by Ross Winkler
Efficiency in all things — that was what it meant to act with dreng in the Republic: artistry was a waste, jendr. But that dreng made everything so … the same, so plain and sad. It was bleak, desolate, and sucked the soul out of the Humans that lived within its confines like trapped rodents.
Those raised here didn't seem to mind; they knew nothing else. Corwin hated it all: the buildings, the people, the gray plasteel. Everywhere gray.
He joined the flow of civilians walking eastward, matching their gait and pace, trying to absorb the anonymity that a crowd provides. Except it didn't work today, nor would it ever work again.
Corwin bore the markings of the Maharatha, the symbol etched into every article of clothing he could now requisition. His formal wear, the purest black with red piping and seams, from which he'd neglected to change, made him stand out.
The lowest castes skirted aside, almost reverent as they bumped and jostled one another in their haste to bow. The highest subcastes of the Warrior caste too — the Teyma and Tercio — stepped from his path, nodding or saluting, depending on their own rank in relation to Corwin's. For a man, a boy, really, who wanted to remain hidden, this was the worst of all possible situations.
Not everyone moved from his path. All the Maharatha knew who and what he was, and members of the centuries-old caste to which Corwin now belonged did nothing to deflect their hate. Corwin took the side streets instead and before long arrived at his favorite park, his bastion of solitude and safety and beauty, plopped down amid the harsh people and buildings of New Detroit.
When he'd first began his stint within the Republic, he'd found his escape in similar parks, exploring each of them to their fullest, finding all the hidden places that no one wanted to tread. The parks never fit with the Republic's notion of dreng — they were such a waste of useful space — and it wasn't until much later, when Corwin spent his own free time searching through the Intergalactic Alliance's rules and regulations, that he found their purpose. Humanity was required, by law, to maintain a certain number of parks, trees, and green, growing things within their cities. It was tied to the Galactics' ideas of planet preservation, for if a sentient species couldn't take care of a park, it couldn't be entrusted to be the caretaker of a planet.
All of which made the parks, like the Variants, a constant reminder of the yoke placed upon Humanity by the Alliance. One more strike against Corwin, but on that long list, it was near the bottom.
At the gate, Corwin entered his passcode and stepped in. The park had two tiers, the upper-most home to a thin, shallow pool of water surrounded by lush green grass. From the pool, a narrow river fell over a cliff's edge, the resulting waterfall feeding a deep pond on the lower tier. The lower housed hundreds of tall hardwood trees, each groomed with immaculate care.
Corwin followed a series of switchback paths down the cliff-side. The canopy reached up to greet him as he passed through to the shaded forest floor below. This was one of the few places under the protection of the ion shields that he could escape the orange-yellow light. City noise filtered down through the trees, and the place smelled too clean — none of the decaying organic material that made forests smell so good — but it was as close to home as Corwin could get.
He allowed his feet to carry him to his destination. At the edge of the pond, where the water from the first tier battered the rocks along the cliff, Corwin paused. He stood still and cast out his senses, sight, sound, and dyzu, trying to identify anyone who might be nearby, who might watch him access his private place.
Satisfied, Corwin stripped down, hiding his shoes and clothing far enough from the waterfall that they wouldn't get wet. He stepped out onto the rocks. Half walking, half hopping, he edged his way out to the center, turned, and climbed up four meters into a small alcove.
The air was damp and cool, and in the few moments it took for Corwin to settle into the moss that grew on the cavern floor, a sheen of water covered his body. He listened to the falling water, his breath, his heartbeat.
He slipped into meditative oblivion.
CHAPTER THREE
Corwin was tired. When the needs of his body pulled him from his meditation, he'd returned to his bunk and gone to bed. It was the nature of Republic housing that was to blame. His was the bottom bunk in a room with the one hundred other Maharatha who'd just graduated, and while he was in the very back, their loud, drunken voices carried.
And they were drunk, all of them, drunk. The Maharatha caste meant access to higher quality goods and food, along with a higher quota of alcohol. The graduates had decided to use their entire week's allotment in one night.
At 0300 hours, he'd given up and gone into the common room to sit at a free computer terminal. He'd surfed the nets for a couple hours, his eyes passing over words, but his mind didn't register their meaning.
The alarm on his com woke him with a start. He hadn't planned on sleeping in a chair, but he was grateful for the small amount of rest; greater still was his relief that he hadn't dreamed. Corwin stood, smoothed the few wrinkles of his uniform, and made his way towards the armory.
Today was when they formed their Voids.
Corwin took his place at the rear of the mob of graduates milling in a narrow hallway, one end blocked by two mechanical doors as tall and wide as the hall. The din of excitement was enough to make several of the recovering revelers cringe and press palms to temples.
The room before them, Corwin knew, was the armory, and this occasion was when he would find the equipment that would accompany him wherever he went. This was also when each Void was formed — the combat squad comprised of four individuals each chosen to provide a check and balance to the others.
He glanced at Kai, who leaned against the opposite wall. They would see if Kai's analysis proved correct — or not. Kai ignored Corwin, instead spending his energy and attention watching the others; the Variant looked wary.
A gong sounded from somewhere, deep, resonant. The graduates fell silent.
The doors opened, retracting into the walls without a sound. There, standing on the Maharatha symbol painted onto the floor, the Oniban herself straddled the two halves.
No one moved.
"You may enter," she said.
The graduates shuffled forward, though Corwin, Kai, and one other, Chahal, hesitated just a few heartbeats before following.
The room was massive, an underground bunker with thirty rows of racks, each row twenty racks deep, the weapons arranged on the left, the armor on the right. The weapons racks were split again into two separate categories. One held ranged weapons, the other contained swords.
The swords were created from an amalgamation of Human-made materials and alien-made Droth metals, and they were able to pierce the near impenetrable exoskeletons of the Siloths' genetically engineered foot soldiers, the Grunts, which turned aside bullets, lasers, and rockets. The weapons, sword and gun alike, were masterpieces, crafted by the most dreng of the Republic's Engineer and Technician subcastes.
"I stand here in the middle of the symbol of your order. The four colors around me represent the four Kazoku. The color red, representing Ka. Across from it is the color blue, for Sui. The color brown, representing Chi, and opposite is the color green, representing Fu. Together these embody the fifth and greatest of the Godai Kazoku: Ku.
"It is within Ku — the Void — that Humanity finds its greatest strength; within unity that we survive and flourish. The Void is impossible to accomplish with a single individual. There must be others to provide the necessary balance.
"We — myself with the aid of your instructors — have chosen who your opposites and balances are." She paused, and her silence hung heavy in the air. "Corwin Shura, of Family Shura, step forward."
He let out a silent groan. If the room was silent before, it was a vacuum now. All eyes shot to Corwin as he walked forward and stood beside the Oniban. He knew this would happen, had even prepared himself for it, but the reality was so much worse. Their gazes were hot, their hatred palpabl
e. Corwin wanted nothing more than to curl up in a ball and wait for them to go away.
But they didn't, and the Oniban seemed to wait as the tense silence gathered and grew so strong that it pulsed. Right when it seemed like the room would explode in an uproar, she spoke again, her voice a hammer on the graduates' glass egos. "Kai, step forward."
There it was, straight from the Oniban's mouth. Corwin, the traitor, the enemy of Humanity, was the best of them, the most dreng; then Kai, a non-Human, the alien, was second only to Corwin. The class rankings had said the same thing, but that was based on point;, this was blasphemy from on high.
In Corwin's peripheral vision, he thought he could make out an upward twitch of the Oniban's lips. The Oniban, it seemed, was making a joke.
It's not a very good one, Corwin thought as he watched eyes and faces around the room cloud with confusion and anger.
"Chahal Bette, of Family Bette, step forward."
Hushed gasps and quiet sobs from the crowd. It was almost more than they could bear. A few stirred, turning to their neighbors to voice their dissent with heated looks and sneers.
Kai was right so far, Corwin thought, a Quisling, a Variant, and now Chahal the Exilist. The oldest families will be in an uproar.
The girl, short and young-looking, walked forward, eyes downcast. Her skin was a lighter shade of brown, her hair a mass of tight curls that matched her skin tone, tied in a complex knot with a pure white strip of cloth — the symbol of her order.
Her look was hard to read, her brow creased, lips pursed. She seemed not surprised, but thoughtful, as though in search of the hidden meanings in the course of events that seemed to have swept her along.
"Phae Lieng, of Family Lieng, step forward."
Ah, yes. Who better to add to this unlikely and un-liked Void but the one nicknamed 'The Accident,' Corwin thought.
Phae, like the other three of her Void, didn't belong. In the convoluted familial lines of the Republic, Phae was supposed to be a mere stepping stone, an intermediate repository for genetic material to be used in her family's climb through the caste system. They'd expected her to test into the Tercio caste, or if not, at least introduce the genetic traits that might allow her children to ascend.
She and her family were from a long line of Wei, the lowest tier within the Warrior caste. While the three higher tiers of the Warrior caste, the Teyma, Tercio, and Maharatha, saw front-line action reconquering enemy-held lands, the Wei and Civil Police guarded the established and secure cities of the Republic. Both castes were, in most of the Warrior Caste's eyes, irrelevant.
Phae was as tall as Corwin but wider at the shoulders, and her body rippled with muscle — her Tercio father's genetic heritage in evidence. Instead of the squat legs that normally accompanied the Tercio caste genetic line, her legs were long, her movements graceful. Jet-black hair pooled and bobbed around her neck.
Unlike Chahal, Phae's emotions were easy to read: desperation, fear, anger. Under normal circumstances, her face, with her high cheekbones and dark eyes, was beautiful. But these circumstances were not normal, and the skin of her face was taut, her mouth pulled down into an obvious, disapproving frown.
A murmur from the crowd accompanied Phae to the center of the room. It grew as the incensed graduates fueled one another to action. Corwin and the others — the members of his Void — bent their knees in preparation.
The Oniban too was prepared for action, though she had no need defend herself; everyone present would die in her defense. Her Sahktriya flared, great tendrils of energy spiraling around her in a vortex as she pulled power from inside herself.
The Oniban raised one hand. "Stop." It was a Word of Command, spoken with unhurried grace and in a normal tone, but it was so much more. Her Sahktriya burst outward, carried and directed and made manifest by words and intention alone.
All movement ceased. Everyone held their breath. Time seemed to relinquish its hold on reality and did as it too was commanded. It didn't last long, but it didn't need to; that wasn't its purpose. With a single phrase, the Oniban had arrested the anger and momentum of the crowd.
"You dare to question my decision?" she asked.
The graduates shrank back.
"You prove that you do not deserve to be the first."
Chins dropped to chests, eyes hit the floor.
"Leave until I call for you."
They turned, a few remembering to salute, and walked back into the hallway. The doors hissed closed behind.
With three smooth, long strides, the Oniban exited the circle, turned, and faced the four remaining Maharatha. "Now," she said, clasping her hands behind her back, "we can continue without any more trouble." She smiled.
"You are about to perform a ritual that began in ancient times, long before even the First Exiles. They believed that the spirits of family members and great warriors would inhabit their weapons and by their presence grant the wielder a portion of their skill at arms.
"Each of the weapons and armor in this room has its own energy — its own Sahktriya — that will meld with yours. It is your task now to find those items." She gestured behind the four waiting Maharatha; they turned as one. "To do this you must clear your mind of all distractions. You cannot search for them; you must allow yourself to be found.
"Begin."
With a deep breath Corwin cleared his mind. He focused first on his breathing, then his heartbeat, and when he felt himself and his cares drift away, he opened his eyes and stepped into the rows of weapons. There were thousands of swords, each different from the others: length of handle, length of blade, degree of curvature, width, and even color of the metal.
He wandered. Part of his mind wanted to form a pattern, to stop and examine each weapon that caught his eye. But it was not his eyes that needed to make the decision; it would be the interaction of his own Sahktriya and the sword's.
At an intersection, he felt a tug. It was gentle, faint, a whisper of a whisper of longing, but it was there. Corwin followed. As he got closer, the tug became a pull, then a torrent, and he was helpless — unable to resist as the weapon swept him forward.
He found himself standing in front of a rack. He reached out, hand drifting towards the one he thought looked the most dangerous. Corwin stopped himself, pulled his hand back. Sight and his own prejudices betrayed him. Closing his eyes, he reached out again, letting his hand wander through the air, tugged this way and that by the unseen yet not unfelt flows and eddies of his weapon's Sahktriya.
His fingers brushed a sword handle, but it wasn't the correct one. He walked his fingers to the next one in the line, then the next, moving, touching, dyzuing, yet not committed.
His hand alighted on a pommel. A Sahktriya charge raced up his arm as though the thing was electrified. Eyes flying open, he took the sword from its housing and lifted it skyward. The sword sung to him, ecstatic at last to have found what it had been for so long searching: an arm to wield it with skill and power.
The blade itself was narrow, barely two fingers wide down its length and almost imperceptibly curved. The pointed tip was like that of a spear, the top edged like the bottom before it became rounded and dull. And the metal's color, brilliant in a dark sort of way; the blade seemed to eat the light around it, sucking it in and never letting go. The blade mirrored Corwin's own soul. The reflection was crisp and clean, all the baggage and layers cut away, his inner fears and desires laid bare for inspection.
Made for him indeed.
From the rack Corwin pulled the sheath and slid the one into the other, then buckled them both around his waist. With a nod, he turned and headed towards the racks of armor. At the threshold between the armor, Corwin paused, took one breath, then two, and calmed.
Created by alien scientists half a galaxy away, the armor was the pinnacle of IGA weaponry. By growing the suit over a mesh frame, they were able to weave advanced electronics into its very structure and being. Cloaking, instant wireless communication and net access, radar, infrared — everything a co
vert operative might need was at hand when wearing the Maharatha armor, when wearing the sneak suit.
Corwin stepped forward and wandered, noting with a small smile that the Sahktriya on this side of the room was different. It dyzued of freshness and life, of upward and outward movement and unfurling towards the sun.
To his left a hiss began and raced forward. Corwin dyzued the room's suits' Sahktriya rise in adulation, in anticipation. The hiss swept past, a fine mist of water and nutrients, and the room seemed to shout with glee, then sigh in relief.
It reminded Corwin of the rainy season that followed a hot, dry summer, when the forests cried out for nourishment and begged the sky for liquid life. This side was different, for while both the armor and swords contained Sahktriya, the sneak suits were truly alive.
There was a touch of sentience to them too — Corwin could dyzu that. A gestalt kind of intelligence maybe, all those cells thriving and growing and living and protecting one another. But no, Corwin decided. Not true sentience, more like majesty. Like that which surrounds the centuries-old oak, the one that survived the droughts and the lightning strikes and broken branches; survived them all and flourished.
There was more to these suits than just the base instincts of survival. Each of the trillions of individual plant cells had been modified to perform some specific task. The helmet absorbed carbon dioxide and converted it to oxygen; others recharged the wafer-thin batteries that powered the onboard electronics; down near the kidneys, the suit's cells produced a plethora of chemicals to keep the wearer alert and alive.
Corwin reached out and touched one, the surface more akin to bark than armor, yet the cell walls were aligned such that it took formidable force to break through. And if they were punctured, they would regenerate; they would carry on. The suit's outer layer was hard yet supple. The helmet's jaw and chin tapered to a dull point, the visor thin and following the same angle as the jaw line. The small antennae that jutted into the air gave the whole thing an insect-like appearance.