Heretic's Faith

by Randall N Bills

  She canted her head for a moment, as though unwilling to bend, before responding. “And who is it?”

  “Kev Rosse.”

  Her mouth dropped open as though he had just spoken the name of the mystic caste genemother. “Why would he do that? He was just here. We have offered him sanctuary. He agreed.”

  “Aff, he agreed. He agreed that he would tell his people. But tell his people what?”

  She pursed lips, but did not respond, as the rumble of a ’Mech returning from what appeared to be a patrol entered the camp. Kisho waited until the pilot locked down the machine before continuing.

  “The Nova Cats in The Republic have lived apart from us for generations. And Kev Rosse has successfully forged a new identity in the Spirit Cats. A slice of all castes have followed his lead, his commands. The corruption by power is not wedded to Spheroids alone.”

  She nodded, and the minute changes in muscles as she spoke told a story as clear as a holovid sign at twenty paces. “But we have no wish to subjugate them. They are welcomed back with open arms.”

  Are they? Despite the old man’s words, doubts still worried, like scavengers at long-dead meat, at Kisho’s mission of bringing all Nova Cats within The Republic back into the fold. He shook his head, at his own questions as well as Tivia’s, though tension eased at the first real victory over Tivia. “It does not matter, because they do not know that. And in their world, every hand has been raised against them. Why should this be different?”

  She scratched her head, then pulled at her ear in a decidedly uncharacteristic move. “But kill mystics.” Not a question, but a statement. A statement from a Clansman born and bred to revere mystics. Despite her personal doubts of Kisho, her devotion deserved only respect. If only all Nova Cats held her commitment to the mystics.

  “But they have not. And despite their ignorance, they must know the deaths would sow havoc among our forces in The Republic. Enough chaos and they can take advantage of the situation, either to attack, or to escape the entire region.”

  She mulled the words over, before reluctantly nodding in agreement. “I hear and understand your reasoning, Mystic. Where will you go to find him? He will be five jumps and more distant by now.”

  I have no idea. “Where my visions take me.” He waited for the gag response, but it failed to materialize. Perhaps it became easier with time. Finally. Or perhaps I am returning to the control of the game I held for so long?

  He stepped down beside Tivia and walked towards the command tent to begin the preparations.

  27

  Light in Darkness, Scout-class JumpShip

  Pirate Point, Addicks

  Prefecture III, The Republic of the Sphere

  28 December 3136

  “How much longer must we wait?” Captain Bulic said.

  Kisho actually glanced up, wondering what had changed. You did not grit your teeth, Captain. What has happened? But he could find no outward sign, despite the captain’s expansive ability to project his thoughts like bright halogens for even a blind man to see.

  Kisho slowly set hands against the holoprojection table, and carefully—no disengaging mag-slips—pushed fully upright, bringing to bear the authority of the office he’d been using like an overcharged stun staff to bully everyone the last few weeks. “Until I say otherwise. Quiaff, Captain?”

  The words hung in the air, a visceral challenge, which the captain appeared on the verge of accepting, before acquiescing with a minute nod, a sickly smile. A twist and a muscle spasm sent the man shooting towards the far side of the small bridge of the Scout- class JumpShip, as though something urgent suddenly called for his personal attention.

  Right.

  Mask still firmly in place, Kisho glanced back at the holovid and began running numbers once more. Something to do to pass the time. The ever-expanding infrared signature of the arrived JumpShip had passed their position days ago, but still they must wait for an affirmation of inbound DropShips. Addicks was surprisingly busy, and four JumpShips had already passed through, only one unlimbering a DropShip, but it proved innocent. Perhaps this would be the one. Perhaps.

  “How many times can you run these numbers, Mystic?” Kopek said.

  Kisho met his subordinate’s question with hard eyes, but relented. Unlike the captain, whose challenge rode every word like a strangling viper, Kopek’s honesty shone clear, bright—a real desire for an answer, not an excuse to pressure him into movement. “Until they appear, or the numbers generate a better percentage and we move.”

  “But you know how dangerous this is, quiaff?” The words came out on an even keel, without an ounce of fear. Simply a statement, by an observant subordinate. Not an admission of the mortal danger of the situation.

  “Aff.”

  “If we are found—”

  “We will not be,” Kisho responded, cutting the man off. He tapped into the console, sharpening the focus on the map lasers already projected in three dimensions: centered on the world of Addicks, which rode the border between Prefectures III and IV, three jumps from Athenry, and well outside any space currently claimed by the Draconis Combine. All the worlds within a jump sprouted into existence, as though multicolored measles popping up on ethereal, black skin. Kisho snapped a wrist towards the diagram as it began to rotate, and tags rolled into position, with system names, known jump points, standard travel and recharge times, and more.

  “Ankaa, Heah, Deneb Kaitos, Small World, Errai, Towne, Ozawa. And that is not all, only the closest. And Warlord Katana’s O5P intelligence, filtered through our own information and cross-referenced against known ISF information”—he cocked an eyebrow, eliciting a tight smile from Kopek at the reliability of that information to be uncensored for their use—“shows most of these worlds attacked and owned by multiple factions over the last few years. Spirit Cats. Steel Wolves. Highlanders. Even the warlord’s Dragon’s Fury. With the full assault of the Dragon, the continuing incursions of the raptors and House Liao, and now rumors of unrest within the government structure of The Republic itself? Do I need to draw a Clan warrior a larger illustration? Quineg.”

  “Neg. But it is still dangerous. The warlord might find . . . issue.”

  “Aff. But that is the price I must pay.”

  “The price we will all pay.”

  He accepted the words and the responsibility, and spoke as though answering an unasked question. “The worlds have been stripped of forces. There is nothing here.”

  Kopek nodded slightly, accepting Kisho’s distancing. “Nothing but Spirit Cats.”

  “Exactly. Spirit Cats. The message Kev bears is not something to be broadcast, or entrusted to even the closest confidants. Especially as his message will be one of betrayal and violence against us.” The remembered pain awoke, stabbing out with piercing claws and hot blades, as though only yesterday the blood of Hisa slicked palms with wasted essence. He breathed raggedly, wrenching control over a raging, endless fire within.

  “But we have been here almost three weeks.”

  “He could have made several stops.”

  “And yet he could have come here directly, then moved on. From what you have shown me, there are strong indications he has several Stars as far away as Prefecture VII.”

  Eyes pinned and cut, before Kisho could leash them. He did not challenge, or usurp the right of vengeance. Simple questions. Questions of a superior subordinate. Of a sudden, a need to extend a hand, even to a little-known inferior sparked. “If we survive this,” Kisho began, licking lips against uncertainty and the strangeness of such overt action. “If we survive all of this, upon our return, I will nominate you for the next Trial of Bloodright for your Bloodname House.”

  The other man jerked back, almost unsticking his own mag-slips, before lashing out a right hand to secure himself. “Mystic . . . I . . .” He abruptly stopped and bowed low, keeping it well past that required for even the lowliest labor castemen for the highest mystic, much less two warriors.

  “It is the least I can do for
your solid support, despite all the . . . strangeness of the last months.”

  The other man slowly straightened. “You are Mystic.” He said it as though it said it all. Yet a question shone bright in the other man’s still-stunned eyes and several long moments passed before he found the courage to voice it. “Mystics are not known for their nominations. In fact, they are almost never known to nominate, regardless of their prerogative.”

  Very perceptive. He struck a half grin, tried to keep the eternal pain—no, a dull ache after so many years—at bay. “It is not something we talk about.”

  “That you can nominate a warrior to wed his genes into the breeding program, to perhaps even have their blood mixed with the hallowed First Mystic, and yet you can never gain a Bloodname yourself?”

  Now Kisho’s mouth dropped open momentarily, before snapping shut, anger knotting shoulders into a hunch, furrows rippling forehead.

  The other man immediately bowed deeply, shame radiating from every muscle. “Mystic. I have spoken too much. On matters not worthy of me. I ask surkai.”

  And you should have it! Yet he stayed his hand, despite the desire to punish the impertinence. Thinned lips dropped back to a mocking wave. You honor him for his perception, then seek to punish him because he uses it?

  “Neg. Let it pass. You will have my nomination if it comes to that.”

  An alarm began in the room, spreading from a dropped rock in the sudden still pool of the bridge. All eyes searched towards the blinking light, found it. Dead silence, beyond the noise, gripped the bridge in hasty impatience as the technician pored over incoming information before turning towards Kisho and nodding, a smile growing on his lips. “We have verified the drive emissions. It is him.”

  One part of his brain noted the man turned to him before his captain, which would only infuriate. Yet he did not care. Dreams of blood sang in the air, and Kev Rosse would pay.

  “Let them begin interface, so their sensors will be nullified, then begin our own run to Addicks.”

  Kaona Island

  Wandessa Chain, Athenry

  Prefecture II, The Republic of the Sphere

  Josef chewed on his lip, watching through binoculars as Lieutenant Collins piloted the VTOL into the lightly defended Dragon’s Fury encampment. The old, dented Karnov UR Transport swung its twin turboprops from a forward position slowly into a vertical one as it slowed after clearing the trees and began to set down.

  Shit. I hate this. Dammit. Should be me, not that kid. But it was a plan. The best plan they could come up with. Even Ben agreed, damn him. After all, the snakes made the mistake of using local vehicles to ferry in supplies from other islands. And it took some time, but they finally managed to bushwack one of the pilots. Then a series of remote-controlled, jury-rigged tube-launching rockets and the last of their high-grade explosives, setting off the illusion of a light firefight at the edges of the kitties base, to draw their attention and pull reinforcements from the snakes’ camp. And they’d long cracked their secure channels, so using the right transmission codes to land without raising eyebrows wasn’t a problem. ’Course, after this, even the dense kitties would know we broke their codes. Then again, after this, it shouldn’t matter.

  He wanted bacco so bad he wanted to start chewing on his hand, or capping snakes or kitties. Or Mom. Yeah, that would do. At least for a half day.

  I should’ve given you that kiss, lieutenant. He balled up fists in anger and turned away from the landing VTOL, burying face (of course he wasn’t crying) as landing gear touched well-packed dirt . . .

  . . . and a detonation seemed to rattle the whole island as five tons of handmade explosives turned the VTOL’s metal skin into shrapnel slicing down personnel like a giant harvester even before the expanding ball of gas shattered bones and the firestorm after it stripped flesh and detonated stored supplies of ammunition nearby, creating an endless cacophony of confusion and death.

  Already up and running—he would lead this charge, after Collins’ sacrifice!—the team of infantry, honed by a year and more of guerrilla fighting, stormed the DropShip’s deployed ramp (after all, the Raiders wouldn’t dare attack the base so directly twice, especially when we’re off fighting the kitties, right?), before anyone could even raise a weapon in response after the horrific damage of the explosions.

  A whirling maelstrom of blood and dead flesh, much of it from his own troops, slicked deck plating before they gained the bridge in one final push. Panting, excited, yet grieving for those of his troops who would not leave this stinking hellhole, he tapped the command into his comm unit, giving the clear for the remaining vehicles and ’Mechs to rise out of a small arroyo only a kilometer distant and arrive, guns blazing, to finish off the last of the resistance.

  He slowly sank down into the captain’s seat as Ben entered the bridge, limping, a huge gash over his right eye. Despite everything, despite the urgency that still vibrated through all his men to evacuate before the other kitties’ ship could lift off and intercept, they both shared a tired smile. It was over.

  At least for now.

  28

  Near the Felldowns, Frankalia

  Addicks, Prefecture III

  The Republic of the Sphere

  30 December 3136

  A pair of aerospace fighters thundered overhead like impending doom waiting to fall. And I am that doom, come for you, Galaxy Commander.

  Through the forward viewscreen, Kisho made out a towering column of sooty, black smoke off to the far left, wending upwards many kilometers before shearing away under high, upper-atmospheric winds. They would not be escaping through their DropShip.

  He remembered the feel, even from afar—sensors jamming all channels and ignoring the demanding, then frantic comm burst from the Spirit Cats—as fighter-borne laser and autocannon fire sliced through heavy armor, shattered the egg-shaped craft, secondary explosions vomiting balls of fire as ammo storage and fuel tanks detonated.

  Yes, a good beginning.

  The ’Mech jostled particularly hard, dropping slightly into an unseen depression, rattling teeth and bones, snapping his attention back to their rapid forward deployment. The legs of the Wendigo stabbed down and rended earth in great gouts of wet, flying chunks of sod and worms and insects, squirming with terrified alarm at the burst of light and movement. A good day for a battle. A very good day.

  “Mystic,” the voice of Alpha Flight’s Point commander effervesced. “Spirits have been cornered. Quadrant forty-three by twenty-seven. Approximately twenty kilometers from your current position.”

  Fingers flew to switches and keys, toggling the radar and topographical maps, inputting the information. A red triangle—in a circle, for approximate known position—beamed balefully, as though it were an enigmatic eye, pushing back against the furious need of Kisho’s revenge.

  So close? “Verify, Alpha Flight.”

  “Verified, Mystic. Twice.”

  He let the exasperation pass without comment. Are they turning around to meet us?

  “Mystic, we have them outnumbered. Why are they turning their formation?” That Kopek’s words mirrored his thoughts did not surprise anymore. The man will make an excellent leader someday. He knows the questions to ask.

  “I do not know.” His mind mulled over several different scenarios while he subconsciously guided the Wendigo with pedals and slight adjustments to the throttle, as the Nova Cats raced across the rolling prairie, dotted with small lakes like brushes of crystal-clear sky meeting earth and an endless, blanket patchwork’s worth of small farming settlements.

  “Reinforcements?”

  “Perhaps, though I do not think so. We have a clear accounting of their forces.”

  “It could be wrong, quiaff?”

  “Aff, of course.” He paused for a moment, face altering without conscious thought, as he plumbed the depths of his mind before answering further, wondering if the lies were becoming so easy they no longer felt like a lie. “It is not.”

  “Aff, Mystic.” T
he tailored response of a believer, despite the heretic’s costume worn for so many long, harsh months in the fires of The Republic.

  “Alpha Flight,” he said as he changed back to the fighter frequency. “Can you pin them in place?”

  “Of course, Mystic. They are pinned. Though fuel levels are reaching critical and return fire has almost relegated my wingman to overflights.”

  “Understood.” Ever conscious, despite the unquenchable thirst for blood that pushed him, Kisho managed to keep the ultimate goals of the Nova Cats within The Republic in mind. “Do not risk either fighter unnecessarily in pinning them down. If they break away, pursue as best able, before returning for refueling. Quiaff?”

  “Aff, Mystic.”

  Silence descended as the fast-moving vehicles and ’Mechs loped across the ground, hungry felines scenting blood and prey cornered after too long a hunt. The heavy vibrations and the side to side movement as the Wendigo pounded along lulled Kisho fully into the moment, dousing the human side and pulling forth the animal locked within through millennia of civilized behavior.

  But war is never civilized and mankind excels at it like nothing else. And we Clans take it to an art form unlike any in history.

  Soon the tones of radar recognition at extreme ranges—still well beyond weapon lock—hummed through numerous ’Mech and tank cockpits. The fertile ground, previously overflowing with an abundance of wildflowers, grasses, and trees dotting the landscape like overzealous mushrooms in a rain forest, even on the uncultivated farmlands, slowly gave way to more stunted growth as the ground began to rise sharply, the water table falling away. Rocky patches appeared as the malevolent eye of a single, large threat icon on the screen shattered into multiple blips, like a stone golem broken, yet reanimated into a host of smaller demons, all threatening. Your obakemono, Kurita Yori-san. He chuckled darkly.