you respond to my smiles, Galaxy Commander? Offense? Ignore me? You have done a good job of that already. The smile teetered and Kisho took a firm grip on the indignity threatening to turn his good mood south. Not the time to show anger over his lost soul’s lack of proper respect.

  He shifted slightly on the small blanket, abruptly wondering if Tanaka might be trying to eavesdrop on this all-important meeting. His mood stretched even further towards a darker place, smile cast to the side like a shed skin—useless, itching, uncomfortable.

  Of a sudden, Kisho stood on an endless blade, thrust out across a yawing crevasse falling away to the foundation of the universe. Naked, hair shaved, tough foot pads bearing the brunt of weight, pressing inexorably down. A line of sumptuous pleasure/pain wrought across both feet. A howling, as though built across a millennia of millennia, stretching from the first orgasmic burst of existence, to the insignificance of the infinitesimal blip of existence, rushing on towards a distant future so vast and incomprehensible that the mind quelled and he shivered against the awful enormity of it all. Body shifting, the pleasure/ pain snapping over fully into pain as the balance changed and the spread of weight on the blade’s edge pushed too hard. He heaved too far to one side; exquisite agony wrenched through feet, calves, groin, midsection, chest, and head from one eyeblink to the next . . . body cloven in two, falling away into a darkness that did not enfold in warmth and forgetfulness, but devoured in icy remembrance for all the onrushing of eternities.

  A soundless growl tore out of a parched throat into an uncaring night. Even sitting, he teetered forward, as though on the verge of collapsing straight into the fire. A firm hand shot down like the multiton grip of a ’Mech fist, steadying, drawing him back from the endless . . . nothing. He blinked rapidly to prevent the tears trying to course down his cheeks.

  What is going on?

  Hair swept across his face, shocking him into true wakefulness. “What?” he croaked. Looked, up and up and up into disturbed eyes looming over him, haloed with an endless nova cat mane. His brain finally reset itself, lurched and stuttered, then swam back into the currents of this world and Kev Rosse stood over him, left arm steadying.

  Despite the horror that scrabbled just below the surface, threatening to send him gibbering once more into an endless pit of his own making, he turned aside, shame burning hot and searing. What the savashri is wrong with me? I must have fallen asleep. The only way my stravag nightmare might have risen like this. Only way!


  And what made it worse, this was not the old nightmares: the Room, where so many of his sibko died, because they could not take the lack of adult human contact; the girl he killed for no reason other than to make the Acolytes talk to him; the Machine, the training device, which pushed their physical training, even at that young age, beyond all endurance, teaching them to focus their minds to a level that can only really be taught to someone so young; the Dark, the sensory deprivation chamber, which endlessly wove their minds out of their bodies, twisting and distorting their thoughts and their souls, until they could find the visions the mystic caste was decanted to provide.

  No, this was the new nightmare, of something coming. Of something . . .

  “Are you okay?” The deep concern masked other emotions, but Kisho could only focus on the obvious Clan response.

  Weakness.

  He will think me weak. The question of whether he was weak stewed and burned within, only to be violently thrust aside. No. No! Through the incalculable heat and pain he managed an “Aff.”

  Without another word, Kev moved around the fire and reseated, but spoke immediately. “A vision, quiaff?”

  NO! “Aff.”

  “Powerful. Powerful. . . .” The voice trailed off for a moment, bringing Kisho’s eyes like a moth to flame, to find Kev staring once more into the fire that drew his gaze, the blaze highlighting an expression Kisho could not discern.

  “Why have you come?” Kisho responded, nervous of silence and what lay within each pregnant pause.

  The other man jerked slightly, glanced up, then smiled and laughed, lightly. “You brought me here.”

  “Why have you come?” Falling back to training, Kisho breathed deeply—took several tries to enter a first-level trance!—and dropped into finding the truth behind Kev’s words.

  The other man pulled out a data cube, set it on the ground. Raised eyes back up, quirked an eyebrow high. Once more, the silence pressed against Kisho—a dark, fathomless bag cinching tight with each falling grain of sand. What is going on? Am I losing myself so completely? He fought back with words.