Exodus road

by Blaine Lee Pardoe

  Pain, harder and deeper than anything he had ever felt before. Every cell of his skin seemed to sear with a pain that cut deep to the bone. A bright white light seemed to take him, and all sound melted away. Death. It had to be death. If only the pain would go as well. . . Blindly, he reached into the light, groping either for the visage of death or for the ejection control, whichever he could find first.

  2

  Smoke Jaguar DropShip Hunter's Den

  Outbound for Nadir Jump Point

  Tukayyid

  Free Rasalhague Republic

  28 May 3052

  It was the time of his eternal nightmare, a blackness of night that seemed to have no end no matter where he moved in it. In the nightmare, he saw the fire demons all around him. They were shaped like humans, but were made of fire. Like People perpetually engulfed in fire.

  He was afraid in the nightmare, trying to run from them, He had been afraid before as a youth, but not like this. This was an indescribable terror when the demons burst forth, their unintelligible screams somehow muffled in his ears. Trent tried to run, but the furious shapes merely reappeared in front of him, bursting into existence from nowhere.

  He didn't always run. At times he tried to punch or kick the fire demons, using every shred of his warrior's training and prowess. But he was no match for the flames. Worse yet was the pain that came when he did manage to strike out at them. He screamed, his voice reverberating strangely in the distortion of the dream. He knew the screams were his. And that the odor of cooking flesh was his own. This was no ordinary nightmare. It was beyond that.

  What frightened him most was that the dream never Seemed to end. He tried to wake up, push himself to the edge of it, but he couldn't seem to get free. Even the pain and fear were not enough to wake him. Still, he kept on trying. He had to. If this wasn't a nightmare, then it had to be hell. Trent didn't believe in hell, but if he were dead, what else could this be?

  Fear was no stranger to him, but as a warrior he had learned to overcome it. This, however, was a fear that could not be vanquished. The flaming demons, their roaring, their searing, defied him. Amid the sound of his own screams, he heard a distant laughter. It was the fire demons. They mocked him, they eluded him, they tormented him. The sound was worse than the flames, the rage of his frustration burning him even more.

  Then he heard a voice. This was something new, something that had not happened before. The voice seemed to call his name, echoing in his brain and heart. He rushed past one of the flaming demons, which reached out for him with its fiery fingers, singeing his arm. Trent paid it no heed. It felt like his feet were encased in lead, but he pushed on, moving toward the sound of the voice. Suddenly the darkness came alive with both light and movement. He tried to focus on the images, but they were blurred. As he moved forward, the light seemed to fade entirely.

  "Star Captain?" the voice said, this time not echoing but clear. Trent opened his left eye and saw a face hovering over him. It was female and someone he didn't know. A film slightly blurred her image, but when he tried to raise his hand to wipe it clear, he couldn't. One of my eyes will not open . . .

  "Do not attempt to move. You are aboard the hospital ship Hunter's Den en route to Hyner. I am MedTech Karen. You have been badly injured and are currently restrained while your wounds are treated."

  "Victory, quiaff?" His voice was barely audible through parched lips and a dry throat.

  The MedTech lowered her head slightly. "You ask of Tukayyid. On the third of May we departed the field of battle. Only the Wolves won both their objectives. The Jade Falcons and the Ghost Bears each fought to a draw, but with grave losses. We live now under a truce with ComStar."

  Truce . .. neg! Trent's mind felt sluggish, but he understood the implications of her words. The battle of Tukayyid was to have been the proxy for control of Terra. If the Clans had won, then Terra would be theirs, it being only a matter of time before the rest of the Inner Sphere fell to their might. A loss meant not only dishonor but that the Clans must halt their invasion for fifteen years. A warrior like Trent would surely be too old to participate in the front lines when the invasion began again. Worse yet, the grand crusade of the Clans to retake the Inner Sphere and form a new Star League was on hold, ground to a halt.

  It was as if he had traded one nightmare for another. The warrior caste of the Clans was nothing like the militaries of the Inner Sphere, which allowed their warriors to fight on into old age, decrepit and past their prime. No, the Clans kept their warrior blood hot and young. New warriors, genetically bred and then honed in the sibkos, manned the front-line Jaguar units. Older warriors, those now past the age of thirty or so, were cast aside to solahma units that offered little hope of honorable death.

  Trent had no idea how long he had been unconscious, how long he had been wrestling with the flaming demons of his nightmares, but now the horror of that dream seemed preferable to the nightmare of waking reality. All hope was lost. All hope but one. And to that he clung.

  A bloodname.

  Star Colonel Benjamin Howell had promised his sponsorship. Despite the Smoke Jaguar defeat on the battlefield, Trent could still aspire to winning a bloodname. It meant survival beyond his days, a hope that his genetic legacy might one day serve the Clan further.

  "How long?" he croaked as the MedTech moistened his dry lips with a damp cloth. His upper lip felt swollen, as if he had been punched in the mouth.

  "You have been unconscious for twenty-six days. We dock with our JumpShip tomorrow. Do you remember what happened to you?"

  Trent closed his one eye and winced slightly. Yes, he did remember. He had saved Jez, done his duty. There had been a massive artillery barrage and the Com Guard assault. Then there had been flames and fire. The smell seemed to rise again to his nostrils, the odor of burning flesh.

  "Aff," he replied as she adjusted his bed position, raising him slightly so that he could see more than just the ceiling. The dull green color of the bulkhead walls told him that he was in an intensive care unit, and the designation of the ship as a hospital DropShip told him even more. He knew the colors all too well. It was not the first time in his life as a Jaguar warrior that he had been in such a place.

  Trent did not know what to think or say. He had been injured many times before, but never to the point of unconsciousness for such a long period. Had they induced unconsciousness as part of the healing? Memories of the fire and of the terrifying images of the nightmare played through his mind as he thought on what had happened.

  A new voice just outside his field of vision shattered his reverie. "How long has he been awake?"

  "A few minutes, sir," MedTech Karen's voice replied.

  "What does he know?"

  "Only the results of the battle and how long he has been unconscious. Nothing of the extent of his injuries." Her voice was pitched low, but her tone told him everything.

  Trent tried to stir his body to life, as if he were doing a physical inventory of himself. He shifted his feet, though only slightly and with an aching in his joints. Still, the legs and feet seemed to be there. His left arm was also responsive, but his right seemed immobile. Numb and lifeless, unable to obey the signals from his brain. My arm, have I lost my arm? And my eye, it is covered. Have I lost that too?

  "Star Captain Trent." It was the new voice, and now the face of an older man came into his field of vision. By his age and dress, the man was obviously a member of the scientist caste. Warriors never reached such advanced years, but the lower castes perpetuated the old traditions of keeping the aged active. "I am Doctor Shasta. Do you feel any pain?"

  "Neg," Trent said, voice weak but sounding clearer to his own ears. It was as if he was finding new strength with every breath, as if his body were waking from a long sleep. He felt no pain, but the disturbing absence of sensation in one arm and one eye left him wondering just what was the extent of his injuries.

  The one called Doctor Shasta, his hair stark white and deeply receded, stared down at Trent th
oughtfully. "You were badly burned. If not for the actions of our relief forces and your bondsman, you would have died."

  Bondsman? He remembered the warrior he had claimed as isorla, the one who had piloted the Crab so daringly. "How bad?" he stammered.

  "Your right arm and hand were badly burned. We have used myomer implant surgery to restore their mobility and control. I had to reinforce your bones with carbon filaments as well. It will be several more days before we can calibrate the arm for use. Your face was also burned severely, and I could not repair your right eye. We have budded you another from your gensamp, and it will be complete in several days. That is why your head is restrained. The growth matrix is mounted on your face."

  My eye is gone. They were growing him another, but how did a man fight in battle without his own two eyes? "Fight again, quiaff?" Trent asked in a rasping breath. His greatest fear was to hear that all this effort was being made to prolong his life with no hope that he would ever again lead men and women into battle.

  The wrinkled old doctor shook his head almost hesitantly, as if he was not saying all. "You will pilot a BattleMech again, Star Captain. There is more to your injuries, but we will save that for later, when the time is right. For now, you need nourishment and rest. MedTech Karen will help you eat, then we will induce sleep."

  Trent closed his left eye and felt a warm wet trickle down the side of his face. He clung to the words of Doctor Shasta. He would once again be able to serve the Clan, to stand and earn a bloodname in the Howell line. He would once again command warriors in battle. War must surely come again, and Trent swore to himself that he would be a part of it. This time, there would be no nightmares. He had faced the fire, he had survived it. He had met death, lain unconscious for many days. But he had come back. What could stand in his way now? Nothing would ever stop him again.

  * * *

  Trent awoke with the feeling of his entire universe seeming to pitch inward on him. He knew the sensation all too well, the nausea and disorientation of a hyperspace jump. The JumpShip and its DropShip riders had leaped from one star system to another, tearing a hole in the fabric of reality, if only for a millisecond. The disturbing sense of spatial vertigo common to a hyperspace jump had stirred him to consciousness.

  He opened his eye and saw the room. It was the sixth time he had been awake since his long period of unconsciousness, each one longer than the last. More important, he felt stronger each time, as if his body were doubling in strength with each awakening. He was always attended by MedTech Karen, whose face and hands had become familiar as she tended him. Even the synthetic rations tasted good to Trent, and that alone told him just how seriously he must have been injured.

  He was permitted the use of his left arm and that gave him control of the bed-angle controls. They had removed the bulky genetic accelerator from the right side of his face, which allowed him to lift the bed to a sitting position. He had used his left hand to feel the synthskin wraps in place on his other arm. He had also felt his face and the bandages that seemed to mummify half his head.

  This time Karen was not alone. Doctor Shasta stood at her side. Trent suddenly realized that the man's presence had significance, a sign perhaps of something more serious. "Is everything in order, quiaff?" he asked.

  Doctor Shasta cradled one arm at the elbow, chin resting in his hand as he studied Trent. His expression was one of concern, but he did not answer immediately. "We are going to have to change your dressings, Star Captain. The time has come to show you the extent of your injuries."

  "You told me I would pilot a 'Mech again," Trent said calmly. "For a warrior, there is no more."

  Doctor Shasta smiled as he spoke, but to Trent it looked like pity. "I have treated warriors for my entire career, Star Captain. Each caste carries its burdens as well as its privileges. You may yet learn that there is a higher price for the right to command in combat again."

  What was this? Insolence? By a member of a lower caste? Doctor Shasta reached out with a pair of scissors and began to remove the outer wrappings around Trent's head. Trent remained still, but his breath, much to his surprise, was racing. What am I afraid of, the words of a mere scientist? I will fight again. That is the only thing that matters.

  The entire process took ten long and tedious minutes. MedTech Karen handed Doctor Shasta a small mirror, which he in turn handed to Trent. Without hesitation, Trent held the mirror in front of his face and looked out with his one good eye at the image there.

  Only a single bandage remained, and it held a patch over his right eye. The flesh of his face was badly malformed. The skin was gone, covered only with a wet, almost glossy synthskin that eerily revealed the veins underneath. Half the hair on his head was gone, what was left apparently rescued only by the lining of his neurohelmet. All that remained of his right ear was a deformed bump of flesh. His nose did not bear any resemblance to its former state. It was almost as if his face had melted, leaving his nasal passages wide open and oozing with antiseptic cream.

  The skin that had been his upper lip was half gone on the far right, exposing his gums and teeth. Trent understood now why he had dribbled some of his liquids on his chin—or what was left of his chin. The once firm jaw, the genetic hallmark of the Howell bloodline, was now all but gone. The skin and muscle tissue had been so badly eaten away that only some synthetic skin covered the thin remaining tissue and bone there. The horrible scarring continued down his neck and ended there.

  Doctor Shasta had pulled off the dressings from his right arm, and Trent saw the price he had paid for ejecting and surviving. The hand seemed reddened but intact, but the forearm and upper arm were burned as horribly as if they had been exposed to the brimstone fires of hell itself. Replacing the lost muscle were myomer bundles, covered again with synthetic skin. The arm hung lifeless at his side, but somehow, Trent knew that it was functional. If anything, the myomer muscles would make the arm even stronger than before.

  "My face ..." was all he could say as he stared into the mirror.

  The doctor nodded. "The synthetic skin will protect you from infection and is more durable than your natural skin." Trent looked over at MedTech Karen and saw the look of pity in her eyes, and it stung him.

  "I bear the mark of a warrior," he said proudly, lowering the mirror. Such scars and marks show that I have no fear in combat, that I fight fiercely and without remorse. It will be a sign to all who see me that I possess the true heart of the Jaguar. But he also knew it would take time to get used to the face in the mirror. It was new, alien to him.

  Doctor Shasta nodded slowly. "For all the days of your life, Star Captain. Our medical science could easily repair the damage, but our warrior caste does not permit us to squander medical resources for the sake of vanity."

  Trent had no quarrel with that. The Clans, especially the Smoke Jaguars, abhorred waste. Such had been the way of the Clans since the time of Nicholas Kerensky. The Clans would never have survived without this policy. "I am not asking you to repair this damage. I will bear these marks with pride. They show me a true warrior to anyone with eyes to see."

  Doctor Shasta shook his head slightly. "As you desire, Warrior. I have done what members of my caste are required to do. I have healed your injuries to return you to active duty as a warrior. I have rebuilt you to the extent allowed that you might rejoin the ranks of those who fight in the name of the Smoke Jaguar."

  Trent smiled slightly. "Let those who see my face know that I did not run, but met the enemy head on."

  * * *

  Adept Judith Faber's last scream didn't go anywhere. The dark soundproofed room deep in the belly of the Smoke Jaguar DropShip Hartel absorbed her wailing as her interrogators talked above her limp body as if she wasn't there. She knew they must be outbound from Tukayyid, but she was only vaguely aware that she was on a ship. It was more like being in the bowels of hell. Judith could not see the faces of her tormentors, but she had endured their questions for several days.

  The memories since her captur
e were a blur, twisted by drugs and the pain of torture. She had been only half-conscious when taken prisoner by the Jaguars. They had wrapped a cord around her wrist several times, then herded her aboard a Drop-Ship. In passing, one of her guards had told her of the Com Guard victory on Tukayyid, but her joy had been short-lived. With deadly efficiency, they had begun to interrogate her. First just interview style, then with drugs, electrodes, and neurofeedback sensors. She was not surprised by their extreme measures. She had, in fact, learned of these techniques as part of her mission briefing. Knowing about them was one thing. Living through them was another. All Judith had was her own strong will, a thin veil between agony and insanity.

  "She passes, marginally," the deep voice said from outside her field of vision. It didn't matter to her any longer. The torment was almost too much to bear. She was ready to break, almost ready to tell her inquisitors the truth. Even death would have been a welcome release from the pain.

  "Narco-interrogation is very effective, but ComStar has shown itself to be resourceful in our past encounters," the lighter voice, almost female, said. "She could have been treated with blocking agents to evade our interrogation."

  "Is she at risk?"

  "Perhaps," the suspicious voice responded. "But doubtful. Only a handful of our people claimed bondsmen in the fighting on Tukayyid. I find it odd that she did not want to be repatriated with the other Com Guards we captured."

  "Her interrogation shows that she lost friends and subordinates in the fighting and that she felt much guilt for their deaths, even though she herself fought admirably. As we discussed yesterday, her guilt is deep, and it has proved to be a powerful weapon in breaking her thus far."