The step that followed came when the Clans returned to liberate the Pentagon worlds from chaos and unify the children of the first exodus under Clan rule. The process that followed was long and complex, as the Clans struggled to define their new purpose. Ultimately, that step led to a failed invasion of the Inner Sphere. The Clans were driven back but not humbled, and gained some holdings in the Inner Sphere.
The next step would belong to Clan Ghost Bear alone. With great secrecy and stealth, the Clan built great ark transport ships, and moved its entire population to the Inner Sphere, to rule over the worlds conquered from the Free Rasalhague Republic and the Draconis Combine. They named their holdings, melded under Ghost Bear rule, the Rasalhague Dominion, then began a series of smaller steps that would continue for generations.
At first, the Clan tried to force their ways on the people of their occupation zone, but these efforts went badly, and eventually were abandoned. The Ghost Bears decided instead to hold themselves separate from and above the society of native freeborns. Most Clansmen, especially those of the warrior and scientist castes, lived in Clan enclaves, relatively isolated from the freeborn societies around them.
But the walls they built were imaginary, and those of the lower castes often crossed them. As many in the laborer caste lived outside the enclaves as within. Freeborn practices crept into Clan life. The use of contractions became more common, even accepted in some lower-caste circles. Even among the warrior caste, Clan slang fell out of use. This was especially true of the Raging Bears, who worked closely with spheroids and found it necessary to adapt their communication style.
Still, vulgar language was the least of the transgressions that became increasingly common. Though the practice was repugnant to Clan purists and was severely punished when discovered, some in the lower castes secretly intermarried with native freeborn, even to the point of maintaining homes and families separate from their genetically matched Clan marriages.
Some said we Ghost Bears were losing our identity as a Clan. As more Clansman embraced change, forces aligned in response to forcefully crush it. It was in this jostling between the forces of unbridled reform and rigid oppression that the first Freeminders were born. They advocated a freedom of thought and change that most Clansmen considered wrong and found frightening. Three times the Freeminders rose up as a secret force for change. Three times they were swept away by hard-line Clan traditionalists.
When for decades they did not return, it seemed that the days of the Freeminders were done. But change was not. Despite all efforts to the contrary. Ghost Bear society could not survive unchanged in such close proximity to the much different society of the native freeborn.
As time passed, larger divisions appeared in every stratum of Ghost Bear society. Something had to change, or civil unrest, even civil war, would be the result.
How did so many Clan misfits and malcontents become attached to my beloved Omega Galaxy, the Raging Bears? That began long before my time, when the newly formed Raging Bears took a step of their own. As with the first exodus, it was a step whose ultimate outcome could not have been foreseen or imagined.
The Galaxy was created because, as ever, the Clans found themselves in conflict with forces of the Inner Sphere, forces who did not follow Clan traditions and rituals or practice honorable combat—traditions and rituals and practices that sometimes put Clan forces at a disadvantage. From their inception, the Raging Bears were schooled in the tactics of the Inner Sphere, including massed fire, deception and tactical retreat.
From the beginning they were outcasts in some circles, considered to be a necessary evil for the survival of the Clan, but also a group to be shunned. Though The Raging Bears have maintained a proud tradition of upholding the spirit, if not the letter, of Clan values, our stock has risen and fallen over the years. It was shortly after I assumed command that a new Khan, a rigid traditionalist, was elected, and that stock fell as drastically as it ever had.
I will not bore you with the political details. Let it simply be said that almost overnight, the Raging Bears had fallen so far from favor that we found ourselves in danger of dissolution, even Abjuration. My loyal allies in the Clan Council could only do so much to support us, and the situation was deteriorating.
Then another step was made for us, the controversial decision to send three Galaxies to occupy and stabilize selected planets in the Inner Sphere. From the beginning, many on the Council described it as a misadventure, and few commanders were even willing to bid seriously on the mission.
But that is the one step of this long road that I took myself. I bid the Raging Bears on this fool's mission because it would remove us from the sight of our enemies and perhaps give us one last chance to prove our honor, our skill as warriors and our loyalty to the Clan. It was a desperate decision, and one without immediate rewards.
The new power bloc in the Council used this as an opportunity to drive out the elements in our evolving society that they found offensive. Suddenly, we were attached to a movement that we were not part of, and of which most of us did not approve.
Still, I was determined to make the best of it, to achieve our difficult task and restore honor to our Galaxy.
It was barely a week after the major fighting stopped on Vega that the first Freeminder graffiti began to appear.
How could I have know the consequences of my one, small step?
How could Nicholas Kerensky have known, so long ago?
And yet there are those who believe that he did, that everything that has happened since, all the trials, divisions, wars, victories and defeats: they are all part of some greater plan, part of the true purpose of the Clans.
Even in my most respectful and charitable thoughts of the Founder, I find this difficult to imagine.
But this is a basic premise of the Freeminders, that a lost writing of Nicholas Kerensky known as the Final Codex exists, and that it somehow supports Freeminder doctrine and desires. They believe that long-lost, perhaps suppressed, work offers us our final deliverance, the revelation of our true purpose and destiny.
It seems unlikely. Incredible.
I do not believe.
Yet, I cannot bring myself to entirely dismiss it.
We have wandered far from the point where we began. But a journey of a thousand kilometers can still form a circle, and the beginning and the end can still be one.
Krottenwik residential district
Nasew, North Nanturo continent, Vega
25 November 3136
Taylor Bane reflected, as they ("they" being Bruno Vic, their guide Geoff Krago and he) moved on foot deeper into the ghetto called Krottenwik, that it was like walking back in time. On the periphery, apartment buildings still stood, and despite visible damage from blast and fire, provided homes for struggling families. But as they moved on, the buildings became hollow shells, half-crumbled walls without roofs, window openings looking down at them like empty eye sockets.
Amid these ruins, people lived in homemade tents and makeshift shacks constructed of castoff and salvaged building materials. The imaginative roof of one hut, from which a gaggle of dirty children watched them pass with wide eyes, was constructed entirely of road signs, the metal and plastic sheets overlapping like large, colorful shingles. Bane was bemused by the number of animals obviously brought in from the countryside; chickens and domesticated emus picking through garbage heaps, feral cats stalking the mice that were everywhere, and horses, which took the places of trucks and tractors. Some resourceful souls grew sickly looking vegetables in garbage-can planters, and vendors sold clear plastic bags of murky-looking drinking water on what once had been street corners.
Beyond this, the situation became even more grim. Here even the walls had fallen into heaps of broken rubble. There were few buildings here, or even tents, and people lived huddled under tarps or sheets of tattered cardboard. The people themselves were huddled piles of refuse, strewn across a scrap heap of humanity.
At one point they passed a bonfire, a
nd it was a moment before Bane realized that it was a funeral pyre. No mourners stood to mark the passing of the dead, and black smoke curled up towards the heavens unheralded by song, prayer or a single tear.
They'd left the car a kilometer back, parked on a barely passable street under the watchful eye of a shopkeeper Krago trusted. The bribe required to ensure its safety had been relatively modest. Bane had spent more for valet parking at a downtown hotel on other planets.
Bane felt incredibly conspicuous walking through Krottenwik, and he felt confident that was the case. He'd dressed down for the day's meeting, wearing a plain, cheap suit that he kept for such occasions and carefully divesting himself of his ordinary, modest jewelry. But he was walking among people dressed in rags.
Everywhere they went, he could see people watching him, feel their eyes as they examined him from the shadows. Some watched with the intense interest of predators, some with curiosity and a few with fear. They rounded the crumbled corner of a building and nearly ran headlong into a cluster of children playing a game that involved a battered can and sticks.
The children screamed and ran to cower behind a large, red-haired man who wore a look of authority. The man calmly stood his ground, making no threatening move, but his silent message was clear: "Don't touch the children, or face my wrath."
Bane raised an open hand of truce, nodded and led the others on a wide circle around the man before continuing on their way.
Once they were thirty meters or so away. Bane glanced back. The children burst into motion and continued on their collective way, like a school of tetras in a fish tank. The big man just stood, watching them, thick arms crossed over his chest.
Taylor Bane thought of himself as a hard man, but he had a soft spot for young children. He didn't think any child should have to live like this. He wanted to figure out who was responsible, and start breaking heads.
Krago looked nervous. "I wish you would reconsider this. Mister Bane. I cannot guarantee our safety here. These are dangerous people you are meeting with."
Bruno cracked his knuckles. "We're dangerous people, too."
"It's not," said Bane, "like we're going to rob these guys, or take them down. We're here to make introductions. We're here to do business."
Krago shook his head. "One does not do business with a rabid dog."
Bruno looked around skeptically. "A rabid dog would probably have better digs than this. If this guy we're going to see is so powerful, why is he living under a blanket in a pile of rubble?"
Krago sighed. "Because it is a very good place to hide, and because he is a very wanted man. In any case, he is not precisely living under a blanket." Krago veered off the street and into the ruined foundation of a building. The ragged stumps of a few walls remained standing in the otherwise blasted area. As they walked closer, a pair of men appeared from behind the walls, assault rifles trained on them.
As the party raised its hands, another pair of men with rifles appeared behind them. Bane never saw where they came from. Whatever their hiding places had been, they were well camouflaged.
"Please," said Krago, his hands held high over his head. "These gentlemen have come to see Gustavo. We are expected!"
One of the men in front of them, who appeared to be in charge, nodded to the men behind, who stepped up and patted them down. They removed two handguns and two knives from Bane's clothing.
From Bruno they retrieved five guns, two knives, a dagger, a blackjack, four throwing stars, a taser and an especially large pair of nail clippers. Even so, Bane knew for a fact they had missed another small dagger, two more throwing stars, a straight razor and a small canister of tear gas.
Bane was surprised to discover that Krago was unarmed. Bane had half expected the man to double-cross them at some point during this expedition, perhaps pull a gun and try to take all their gold, as though they wouldn't have it safely hidden somewhere that he would never find it. Evidently he was a more honorable man than Bane expected.
That, or he simply couldn't afford a gun.
They were led around the ragged walls and into a narrow space between two parallel sheets of masonry. There they found a narrow stairway leading beneath the rubble. One of the guards went first, turning and waiting for them at the bottom, gun at the ready.
Bruno. Krago and Bane were directed down next. Two more guards followed them, with the final guard remaining at the top. At the bottom of the stairs they followed the first guard into a dark, narrow tunnel that sloped downward. Bane estimated they had traveled twenty feet or so when the tunnel began to brighten. They turned a corner and passed through a doorway into a much larger chamber.
Bane was surprised to see that the room, probably part of the basement from the collapsed building, had electric light. Possibly buried power lines had survived the destruction of the neighborhood above, or perhaps there was a well-muffled generator hidden somewhere nearby, or possibly the whole thing ran off batteries.
In any case, this simple amenity in these tortured surroundings suggested somebody with considerable resources at his disposal.
The room was dry and clean, suggesting the building had been new at the time of its destruction. The walls were stark concrete, but the space was well furnished, with thick carpets unrolled on the cold floor and expensive, if not tasteful, furniture.
Two more men with guns stood on either side of a large, overstuffed chair with matching leather ottoman. The chair didn't look much like a throne, but Bane understood that was its intended function.
The man in the chair didn't look much like a warlord, either. To Bane he just looked like a thug. He guessed the man's age at thirty, though the effects of hard living might put that number closer to twenty. His face was narrow and angular, his dark brown hair long and stringy, his beard trimmed short, but not neatly. His wiry arms were covered with vulgar tattoos that started somewhere inside his black tank tee shirt and continued across his hands. He wore green work pants and a worn pair of high-top boots. He sprawled across the chair at an angle, one skinny leg draped over the chair's arm.
The man was watching a scratchy transmission of a soccer match on a small tri-vid screen, an incongruous jewel-handled cane dangling from his fingers. He looked up, and used the head of the cane to click off the tri-vid's power switch.
Bane stopped a few yards short of the man's chair, at the precise moment when the guards on either side started to stiffen and raise their assault rifles. "Am I addressing Mr. Gustavo?"
The man pushed himself up out of his slouch and sniffed. "They call me Warlord Gustavo, or they don't call me at all."
"I was under the impression that the Ghost Bears had rounded up all the warlords and executed them."
"Well, see, those were the old warlords. One of them was my brother."
"That's supposed to impress me?"
"It should. What was his is now mine."
Bane looked around. "He left you this basement? Wow."
"You have brass, for one of two guys in bad suits. I have to keep a low profile, obviously, but with the old warlords gone, the pie that's left is cut in pretty big pieces. I've got my fingers in everything in this city."
"Is that so?"
"It is. You want to play, you've got to play with me."
"Well, there's an old saying back on Northwind, where I come from."
"What's that?"
"A man who has his fingers in everything, ought to wash his hands."
Gustavo's eyes narrowed. "Is that supposed to be a joke?"
"Do you know who I work for. Warlord Gustavo?"
Gustavo fished in his pants pocket, pulling out one of the little gold ingots. "Jacob Bannson." He chuckled. "Now, my man, am I supposed to be impressed?"
"Frankly, yes."
He laughed. "Well, let me tell you, Bannson is a long way away from here, and as far as I'm concerned, you're just two guys in bad suits."
"We put on the bad suits special, just to meet you."
Gustavo stared at him.
"No, seriously. We're slumming here, and its obvious we didn't slum far enough." He jerked his thumb toward the ceiling. "Bad neighborhood you're in."
Gustavo chuckled. "See, in the good old days, the neighborhood upstairs was in my brother's territory. They gave him trouble, so he sent me to give them trouble back. Now, they know better than to mess with a Gustavo. I say jump, they're a meter off the ground before they can ask 'how high?' "
Bane tilted his head. "I see. Well, Mister Gustavo, are we going to talk business here today?"
Gustavo chuckled again. "Well, like I said, Jacob Bannson is a long way from here, and I just can't see what kind of business I would have to discuss with him. You, on the other hand, are right here, and word is you've been passing these"—he held up the ingot— "around pretty freely. So the business I'd like to discuss is, where are the rest of them, and can you tell me before my boys start cutting you up too bad?" The guard closest to Bane shouldered his rifle and pulled out a nasty-looking switchblade knife, which he snapped open and held in front of Bane's face.
Bane glanced at Bruno, who was standing with a gun muzzle held inches from his side. "I'll give you your answer, if you'll give me one simple answer first. Are there any more Gustavos waiting in the wings?"
He shrugged. "Just me."
Bane casually touched the cheap cuff link on his left wrist. "Good," he said, snapping his head to one side, grabbing the guard's forearm, striking the inside of the wrist with his other hand and slipping the knife into his own hand. He continued his momentum, spinning the man around, twisting his arm back to control him, putting the knife to his throat and using him as a shield.
It was at this kind of moment, Bane considered grimly, that you have to wonder, just how well do your opponents like each other? With the weapons they carried, the guards could shoot through two bodies as easily as one. He hoped they liked his prisoner well enough to hesitate for maybe two seconds, because Bruno was already in motion.
The big man had reached back and casually deflected the gun barrel away from his side. The guard holding the gun fired off a burst, which hit the third guard, who had had his gun trained on Krago, in the knee. The guard dropped to the floor screaming, and Krago dropped to join him, cowering in fear.
Trial by Chaos Page 10
