Heretic's Faith

by Randall N Bills

  Two people in nondescript jumpsuits carefully moved about the room, numerous tags already placed. The constant strobe and whir of a holocamera knifed into Kisho’s off-kilter equilibrium, threatening to overbalance him, cleaving him in twain on the sword of his nightmare. The other moved slowly, head canting to different angles as though seeing things only he could perceive: a smear of blood (head canted slightly to the left); an amputated leg below the knee, pants meticulously cut, but flesh mutilated (head canted over to the right); palms viciously lacerated, fingers untouched, clean (head canted to the right until ear almost touched shoulder)—all while talking into a handheld recording device in a voice too soft for anyone else to discern. Every few minutes both men would retreat to a large toolboxlike container—they called it a forensic kit?—and retrieve some item, which they put to use in a way only they might fully understand.

  “Civilians,” he muttered. We allow civilians to touch a mystic?

  “These are not civilians,” someone said.

  Kisho turned slightly to find the helicopter pilot who originally brought word of the assault on the Kurita encampment. After the man became aware of the situation and Tivia dispatched a force to secure the area, a brief discussion between the two sent the Balac lofting into the growing darkness, only to return less than twenty minutes later. Kisho barely managed to regain his feet at that point, as the pilot, Tivia, and two casually dressed men immediately sequestered the tent and went to work.

  “ISF.”

  Kisho immediately looked again and swore vehemently, causing Tivia to glance his way in annoyance before resuming her own vigil, while the pilot started and took a step back.

  How could I miss the signs? Death hanging on their sleeves, despite the conservative look and low-key demeanor. Though all too easy to blame the shocking events of Tanaka’s death on Kisho’s ongoing struggles, the laughter of the dead mystic mocked from the grave. Despite all that had occurred, he would not have missed such obviousness.

  Internal Security Force. Of course the Combine would have attached such individuals to the Dragon’s Fury as a consequence of the coordinator’s support. Not DEST—no, the elite commandos would be too much support. But a few nondescript individuals placed here and there, bringing their unique skills, when needed. After all, who thought to include any of our own Watch intelligence personnel?

  The coppery tang of blood wallowed in the room like a beached and bloated whale on a too-bright summer’s day, despite the rapidly cooling twilight. He swallowed, tongue too thick.

  And even if they were here, would they be up to this type of investigation? Who would have thought it would be needed?

  “The Raider. He will pay.”

  His internal dialogue continued, then stuttered to a halt as Kisho finally understood her statement. “No,” he got out before thinking.

  “No?” Her response came low, as cool, challenging eyes sought his. “And how, Mystic, do you know this?” The gauntlet slapped hard and ringing into his face, before falling to the ground.

  How do I know? Some vision? Anything? No. Of course not. Nothing at all. But still . . . “He would not do this.”

  She cocked her head, as though examining an all too weakened animal, ready for the slaughter. “Did he not just assassinate a half dozen people with a laser rifle? Please, let me know of your vision, so that we can know how to proceed. I am sure these civilians would be very appreciative.”

  Even she noticed. He sought anger and resentment, but found only emptiness. And a chasm growing by the minute, at her all too blatant words. Will it happen now? Does she blame me for the loss of Tanaka? Has the time come to burn the heretic at the stake? He bit his lips until blood threatened, desperately casting about for something. Anything. “It is a large step from a surgical strike to this monstrosity. If he would dare this, why wait until now? Why not begin weeks ago? A terror campaign of mutilations might work against a lesser military. He has no experience with Nova Cats.”

  She started to speak, then paused as her eyes took on a faraway cast, before she responded. “Perhaps, Mystic. Perhaps. But if not this Raider, then who?” Another blatant challenge.

  Hisa! My walls are crumbling. Something seemed to be changing within Tivia. Her turning aside of obvious questions concerning Kisho’s abilities, or even his commitment to the mystic caste, seemed to be at an end. Like a caged animal, his mind beat against bars, trying to find an escape. I am undone. I am found out. I am . . .

  A sudden thought blossomed like a ray of sunlight piercing an endless, looming cloud bank, as his face unconsciously slackened and then resumed normalcy. He knew what he must do. Knew there could be no other choice, despite the consequences. They did not need him here; his constant failures were evidence enough.

  He unstuck his tongue and spoke. “I must go on a vision quest.”

  Tivia looked startled for a moment, then anger thinned lips and raised eyebrows. “Now. You wish to go on a vision quest now?” She took a step towards him, closing the distance, latent violence shimmering along skin.

  A calm spread like a cooling balm to enflamed skin. Aff. This is what I must do. The righteousness of his caste, missing for so many weeks, seemed to settle onto his shoulders like a mantle, while he drew up straight from the accustomed slouch of long, long days. As though fitting back into a role long unused—he ignored the inner clamor of questions still battering, despite the newfound resolve—a mask of arrogance morphed his features into cool detachment.

  “I do not ask, Star Colonel,” he began, voice stronger and more crafted than before he began the journey to The Republic. “A mystic goes on a vision quest when called.”

  Despite misgivings as plain in the set of her shoulders and mouth as the blood-soaked ground behind her, long years of inculcation could not be ignored, especially in the face of Kisho’s suddenly commanding presence. She slowly bowed in acquiescence.

  He immediately turned away, booted feet slapping hard dirt, mind already casting towards his ultimate destination. Usually a vision quest meant long hours or days of contemplation to determine where to proceed, and might last weeks, if not months. But he already knew. Knew where he must go to find a vision. To find help.

  To find . . .

  23

  Bannson’s Raiders Bivouac

  Athenry, Prefecture II

  The Republic of the Sphere

  1 November 3136

  Damn you, Mother.

  Captain Josef Yoland rearranged his jewels (wouldn’t think about the crotch rot), while chewing savagely on the end of a well-worn pen—three hundredth time trying to quit bacco and it looked like this time he might actually succeed. ’Course, had nothing to do with him trying.

  Oh, no.

  Had everything to do with this stinking hellhole of a planet and eating weeds ’cause foodstuffs were almost completely gone and just trying to find potable water was becoming impossible and when you raided the enemy, you actually grabbed ammunition and spare parts and left the food, because you only had so much time in an objective raid and the enemy would kill you quicker than starvation if your autocannons ran dry or the giant rents in your armor weren’t patched and you had to choose the lesser of two evils and when it came to bacco, it’d become so scarce it might as well have been caviar passed out by the high-and-mighty exarch himself. Last wads he’d scavenged, he ended up handing out to men in the makeshift hospital they’d set up. They deserved it more than him, after all.

  He peered at the map spread before him, with pieces of dirty, worn, and torn paper dotting the landscape like forgotten memories, numbers of known attackers and defenders scribbled with the pen he just knew would run out of ink any second, trying to find the light of day, ignoring the now continual stomach rumblings and the bone-creaking strain of too many long weeks without adequate sleep.

  Damn you, Mother.

  “We’re done, Cap,” Ben said, his short summation a knife through the never-ending tangle of thoughts spiraling in a tight circle in Josef’s he
ad.

  He glanced over at his right-hand man to find light blue eyes and that ever-ready-to-make-you-smile angel pasta the man called hair. But this time the usual mirth was lacking and the hair actually looked as if it’d gone thinner in the last few weeks. Josef ran a tired hand through his own hair, feeling the grime and grease caked in after a week without a shower (water given to the wounded who needed it). Is it thinner as well? Could almost feel it, as he leaned forward once more on the rickety table, slightly bemused—in a totally exhausted sort of way—that the table actually survived everything they’d gone through.

  “Yeah,” he finally coughed out, rancid bile piling up on the back of his tongue at the admission.

  Silence took the room, broken by the sounds of camp around the makeshift tent, as they both studied the inevitability of it all. Regardless of their brilliant and unorthodox tactics, Kurita and the Nova Cats simply had the forces to win in an attrition fight, even with the decapitation they gave the damn snakes. And that’s what it had become.

  “Shit.”

  “You said it, Cap.”

  “How long?”

  Shoulders slumped.

  “That bad, eh?” Josef tried for a half smile and some levity, but Ben’s blue eyes reflected only darkness. Captain Yoland slowly shook his head, returning to the map, but finding no solace. He began to pace in the small confines of the tent.

  You cursed me, Mother. Damn you. Go ahead and fall into your hole. I’ll find it later and water the weeds. A stale, hot breeze ruffled his too-long hair, scraping harshly across sandpapery dry skin. He stopped midstride, and revulsion rippled through him as realization dawned.

  I don’t smell it. The vile, sulfur stink of this place. He’d become accustomed to it. He’d actually gotten used to it.

  He slammed his fist several times into his thigh in rage, turning to face Ben. “We’ve got to leave this place.”

  The other man leaned back from the table, scratching perpetually sweat-soaked hair while a small, almost wounded smile finally morphed lips out of a weeks-long grimace. “Um, Cap, you want to tell me how we going to do that? In case you hadn’t noticed, we got no DropShip and Bannson doesn’t take too kindly to deserters.”

  “Fuck Bannson,” he said, fury making him shake.

  Ben shrugged, as though it was no big deal to him, but he still scratched at his head—his telltale he was still worried. “Okay,” he responded, pulling out the word like long taffy.

  Josef continued pacing, fixing his eyes on Ben as though to hammer his points home with the laser precision with which he’d executed the Combine officer. “Bannson’s deserted us. Left us here to rot and die while he’s banging some Capellan whore. Good men who signed up for his dream of equality of the masses against the nobility. And now he’s shacked up with one? Time to cut our losses.”

  “Okay,” Ben once more drawled out, not sounding completely convinced, but still he moved on. “We still got to get off this rock. And when we do, what then?”

  “What then? The universe is at war, my friend. And though we’ve taken a beating, we’ve got hardened troops here. Veterans all, baptized by fire in a way few commands are nowadays. Mercenaries are already in high demand and that demand’s only going to increase. How does Yoland’s Raiders sound?”

  Light blue eyes rose a shade from their sheathing darkness, head slowly nodding as though possibly warming to Josef’s idea, before a soft chuckle shook Ben at the name. “That still leaves the problem of getting off this rock.”

  “There’re two DropShips right now on this rock.”

  “Okay.”

  “Ben, if you say that one more time, I’m going to stick my foot up your ass until you can taste the dirt on my boots.”

  They both shared a tired chuckle, but a laugh regardless, the second from Ben in one day! The sound was a precious commodity. “So, we just going to take one?” Ben finally responded.

  “Yup.”

  Ben looked at Josef speculatively, then slowly nodded, as a true, mischievous smile peeked through endless thunder clouds.

  “Okay.”

  24

  Outskirts of Memphis

  Epimethius, Styx

  Prefecture II, The Republic of the Sphere

  5 November 3136

  “What have you done?” Hisa whispered.

  Kisho breathed deeply, teeth clenched tight. The aches from the pounding gravities of the last twelve days felt like someone had taken a myomer-synching wrench to the length and breadth of his body. At one point he almost relented, allowing the DropShip crew to pull back on the terrible and constant thrust pushing relentlessly against their bodies with two standard gravities of weight. But something pushed, demanding he cut down on travel time as much as possible. And when a mystic requests, most Nova Cats take it as the most strident demand.

  Yet all that paled into insignificance next to the horror in her voice. The horror that twitched muscles until he closed eyes against her unbridled reaction to his sudden appearance at her tent flap.

  “Kisho, what have you done?”

  He searched for words to describe the burning need to come, to speak, to find. But only a vast stretch of desert met an inner eye where once an oasis of firm decision and coherent thoughts flowered. Words died unspoken.

  “How could you leave your command? How could you leave another mystic’s body to be overseen by any but another mystic?”

  “Tivia will oversee it.” He wished the words back as soon as they fell into the room.

  “But you were there. You are a mystic. It was your responsibility.”

  “A vision . . .” He began, opening eyes, only to trail off at the anguish effusing every magnificent line of her face.

  “But you do not . . .” She trailed off as well.

  “What?!” he demanded, stepping fully into the Spartan enclosure for the first time. The tent flap cut off the harsh yellow-white sunlight and the far-off sounds of sporadic gunfire as Republic guerillas tried once again to retake a portion of Memphis.

  “Believe.” Her soft voice a shocking contrast to the anger of his response. “You do not believe. You said so yourself.”

  The words stuck like shredding shivs from a needler—splitting, painful. He longed to touch her mouth, to smooth away the sorrow marring soft lips, but knew they mirrored his. “I need . . .”

  “What?” Though spoken softly, she remained rigid, as though keeping taut against emotions raging within. “You need faith?” She slowly shook her head. “Do you not feel the déjà vu? This conversation repeating itself again and again? How many times can we speak of the same thing, Kisho?”

  “Until I understand!” The tension of wracked emotions and physical exhaustion enveloped him, until he sank to the floor. To have come all this way, only to find . . . nothing. To find loathing from the one who should understand.

  She swayed forward, as though to take a step, then snapped back into a stiff stance. “That is what is wrong, Kisho. That is where you fail every time. You try to understand. And there is no understanding. It either is, or it is not. As I have said before, you search and search for something, never realizing it is within and has always been there. You cannot find it. You cannot understand it. You simply accept, and believe. And it will grow.”

  “But what is it?!” he growled, pounding fists into already-tired leg muscles until tears tracked down his cheeks. Only with Hisa would he show such weakness.

  “I cannot tell you. You have to find it for yourself.”

  “Savashri!” he yelled, the pain of the moment clouding out the emotions held dear for the one person who seemed to accept him, despite everything. “You will not tell me!”

  Hisa mirrored his tears, her head slowly canting forward until salty drops hung on the end of her nose, splashing silently to the uncaring floor. “I have shown you, Kisho, but you will not listen. I do not know what else to do. You will not understand.”

  “And Tanaka did?!” Loathing coated words he could not stop himself from s
peaking.

  She did not respond, or even look up, but simply turned away. The act seared, a universe-sized firebrand to burn him away. Of all the people to turn away from him. Of . . . all . . . the . . . people!

  He bit his tongue until it bled to keep from spitting any more hateful words. Trembling with emotion, he staggered painfully and almost fell out of the door flap, heading towards a small one-man tent already assigned to him at the other edge of the encampment.

  Visions! Savashri. There are no visions, surat. There is not truth to find! There is only fumbling in the darkness, naivety and stupidity. I follow an urge to come and she turns away from me in disgust. Disgust! My fault for beginning to believe.

  The shouts of a technician as the man swerved a J-37 transport out of the way to avoid crushing Kisho went unheard as he stumbled on—glassy-eyed, slack-jawed, unhinged. Kisho finally found the designated area at the outskirts, crouched down, and bumbled into the tent, collapsing to the ground fully clothed. He welcomed the oblivion of sleep too long denied.

  * * *

  A fantastical field of white flowers (cherry blossoms?) spreads in all directions, stretching to a distance he should not be able to see. Yet each petal, each green stem leaps to sight as though he cradles every one in upturned palms. In the middle (yet there is no middle, or sides, and he is not in the middle, but above, or under) a massive throng of outlandish creatures cavort: proud, graceful, sanguine nova cats; ethereal chimeras with strong, feline features; dragons, yet not dragons, stunted, dull of eye and scale. Some lie, heads together in animal camaraderie, others lapping the morning dew from petals, chewing stems; carnivores turned herbivores. Yet something dark and foreboding stirs and strikes. Something of blackness and malevolency, eyes burning, stirs the creatures to anger and sudden savagery. The ethereal cats and pseudodragons ignore one another, falling famished on sweet nova cat meat. Crimson stains white fields in defilement, while whiskers flick unconcernedly, split eyes casually blinking, tips of pink tongues tasting air, while scales and ghostly claws rend flesh and devour it with the sounds of snapping bones and crunching cartilage. Feline lips spread in all too human smiles as they die, unaware . . . and the ghostly felines and stunted dragons begin to choke and die, leaving a perversion and corruption.