A Warrior's Sacrifice

by Ross Winkler

  Corwin became aware of his Voidmates' presence and glanced at each in turn. They'd caught up and fell into step around him, dyzued his turmoil but stayed silent. He'd do his job and they'd do theirs, and if he planned well enough, thought through all the details, if they had the right skills and if they had just a little bit of luck, they might make it back — and if they made it back, he wouldn't have to stack their bodies atop the scale with the rest.

  Their staging room was small, a four by four-meter soundproof box with a holoprojector at one end, a table in the center, and chairs lined against one wall. They sat, each trying to look busy on their coms. An awkward silence stretched, making the room feel both cavernous and oppressive.

  Corwin cleared his throat. "Listen, this session will be difficult for us — and that's fine. I'm fine with it. I need you all thinking so we can make it through this mission alive. So go ahead. Ask me whatever it is you need or want to know about how the Quislings work."

  Phae jumped at the opportunity. "How is it that you — that the Quislings — travel."

  Corwin ignored the dig and answered the question. "Caravan mostly. Even without a Republic-sized pool of requisitionable goods, they make do. They're also masters at stealth and camouflage, so satellite footage is out; same with anything long-range. We'll need to track them on the ground."

  "Where do we start?" asked Chahal.

  "The most recent attacks will be too old by the time we arrive. We'll have to sit and wait in the area until something happens."

  "We travel light then," Kai said. His booming voice was almost painful in the enclosed space. "Hover bikes, sneak suits, and weapons."

  Corwin nodded.

  "The real question," Phae said, "is why Quislings would be working with the Choxen in the first place. They are, if not outright enemies, hostile towards one another."

  "Yes, the Quisling-Choxen relationship is tense at the best of times. Duels are frequent and always end in death." Corwin paused, cleared his throat. "As to why they're working together…" He shrugged.

  "Republic territory," Chahal said, "has almost doubled in size in the last fifty years. The Quislings as a distinct genetic line will die out with the Choxen — they have no place else to go."

  "Why's that?" Phae asked, and then jerked her thumb towards Corwin. "This one found a place."

  Kai's humorless laugh rolled through the room like a peel of thunder. "You really think Corwin found a place in the Republic? You're a fool."

  Phae's eyes narrowed. "Watch what you say to me, Variant."

  For a second, Kai looked like he was about to respond then thought better of it. He shrugged the insult away.

  "The Choxen at least tolerate the Quislings' existence as a separate social unit," Corwin said. "My people are fighting for survival. They'll do whatever they need to survive against the Republic." Corwin didn't realize what he'd said until it was far too late. It was not smart of him to appear to identify with the Quislings over the Republic — not smart at all. His Voidmates needed to trust him, and they wouldn't, couldn't, if they thought he'd stab them in the back. With just a few words, he had forced the chasm between himself and his Voidmates wider. He let it ride; nothing he said now could change what they'd heard.

  The room was silent after that, the fear and hatred and embarrassment combining to create an awkwardness almost too strong to penetrate. They scanned through the mission details on their coms.

  Corwin grunted and flipped his closed. "That's really all we can do now. I'll requisition the gear we need." He scanned through a list of upcoming trams and flights to their mission area. "There is a cargo carrier leaving in an hour. Let's be on it."

  Phae frowned and crossed her arms. "Where do you get off —"

  Corwin chopped his hand through the air and projected Command. "When we are on a mission, I'm in charge. We've been assigned to a mission. Get moving."

  Phae's mouth snapped shut. She turned and strode from the room, back stiff with indignation. Corwin remained seated for a few moments as he checked and rechecked his requisition order. With the touch of a button he sent it off to be marked as high priority and slid to the front of the Support Caste's queue.

  Chahal stuck her head back through the door. "We shipping our sneak suits or wearing them?"

  "We may need to move the moment we land. Wear it."

  Chahal smiled and turned, white ribbon and long curls trailing after.

  At the tram station, Corwin paused at an equipment kiosk and typed his passcode. Gears and hooks and tracks hidden inside the walls and floors sprang to life, gathering the items he'd requested, shunting them from the storage facility out to where Corwin waited. In minutes, the two cases appeared.

  He pulled the first off the belt, waited a moment, then took the next, lugging them over to a far wall. Inside the largest container was his sneak suit, all shiny and living and growing and new; beside it a roll of compression clothes. Corwin paused and checked around the station. There were no restrooms in sight, and the construction of a changing room would be jendr — a waste of space, resources, and time.

  Corwin wasn't alone as he stripped down. Men and women from every caste had to use the equipment kiosks, and they too had to change out in the open. He was glad for the partial anonymity. Still, he paused, thumbs hooked onto the waistband of his underwear, and glanced around the room before shedding them as well. He told himself that no one cared about nudity in the Republic — all restrooms and showers were coed — but he couldn't stop himself from caring. He turned so just his bared back would face the crowds disembarking from the trams.

  He pulled the compression pants on first, arranging and adjusting for comfort as his body heat caused the material to shrink. Working the material around his feet, Corwin stretched it over and between his toes, and then repeated the process with his torso, rubbing it smooth so it wouldn't bunch in his joints or under his chin.

  Corwin removed the suit from the container and placed it face-first against the wall. Without a body inside, the suit was stiff enough to stand upright on its own. Sitting down on the edge of the case, Corwin slid the helmet over his head. Inside was dark, the tinted visor blocking out much of the building's industrial lighting.

  After a few seconds, the helmet's cells, sensing heat and bioelectricity, awoke. An orange line traced its way along the edge of the visor, each stage of the booting process marked by a series of concentric circles that broke the line. The last circle flashed green.

  The last stage of the boot process was the worst: neural mesh integration. Corwin cringed in preparation. His neural mesh activated and synced with the helmet, and a stab of pain rocketed through his head like someone drove a knife into his temple. Linking a suit to an implanted mesh hurt everyone, every time, but it was necessary for the proper function of advanced armor and weaponry. It was also the most feared step in the testing cycle, because there was a percentage of the population who couldn't handle it, and no amount of training could prepare the soldier for the test. Those who couldn't use one were busted down to the Wei Caste or lower.

  The line continued its march across the visor as different aspects of the helmet's capabilities booted and merged with Corwin's senses and consciousness.

  Hearing came first. All external sounds disappeared, then floated back in like turning up a volume knob, except now they were clearer, sharper, and audible from farther distances. As the helmet's visor cleared, so did Corwin's vision. He became aware of his new abilities of sight: infrared, night vision, zoom. Their sudden addition was disorienting at first, so many new variations of sight all at once. With the help of the neural mesh, his mind integrated the new senses, senses that were there all along but forgotten.

  Corwin also gained an awareness of his suit, of its separateness from him and its longing to be made whole. Except for the helmet, the suit was a contiguous exoskeleton, hollow, with no obvious way in or out. Straps or zippers could yield too many weak points in hostile environments. The only way in was by using the
implant, the helmet, and thought.

  Corwin imagined the suit, imagined himself, opening, like the buds of a tree opening into spring's soft light, unfurling, expanding, stretching towards the sun. The suit responded, the back writhing, cracks forming in the unbroken surface. The armor bent and the rear cracked open like the molted skin of an insect, the gap just wide and malleable enough to squeeze through.

  Corwin worked his way into the suit, feet sliding into the boots, hands and fingers sliding into the gauntlets. He pressed himself forward until there was no space between suit and Human. Then he let go of the idea of open leaves, curled them up, and withdrew them back into the tree, back into hibernation and sleep. The cells responded, the suit creaking and compressing until it closed shut behind. Then the living suit went to work, repairing the cracks that had formed, binding the seam together.

  It was Corwin that remained — the only sentient mind that controlled the two. Flexing, he worked the suit into his body's understanding of itself, acclimating to his new length, refining his proprioception, and he became aware of the suit as it weaved its way into his mental homunculus.

  From the second case Corwin pulled his rifle, standard issue for reconnaissance work. He loaded a magazine and stowed the dozen extras onto the magnetic strips along his thighs and torso, then slung the weapon around to his back.

  From the same container he pulled his pistol and attached it to his right hip, placing the extra clips into their accustomed places along his waist. His sword he attached to his left, aware of it like he was aware of the suit in an antipresence sort of way; the suit was alive, the sword not — and that absence of life was palpable.

  Corwin activated the suit's diagnostic system with a quick mental command. A list appeared on the HUD showing power levels, relative structural damage, projected regeneration rate, stim and painkiller supplies, as well as a hundred other things that he checked off before depositing the empty containers back into the kiosk.

  He took a tram westward, skipping past the two intervening stops, one to the Wei barracks and training facility, the second to the warehouse district. It was a quick one-way trip, and Corwin arrived well ahead of the others to impress upon them that that was what he expected every time.

  The warehouse district, dubbed "Cargo City," spread out in all directions. It was a city in a way, complete with its own ion shielding, garrison of soldiers, and defensive fortifications; in place of the domed rectangles that served as buildings, landing platforms jutted from the ground at regular intervals like giant, flat-capped mushrooms.

  Dull gray mushrooms basking in a perpetual twilight.

  Elevator shafts gaped between each platform to ferry equipment and entire platoons of armored Tercio up from the depths. Nearby, one started its trek to the surface, lights and sirens clanging, adding to the din of people and vehicles and antigrav engines. A team of Support Loaders rushed across to the rising elevator, each driving their own lifter or crane. They made fast work of the pile of equipment that emerged, a constant stream of vehicles lifting and driving and swinging things into the open cargo transport nearby. They reminded Corwin of ants devouring a carcass.

  With a thought, Corwin pulled up a map of Cargo City, searching for and finding his transport. He leapt forward in a full sprint after two steps, the suit adding speed with each stride. He swept past startled Loaders, Warriors, Pilots, jumped over open elevator shafts and, nearing his destination, slowed back to a walk with a few steps more.

  Corwin sighed again; he still had a lot of time to burn. He drew his sword and practiced the basic sword positions: Daijo-dan — sword high overhead; To-stoy — handle back at the rear shoulder, blade pointed skyward; Seigan — blade pointed forward resting at waist height. He moved from one to the other with seamless, fluid motion, striking, deflecting, stabbing at imaginary enemies.

  It turned into a meditation of sorts, each movement yielding the next, no thoughts, only feeling: step, turn, thrust, step, turn, over and over. The sword became a part of Corwin, an extension of his body that he controlled with as much ease and grace as his own appendages.

  Citizens stopped, pausing in their tasks to watch a few fluid strikes before continuing on.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The flight to their destination was uneventful, the pilot keeping well within the safe airspace of Republic lands. Still, the Maharatha remained weary, since the Choxen often reached out with their flocks of genetically engineered winged beasts, but they did not this time. The crew and few other passengers bantered somewhat, but Corwin and his Void remained silent, Corwin reading up on Republic news and mission parameters.

  The transport touched down in a field of hard-packed earth. The jets of superheated air scorched the dry ground, blasting clouds of dust and long-dead plants into the air. A soft breeze, snaking through the trees and tall green grasses, caught the dust clouds and whisked them towards the gray defensive walls that loomed over the dessicated ground of the landing field.

  The Maharatha exited the ship, the edge of their boots crushing grooves into the desolate earth. Support Caste members rushed from gray doors in the wall, eager to unload the gear and supplies that the transport had delivered and get back to the bar. The Support Caste, in their loaders and trucks and carts, made way for the Void, passing on either side like a stream split by a rock.

  The city's guards stopped the Maharatha at the gatehouse. Each brandished their holographic badge, and the guards ushered them through into the city.

  Outpost-G5 was a five-square-kilometer plot of land too small to be known as anything other than its initial incorporation designation. In many ways it was a copy of New Detroit in small scale: plasteel roads; square, featureless buildings with domed roofs; that same orange-yellow twilight cast across the city from the ion shield. But there were things that were so different as to make Corwin believe he was now on an alien world.

  The soldiers were alert here, lacking the eyes of the bored and underutilized. Carts rumbled past under Human or animal power, either towed with shoulder straps or pushed, the carts piled high with fresh produce. Citizens stood on street corners behind wheeled carts displaying figurines or chimes or other artistic works.

  Corwin also saw caution in the way the outpost's citizens eyed everyone they encountered. Trust was a scarce commodity out here on the edge of civilization when the enemy looked like you.

  Yet it suits them, Corwin thought as he looked around. They, like me and my Void, are the outsiders. They couldn't find a place or lost their privilege in the cities, so they came to the fringes, where things are still wild, to make a life for themselves without the constant harassment of the passcodes, the dreng, and jendr. They've traded protection for freedom.

  Corwin had wondered when he was younger what caused these people to leave the cities to face hardship and danger every day. Having spent time crushed under the heel of the caste system, despised and Family-less, he understood their motivations. These people had lost everything that they and society valued, so they bound together into a collective, petitioned the Oniwabanshu for basic startup goods and weapons, then set out on their own, or as was more often the case, they were rounded up by the Oniwabanshu and moved. In return, the government gained raw resources, food, and other basic supplies to redistribute across the Republic while they repopulated the empty countryside of Earth.

  From the looks the Void received as they strode through town to the city's military command post, the Oniwabanshu's presence, manifest as four Maharatha, was not appreciated.

  Phae's voice crackled through the com. "They have lost respect for their betters."

  "Shut it, Phae," Corwin said. "They came here to escape the oppression of the cities."

  "That doesn't mean they can show us jendr without recourse."

  "They were cast out of their Families. They are the stepping stones. Leave them be."

  Phae didn't respond.

  They arrived at a small building set to one edge of another walled area directly in the cente
r of the city, a keep of sorts in the event the enemy made it through the outer defenses. The office sported none of the standard military objects; in place of the plasteel table was a dark red desk with carved legs and inlays of lighter woods. Behind it sat a chair made of leather and wood. A bench and matching chairs sat against one wall, all carved from the same material as the desk. Wood paneling covered the walls. The room was warm and inviting and jendr to an extreme. There was no reason that resources should be wasted like this.

  The C.O. stood at attention when the four Maharatha entered, saluted. "Sirs and Ma'ams," he said, stepping from behind the desk, "my name is Oniwabanshu Settlement Mayor Yanmao. You give me dreng with your presence."

  "Don't be too excited to see us. We're here because you can't take care of your own problems," Phae said.

  His smile faltered. "May I ask what your mission entails?"

  "No," said Corwin. "We are on the Oniban's business."

  He brushed one hand through his short-cropped hair. "Yes. I understand. Whatever you need, you shall have."

  With a few mental commands, Corwin forwarded the list of requisitioned items that had arrived with them. Yanmao's datapad chimed. "We need four bunks and a room for ourselves near the eastern gate. The equipment on that list will be stored near our quarters."

  "As you request, sir," he said with a bob of his head.

  During their conversation, Phae had wandered over to Yanmao's chair. She poked at the padded seat and backrest. "This room," she said, clasping her hands behind her back, "reeks of jendr, Yanmao."

  Yanmao froze, dark skin turning pale.

  Corwin sighed to himself; the last thing he wanted was to earn the animosity of an entire city's C.O., even if that city was small.