Heretic's Faith

by Randall N Bills

  “I see you received the message.”

  “And I see you like to speak the obvious.”

  Anger sparked. Desperate for strength, for anything, Kisho spread cupped hands within and carefully fanned the ember to push back the darkness. “There are times for subterfuge. Times to hide your words so only those worthy might discern your intent.”

  “Aff.”

  “And other times, when the worthy are already present, and the truth might be pulled from such obfuscation, to lie bright and gleaming, for joy and enlightenment.”

  “Aff. And is this one of those times?”

  “You think not? Are you not the leader of those who follow you? Have you not named yourself the ‘spirit cats’?” The spiritual coal growing, it warmed as he fell into this role he must play. Always a role to play, eh, old man? Never one of my choosing, only those chosen for me. Despite his own words spoken what seemed like years ago to Yori, he still seemed to fight against the inevitable, the spirit unwilling to bend to the mind’s knowledge of inevitability. “Does that not show your desire for worthiness?”

  “Worthy for what?”

  “Ah. That is the question we all must ask.”

  “Ourselves?”

  “Aff. Or others, when the time is right.”

  From one of the treelike plants, a blood-colored leaf—with a striated texture and so many points it appeared more needle- than leaflike—slowly tumbled into view, cavorting and dancing to an almost unfelt wind. Yet it soon caught within the whirling eddies of the fire and lofted into the air once more. The dance continued, lifting and falling at the vagaries of the fire’s whim. Yet it could not continue. Would have only a single conclusion. Like the cherry blossoms. The pattern continued for only so long before the leaf fell too far, gave in too much to the call of another’s power and caught fire.

  In a flash and pop of light and sap, the leaf disintegrated.

  Their eyes focused on one another, expressions plain. A sign. A sign. Am I that leaf? Do I let others dictate my actions, leading me to my doom? The memory of the living nightmare swirled, threatening to quench the light within.

  “Am I worthy?” Kev finally spoke. The words came across heartfelt, but something pinged Kisho’s senses. Desperate to reach beyond his own battle, he focused on Kev’s reactions, striving to match body to words.

  “Worthy of what?”

  “There is only one reason to come here, quiaff? Only one reason to ask such a question.” Kev leaned forward slightly, mane and liquid shadows casting features into a wall of darkness Kisho could not penetrate.

  The familiar whiff of smoke to nostrils long accustomed centered him, allowing Kisho to play the part, despite misgivings. “You are worthy if you have desire.”

  “A desire to return.” It should have been a question, but instead came as though a statement. As though something he still mulled over?

  “Aff,” Kisho probed. “Spheroids fall back to old habits and war consumes us. You seek to find sanctuary for your people. What better sanctuary then that left decades ago as you wandered?”

  Kev slowly raised his head, troubled eyes finding a mirror. But are you troubled by returning? Or troubled by me? And if by me, then by a vision you believe in, or a mystic you cannot believe in? Staring at Kev, running through the man’s dossier again, Kisho quickly came to the only conclusion possible—a conclusion only partially supported by Kisho’s observations. Am I losing it, or is he that good at hiding himself? No, this man believes in visions. Has had visions himself. Such a leader. To have accomplished all that he has done. To have so many follow him . . . and he believes.

  Hisa’s words tumbled up against this intelligent, admirable warrior, settling onto him like a life-size holovid display: a perfect fit.

  “Time,” Kev finally spoke.

  Taken off guard, Kisho floundered, then latched on. “Aff. It will take vast time without working HPGs to contact your far-flung troops.”

  “Yet I can begin immediately.”

  The words fell with conviction into the fire, as though a benediction to their meeting. And yet something still seemed off. The words rang true, yet some shading marred their perfection.

  “You will be in The Republic for some time?” Kev continued.

  Kisho stiffened, then relaxed at the obviousness of the statement. He can see as well as any what is going on here. And likely divined where we are going next. “Aff.”

  Kev abruptly stood, shattering the meeting as cleanly as a booted foot through a stained-glass window. “Then I shall be about it.” He inclined his head and swept away without another word.

  Kisho sucked in hot, humid air, taken aback by the sudden departure. Eyes going unfocused, he ran through the meeting once more, and the few spoken words, and the implied meanings coating everything. Despite talk of revealed truths, we keep so much veiled, quiaff, Galaxy Commander? Aff.

  He slowly stood, clenching and unclenching muscles, forcing a full-body stretch. Of a sudden, what bothered him dropped into focus as his eyes happened to catch on the data cube on the other side of the flames, the surface bubbling, the structure slowly collapsing under searing heat.

  You will be off to tell your people. But what will you tell them?

  21

  Kaona Island

  Wandessa Chain, Athenry

  Prefecture II, The Republic of the Sphere

  23 October 3136

  Captain Josef Yoland caressed the Marx XX laser rifle’s worn butt as though tracing the contours of a Capellan courtesan. He jawed for another moment on the wad of juicy bacco, then spit quietly to the side while lips stretched crookedly.

  Not that I’ve ever had that particular pleasure, he groused. Only ten-stone women for me. But he let his imagination run in quick, exciting circles anyway, before letting go with a soft sigh. Snuggling further down into the newly turned loam, next to a particularly large tree of some type (his mother would drop a few stones into the poor box at the meetinghouse before he’d recognize one tree from the next), he pressed leathery skin firmly against the rubbed-smooth high-impact plastic and sighted in through the scope.

  Like a god looking at mortals, the distant encampment leapt forward, the gnatlike figures scrambling around vehicles just over a kilometer away. A ’Mech, a dozen or so quick-fab buildings, and a DropShip zoomed into sharply defined focus. He beaded in on one person after another.

  You’re dead. You’re dead. You’re dead. Finger itched to make it so. The image of a haggard woman, trying to retain her beauty behind a putrid mask of smeared makeup and a miasma of cloying perfume, ghosted across each, crosshairs dead center between angry lines and loathing eyes.

  His finger cricked until pressure verged on tripping the electric connection, then eased again as he remembered the plan. Eyes refocused momentarily to the small timer taped to the side of the rifle, digital read-out counting down. He tongued the bacco directly, tears smarting at the acidic flavor, juices ballooning to almost overflow, then he spit and slid on the crooked smile once more. Not gonna beat me this time, you old hag. Taunt me all you want, but I’ll cap you when I’m good and ready and not before. I sure as hell ain’t gonna spoil such a splendid trap.

  He sighted once more on numerous individuals—an obvious tech here, warrior there, and grunts for the dirty work all around—waiting for the arrogant one to show. How many times I got to tell someone? Never get into a routine. I learned that when I was nine, ’cause a routine gets you beaten. Gets you killed. And here you are, so high and mighty warrior and you fall into a trap I would’ve avoided before I grew hair on my nuts.

  He shook his head at the injustice—ejected another lip of spit softly to the side—of the arrogant warrior basking in the military sophistication of his unit, while he lay in the dirt, launching a groundpounder’s surgical strike ’cause they didn’t have the spare parts to fix his Panther.

  He grimaced at the injustice, his mom’s words badgering him about the head like a vulture: loser, loser, loser.

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bsp; Just then the warrior began walking down the DropShip ramp, as the clock ticked down past the ten-second mark. Josef lined up the shot. His instructors—more like thugs, but talent is talent—had tried vainly to teach him about blanking the mind, about breathing techniques and becoming one with the rifle and bullet. But it was all a steamy pile as far as he was concerned. He didn’t need to know what he did, just like he didn’t need to know how his ’Mech worked to be a walking avatar of death.

  He sighted on the figure, while a wicked grin turned his features into a horrible, sick pantomime of a grin, while the image of his mother ghosted the warrior’s features and he caressed the trigger like a long-lost lover. The electric connection made, the rifle purred like a cat stretching in a warm spot of sun and pulsed out a coherent beam, flashing the right eye to a brilliant white plasma, the head exploding in a soft thump as the brain’s juices burst to steam. The body took another step before collapsing to the ground.

  Take that, Mom! If I was a loser, my unit wouldn’t have survived as long as it has.

  He immediately pulled towards another figure and sighted, as the timer hit zero and a phalanx of missiles began cascading in from his far left, washing across the enemy camp.

  An unfelt line of dark juices dribbled down lips and chin, the gun a constant hum of activity.

  “And I’m telling you, it’s not the entire MMSS. It’s the DI’s connection to the leg’s MCU!”

  Kisho watched, almost bemused, as the two technicians stood face-to-face, chests heaving and trying to throw around an authority only they felt. They should be wearing Falcon green.

  “Do not throw your Spheroid vulgarity at me, surat,” the larger, slightly pot-bellied man spoke evenly; no show of emotion compared to the outburst from the thick-limbed, taller female. Yet the stubble on the man’s closely shorn head practically vibrated from the effort.

  He will move to violence first if it comes to it.

  “I am telling you,” he continued, “I checked those connections. The DI subsystems ran through five complete diagnostic cycles with no indicators outside normal parameters. It is the MMSS.”

  Kisho glanced around the interior of the ’Mech repair bay of the Nearstar, the hustle and bustle of activity swirling around, as he tuned out the babble of the technicians momentarily. Will it ever end? Despite apparent visions. Despite the visit of Kev Rosse and the apparent “mission accomplished” of the task handed out by the old man, the raids continued. Another ambush and two more empty reprisals followed a slight victory by the Combine forces.

  The raids continued. The doubts continued.

  He reached up a hand and began to scratch at three days’ growth on his chin. The dark looks from Tanaka did not dissuade him from working on a beard, though the man’s very walk sang of walls and hiding. Kisho yanked the hand away as though bitten. I am not hiding. I am cultivating an image. If Kev can create such a charismatic image with his wild mane, then why not a mystic? He smiled darkly, knowing the words rang hollow.

  He turned back to the squabbling technicians and took a step forward. They instantly ceased their arguments, turning with bows and the proper salute for respect. “I do not care what you think is wrong with my Wendigo. I will have it repaired by tomorrow. You understand, quiaff?” His voice never ventured beyond a soft tone, but it sliced into the two techs, causing them to flinch.

  “Aff, Mystic,” they intoned in unison, immediately bowing low once more and retreating back to the leg with its armor plating stripped back, like an insect pinned to an entomologist’s desk, insides bared. For a moment, it almost made the Wendigo look embarrassed.

  Kisho sighed heavily, turned away, and carefully made his way through the bulk of the repair bay, then into the bright sunlight, eyes squinting against the harsh light as he began to descend the ramp. The bustle of activity outside mirrored that within. Is this all worth it?

  Worth it for me?

  The questions plagued him night and day. They were a constant thrum of low-level static that seemed to eat at the bandwidth of his concentration. The final question seemed a subsonic perturbation running through every thought, a clarion call so constant it almost became invisible, until jarred by another thought.

  Feet struck hard-packed dirt, and he leveled out and began walking towards the command tent. A sound snaked through the air, snapping his head to the right. He hesitated, on the verge of running back to the Wendigo, walking problems or not, just as the Balac VTOL burst over the foliage canopy, angling in for a steep descent, the dragon symbol large on its side. Wind whistled between teeth. Not another assault. Not another . . .

  His thoughts trailed off as the Balac swept into the clearing, a cyclone of detritus whipping through the area. Fresh bullet holes and a carbonized slash from an energy weapon spoke of recent combat. Very recent.

  Heedless of the spinning blades, Kisho raced towards the craft just as it touched down. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of Tivia emerging from her tent, beginning to move towards the Balac, albeit at a more sedate pace. A Combine soldier leapt out of the door, tangling with the wired headset before he wrenched it off and tossed it back through the door, then moved towards Tivia, but Kisho intercepted.

  “What has occurred?”

  The man looked Kisho up and down, then moved past without a word or a hitch in stride. Kisho balled fists against the impertinence, then clenched further as he followed the man towards Tivia. After a dozen paces the soldier met the Star colonel and immediately spoke.

  “Star Colonel, our command has been attacked.”

  “What casualties?”

  “Twenty-five, including seven warriors before we could rally. That includes Tai-i Jing Smith.”

  Kisho stiffened at the news. Once again, the audacity of this Bannson Raider upped Kisho’s respect another notch. Yet, simultaneously, the blow of losing Smith sparked resentment. Not over the warrior’s death—the reaper came when it would to a soldier. No, resentment because they’d not finished their own personal battle. One more failed task. He abruptly feared to peer behind him, for the trail of failed and broken tasks, of shattered promises, stretching like a cemetery line of crosses marching into the distance.

  “Perhaps we were wrong to keep our command centers separated.” Tivia’s voice brought him back.

  The Combine soldier nodded, as though unsure what to say.

  “Do you need assistance?” she continued.

  The soldier bobbed his head, as though on a string, nerves finally coming through. “Acting Tai-i Tolin requests additional forces to resecure the area.”

  Tivia glanced in Kisho’s direction; though she made no real eye contact, facial tics and cant of shoulders screamed disappointment. A failure for me and a failure for you, quiaff, Star Colonel? He tried to find anger but only found a disappointment as deep and bottomless as the black hole at the center of the galaxy. Over his shoulder, the sound of another cross being raised echoed loudly.

  “We need to stop this. Now. Mystic, please find Mystic Tanaka and inform him of this situation. We will need his advice.”

  Because mine no longer suffices? The idea and dismissal burned, but not as much as the truth of the matter. He nodded sharply, turned, and stalked towards the mystic’s quarters.

  As though in a haze, he walked without understanding. I have lost my way. I have lost everything. Why am I here? I fail and every day that failure becomes more evident. Any day they will drag me from sleep and toss me to the wolves, declaring my fraud. My heresy.

  Of their own volition, his feet carried him to Tanaka’s tent. “Mystic,” he said curtly, through teeth unwilling to give ground, despite the growing certainty of an eventual loss. Silence greeted his call.

  Anger grew. No need to be rude, Mystic. You hate me, but there are forms to follow, even for us. “Mysttic,” he finally repeated, voice rising. Another half minute. “Mystic.” Just this side of a yell, as the anger boiled to a gout of steam and he yanked aside the tent flap and entered . . .

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nbsp; . . . to fall back outside to his knees, chest heaving, eyes wide, hands shaking, stomach heaving and mouth sucking at moisture to keep the vomit at bay, mind wiped clean of all thoughts but one: how?

  The liters of blood and horribly dismembered body of Mystic Tanaka did not faze him. As with Tai-i Smith, death came to everyone, warriors most of all. But this struck a nerve, hit at something lying at the core of Kisho’s lack of faith, yet never given voice, for the pain was too much. Nightmares rustled with black wings and hooked teeth.

  If I am a mystic and am supposed to see the path forward, how did I not foresee Tanaka’s death? How did Hisa not see it with all of her faith and come to ward this blow? How did the Oathmaster not foresee it?! A small voice spoke from a far corner of his rapidly darkening mind that the old man well might have seen it, but chose a path regardless. It was a voice easily lost to the cacophonic shrieking of a hundred different questions and exclamations that paralyzed him. Kisho’s calloused, trembling fingers gripped his face painfully, blocking out sight as though hoping to block out the inner eye as well.

  How?!

  22

  Kaona Island

  Wandessa Chain, Athenry

  Prefecture II, The Republic of the Sphere

  23 October 3136

  “How did this happen?” Tivia demanded, rigid figure looming over the entryway to Tanaka’s tent.

  “I do not know,” Kisho mumbled, lips numb as the rest of his body.

  “Of course you do not.”

  Though she spoke softly, so as not to carry to any of the others standing close, a Gauss pistol between the eyes would have been less painful. He flinched, though he responded before he could stop himself. “Savashri. I am a mystic, not a psychic.”

  Her cold eyes found his and they stared at one another, no answers evident in either depths, before they both turned to take in the scene of death.