Exodus road

by Blaine Lee Pardoe

  Judith hung on the pause by the suspicious voice, the one that had tormented and tortured her to surface the memories. "She has remarkable technical skill for one who was a warrior."

  "It may be what keeps her alive and of use to us. Star Captain Trent claimed her as isorla," the deep voice said. "But we do not walk the path that the Wolves have chosen. She will never pose the risk of a Phelan Kell within our ranks— not if we certify her as a technician. And, that is my recommendation regarding her."

  "She saved Star Captain Trent's life, quiaff?"

  The deep voice did not answer immediately. "Aff. His support unit was overrun, and the technicians never recovered. She can serve as his tech, if Trent so chooses."

  Judith heard the sounds of fingers tapping on a keyboard, methodical and quick. A few moments after they stopped, she felt a hand on her forehead. "I know you can hear my words, Judith. Your strength may return, but for now, you must be content only to listen, quiaff? You fought as a warrior, but that time has passed for you. You belong to the Smoke Jaguar now, and have a new role to fill. May the Kerenskys have mercy on you . . ."

  Just before she passed out, Judith smiled to herself, knowing they would never know why. It has begun ....

  3

  Base Hospital

  Smoke Jaguar Planetary Command

  Warrenton, Hyner

  Smoke Jaguar Occupation Zone

  3 July 3052

  Trent sat up in the bed and slid the fingers of his right hand into the glove-like device, adjusting the straps with his left hand. He activated it, and a series of controls and digital readout pads on the fingers and wrist came to life, showing an everchanging set of numbers. He made sure that it was hooked up to the computer interface in the arm of the bed, then he began flexing his fist. Each flex of the wrists sent myriad signals into the computer, which measured the control of his hand and wrist.

  It was part of the ongoing therapy he had been forced to endure since his arrival on Hyner a week before. The damage to his arm was much more extensive than Trent had realized at first. Most of his natural muscles had been destroyed and replaced with thinner myomer bundle strands. While the arm looked atrophied and frail, it was covered in a sheath of synthetic skin that actually made it much stronger than before.

  The problem was in getting used to it. Constant therapy of this kind allowed the Medtechs to calibrate the tensions of his new muscle fibers, which would eventually give him the control he would need in the cockpit. His fingers, though burned, were healed enough for him to regain some feeling.

  That was what he missed in his arm, the feeling. The arm was numb, with sensation only in his hand. It took getting used to, but he was getting better at it.

  His eye was a different matter. The genetically grown replacement worked fine, but the loss of the muscles in his eye socket had required some artificial enhancements. The doctors had mounted a set of small, low-strength myomer muscles and a micro-computerized control mechanism that let the implanted artificial muscles position and focus the re-grown eye. The result, a functional dark brown eye ringed with circuitry controls that framed the eye like a silvery monocle. Over the past few days the headaches associated with the implant and replacement had become almost tolerable.

  Trent's physical strength was still depleted, though he was working with weights to remedy that. The drugs pumped into him from several medipatches kept him functional, but his overall strength was low. Each day he was awake more, and slept less. Still, the most exercise he got was traveling between the bathroom and his bed. According to the doctors, it would still be weeks before he would be fit enough to return to active duty.

  When not working on the various routines that would return him to the ranks of the warrior caste, Trent studied the files in the computer terminal attached to his bed. He was looking for information on the fallen bloodnamed of the Clan to see what bloodnames might now be open. It was frustrating that the files contained too little data on the aftermath of Tukayyid for him to be sure.

  He had his orders, though. He was being reassigned to Delta Galaxy, Third Jaguar Cavaliers, known as "The Storm-riders." It was hard to know much about the unit, however, since it was being reformed in the wake of the reorganization of the Smoke Jaguars after the heavy losses on Tukayyid.

  As the light of Hyner's later winter sunrise lit the walls, Trent saw a man in a crisp gray uniform without a single wrinkle come into his room. He recognized the man instantly as Star Colonel Benjamin Howell. Howell came over to the side of the bed and looked down at Trent, his face more tired and worn than Trent remembered.

  "Star Colonel," he said, swinging his legs off the bed as if to rise to attention. A wave of the hand from Howell cut off his effort.

  "There is no need for such formality between us, Trent,"

  Howell said, taking a seat next to the bed. "I saw that you had been posted here too and thought a visit was in order."

  "I am honored by your visit, Star Colonel," Trent said. "But I am afraid my personal effects, including my chess set, have not caught up with me yet." Trent had known Benjamin Howell for the past three years, and the two had become comrades. Their chess games were the stuff of legends among the rank and file of the Cluster's warriors. More important, Benjamin Howell had agreed to sponsor Trent for any bloodname slots that opened up.

  The mention of chess brought a smile, if only for an instant, to the face of the Star Colonel. Then he was serious again. "I do not have time for such diversions these days, Trent. There is much happening within the ranks of the Smoke Jaguars. How do you fare?"

  Trent reached up almost unconsciously and touched his scarred face and the nub of flesh that had once been his ear. "I have been better. But I will be ready for combat soon. My arm is stronger than ever before, and my scars look much worse than they feel. They have offered me a mask, but I have turned it down."

  Howell shook his head, then spoke in a much softer tone. "Truth be told, I do not know what would be worse. To have gone to Tukayyid and died, or to now have to honor the truce."

  "Will we honor it?"

  "Affirmative. But like any agreement, it has loopholes. Places where we can stretch the terms and conditions. Our leadership will do that. That has always been our way—the way of the Jaguar."

  "Perhaps you and I will fight side by side yet for the Clan," Trent said. "We will yet stand on the soil of Terra, quiaff?"

  Benjamin Howell did not seem heartened by the words. If anything, his shoulders slumped slightly at the words. "Neg. There are two types of war that the Clans engage in. One is the direct fight—the battle on the field. The other is the war of words, of politics. In both we are a ruthless people. While I long for the fight in combat, I find myself a victim in the battles of politics within our Clan."

  Trent was puzzled by these words. Not that he did not know about the politics of the warrior caste. He had not reached the rank of Star Captain without exposure to the undertow of intrigue that ebbed beneath the austere image the warriors presented. What puzzled him was that Howell seemed to be saying he had somehow failed to master these skills.

  The Star Colonel ran his fingers through his hair, a gesture of frustration that Trent had seen before. "You do not know because you have been too ill to learn of all that happened to us on Tukayyid. We were crushed because the Com Guards saw our only weakness and exploited it. Both of our Khans were also reported dead."

  His voice dropped almost to a whisper, as if he feared his words would reach ears not intended to hear. "A Council of the bloodnamed was held immediately to name a new Khan and I backed the nomination of Star Colonel Brandon Howell. I spoke freely, saying that we might have succeeded on Tukayyid if Khan Osis had not bid too low. I pointed out that it was only because of Brandon Howell's exemplary performance that we retained any honor at all. As it turned out, Brandon Howell was approved as new Khan of the Smoke Jaguars."

  Trent had only seen summary reports of Brandon Howell and his performance on Tukayyid. He had proven him
self to be a wary commander whose caution saved the Jaguar Grenadiers from annihilation. He had also heard the broadcast that Khan Lincoln Osis had died during the battle. Osis' survival and virtual return from the dead seemed to have shaken the leadership of the Jaguars. "And then Lincoln Osis was found to be alive, quiaff?"

  "Affirmative. Brandon Howell assumed the role of saKhan, and Lincoln Osis took over leadership again. He had learned of my speech and my strong support for Brandon Howell. As a result, he viewed me as someone less than loyal to him. It was a taint I could not refute, and I saw the accusation in his eyes whenever he looked at me."

  Trent nodded in understanding. Lincoln Osis had a reputation for utter ruthlessness. Nor was he known to be forgiving. "There is a saying I have heard. 'Khans come and go, but the warrior spirit burns eternal.' "

  "That is well when the Khans are truly dead. But that is not what happened in this case. But, Trent, please believe how much I regret that you have had to suffer because of my mistakes. You have been a trite warrior, a credit to our blood house. You do not deserve to be pulled down by my short-sightedness."

  "But I am not—"

  Benjamin Howell cut him off. "Neg. You do not know all. Many bloodnamed warriors gave their lives on the cursed soil of Tukayyid. The Trials of Bloodright for those names will begin soon. The Khan has asked me to sponsor one of his candidates for the Howell bloodname."

  Trent felt his heart race at the words. It is not possible ... Benjamin Howell was to sponsor me. To a Clan warrior, a bloodname was the highest of possible honors. Only a small few eventually won the right to carry a surname—surnames that had been handed down from those who had been among the original 800 from whom Nicholas Kerensky had forged the Clans centuries before. Winning a bloodname was the goal of every Clan warrior and the only way to ensure that one's genetic material would become part of the sacred gene pool.

  Trent was shocked to hear that Howell did not intend to keep his word, and his anger seemed to roar in his ears like a stormy sea. "What did you say to him?"

  Benjamin's frame shifted in his seat, unable to totally hide his discomfort. But he did not evade Trent's eyes. "I did what any warrior in my position would have done—I obeyed what my Khan asked of me."

  Trent balled his fists in anger. He felt his natural skin flush, but a warmer glow came from the synthskin that covered part of his scarred visage. "Your word. Your honor. You betrayed your promise to me?"

  "Aff. I had little choice."

  "You could have refused him."

  Benjamin shook his head. "You have always misjudged the importance of such maneuverings in our Clan, Trent. Khan Osis knows of my rally-cry against him. If I do not accept his request, he will make it his business to see me excluded from any military actions that arise in relation to this Truce.

  "I am older than you. Though I do claim a bloodname, we share the difficulty of coming to an age where a warrior must wonder whether he will end his career in glory or in disgrace. The Khan determines who is in command of what unit. If I cross him, Lincoln Osis can have me posted to some forgotten asteroid along the Exodus Road. Or worse, send me back to the homeworlds as a sibko trainer. I have worked too hard and long for such to be my fate."

  "There is something I can do," Trent said, pivoting his body and planting his feet over the edge of the bed. "I can challenge you to a Trial of Refusal. If you feel the urge to bend to the will of the Khan, I will bend you back." Trent did not conceal his anger.

  Howell shook his head and got to his feet. "Be realistic, Trent. You are still too weak. Undertake such a Trial and I would defeat you easily. And if you did somehow win, Khan Osis would simply challenge me himself. In the end, I assure you he would be the victor. No, Trent. This is the best way— the only way."

  Trent drew a long breath. He felt the cool air on his legs. Looking down at his body still swathed in the drab hospital gown, he had to admit to himself that he was not ready for combat. Even if he did somehow manage to defeat Benjamin in a Trial of Refusal, he would be wasting strength he needed to compete for a bloodname. And Benjamin Howell's words rang true. Lincoln Osis would make both their lives difficult if Trent attempted to defy his will. He bit his lower lip in frustration. This cannot happen. Do political games now rule the Clan? That nomination was to be mine!

  "I will not be denied a bloodname," he said in a low tone.

  "I cannot help you," Benjamin said. "Not this time. Perhaps if another bloodname becomes available . . ."

  Trent shook his head. The anger lay coiled in him and he must contain its power until the proper moment to strike. "I do not wish your help, Star Colonel. I am a warrior. There is always another way."

  Benjamin nodded. "The Grand Melee."

  "Aye," Trent said. "It is my only hope now." Most candidates could only compete in the Trial of Bloodright because they had been sponsored by one of the holders of a bloodname. But one candidate was chosen not by nomination but by a free-for-all slugfest known as the Grand Melee. Any eligible warrior who lacked a sponsor could participate in the fight. It was a wide-open contest, with dozens of 'Mechs engaged in battle. Only one warrior would emerge as winner, and that person would be eligible to enter the Trials of Bloodright. Sheer survival was the key to success in a free for all like the Grand Melee.

  "You may die there. You are still weak from Tukayyid."

  Trent's eyes were hard, his voice just as stony. "I will fight there and find my destiny."

  * * *

  "So, you are the bondsman who has been posted to my bay?" the large man said as he paced around Judith in the bowels of the DropShip's 'Mech repair bay. The smell of petroleum lubricants filled the air, joined by the pervasive smell of sweat. Judith had been in such repair bays before, and the familiar noise of rigging gantries clanging around her provided an odd sense of comfort. "Your presence here is a mark against me, freebirth."

  "I am sorry that you feel that way," she said.

  "You should be," he said coldly. "I am Master Technician Phillip. You may be the property of a warrior"—he flipped a finger under the bondcord around Judith's wrist—"but here, in this repair bay, I am your master."

  "I am Judith Faber—" Phillip cut her off with a slap across the mouth.

  "Neg," he bellowed angrily. "You are Judith. You have no other name. You have nothing that I do not allow or grant you. Any other name you had died with you on Tukayyid."

  "I understand," she said. Judith had been trained intensively in the society of the Clans and their ways. Now she was finally living in their midst. The rules had changed, and she was going to have to work with that. Fine, Phillip. You want to be in charge. You can. The day will come when you learn respect for me. For now, you may play the role of the dominant male.

  "You know very little. Even if you are the brightest tech in the Inner Sphere, you know nothing compared to me. They sent you here because you showed some hope of learning how we do our tasks. Even though I have more important things to do, I will shape you into a real tech ... or see you dead."

  Judith didn't answer this time. This fellow obviously thought he was superior, and for now it was best to let him assume he had that power. Resisting him would only cause problems she couldn't handle at the moment.

  "Now you have nothing to say, eh?" Again he slapped her across the face with the back of his hand. She recoiled in pain, but Judith was sure it would have been worse if she had dodged the blow when she saw it coming.

  * * *

  Trent stirred slightly in his sleep, sensing the presence of someone standing alongside his bed. Opening his eyes he saw her there in her gray leathers, only barely visible in the night light of the room. Her pistol hung from a holster on her shapely hip, and she stared at him with arms crossed. Trent was certain he knew who it was, but reached over and turned up the light to be sure.

  She startled at first sight of his face, then a sneer spread over hers. "So, the rumors are accurate. You do live."

  "Yes, Jez, I am alive." The fact that he had
survived Tukayyid must be eating away at her. Especially since he had saved her life. The last time I saw her, she swore to face me in a Circle of Equals. Now her bravado is faded.

  "And I see you are looking more attractive than ever, Trent." She laughed softly.

  He might have answered that she was as sharp-tongued as ever, but decided not to give her the satisfaction. Nor did he drop his eyes or change expression in any way.

  "My scars show me as the true warrior I am. You are alive too, Jez. Perhaps that is why you are here. You have come to thank me for saving your skin, quiaff?"

  She threw back her head and laughed again. "Apparently the battle damaged your memory as well as your body, Trent. If you ever get access to my reports of the incident, you will see that it was I who saved you."

  Trent shook his head and laughed in return, though not with the strength he would have liked. "It sounds like you have falsified what really happened there on Tukayyid. And with my 'Mech gone, I cannot produce any battle ROMs to prove you the liar you are."

  "Truth is written by the victor, Trent. My OmniMech was also lost later in the fighting, leaving only my word against yours. Though the Smoke Jaguars did not win in the Racice Delta, my actions there have won me a nomination for the Howell bloodname."

  Trent heard her words and felt the anger roar in him like a fire stoked to white heat. Benjamin Howell had told him that the Khan had ordered him to back another for the open Howell bloodname. Now Jez was telling him that she had falsified her version of the battle and won the right to compete.

  Trent regained his mental composure, then locked his eyes onto hers, so that she understood not just his words, but the menace he intended. '

  "Unlike you, I follow the path of honor that the Great Kerenskys laid out for our people. There is no honor in the path you follow, and you would be wise to consider what you might be bringing upon yourself and the Smoke Jaguars. And though I cannot prove or disprove your account of what happened on Tukayyid, you will not best me without a fight, Jez," Trent replied.