Tales from the Edge: Escalation: A Maelstrom's Edge Collection

by Stephen Gaskell

  "I have to bury her. She's dead, and the living can't be overruled by the dead. But burying doesn't mean forgetting. Or forgiving oneself." Her eyes were dry, her face remote; but her hands still shook. "Or wondering how things might have gone, in other circumstances."

  "There are no other circumstances. Just here, just now." And nothing that could be changed or taken back; or kindled back to life again.

  "Of course." Tamestir's smile was wide and bitter. "But you're right. It won't happen again." She drained the rest of her cup, and set it back on the table; and rose, slowly and ponderously, her mask closing over her face until nothing was left but the Shadow Walker. "I had best be going, in any case. Thank you for the help. And the tea. And may all go right with you, in the future." They both knew how deeply ironical that salute was, how many different expectations it encompassed.

  Miri watched her--the stiff set of her shoulders, the slow careful way she moved--and thought of Arthos, walking out of the compartment after one of their countless arguments; of Zamakad and the way she'd grow very still, when a classmate made fun of her bots. "Tamestir?"

  "Yes?" She didn't turn around.

  Miri said, slowly, carefully, "The dead can still kill you, if you let them." And realised, too late, how much of it applied to her.

  There was a sound, coming from within Tamestir's armour--a low rumble that could only be laughter, except laughter wasn't meant to sound this threatening, this heartbreakingly bleak.

  Then, after what felt like an eternity, Tamestir turned, and walked back until she stood in front of Miri--the armour dwarfing her, the faint smell of charred metal and flesh in her nostrils. "Oh, Miri. Save what you can, even if they're no longer your children. Is that the way you are?"

  Miri shook her head; unsure what to say, but didn't give up ground.

  After a while, Tamestir shook her head; and the mask opened a fraction to reveal the oval of her face, enough for Miri to meet the grey-green gaze--tinged with an expression she couldn't recognise. "There are... ways," Tamestir said. "Ships, even though your fleet was destroyed."

  "You make no sense." Surely... surely she couldn't be...

  "I can get you off Colibri," Tamestir said. "To another Epirian planet, further away from the Maelstrom; where you can enjoy your peace for a decade before you see more than a hint of purple light in the sky."

  "Why--you're Karist. Why would you--"

  "My decisions are my own.... A bargain, is it?" she said, throwing Miri's words back at her. "A.... commitment made by both of us, to live life to the fullest before the end comes. Or are you too afraid to seize at chances when they come your way?"

  "I'm not afraid," Miri said--on instinct, before she recognised the magnitude of what she'd agreed to.

  "Neither am I," Tamestir said, gravely; and held out a gauntleted hand. "Shall we?"

  Arthos, screaming at her in the small, confined space of the compartment--until she talked him down, telling him, over and over, that she was eldest and that it was her place to be snatched up by the Maelstrom--Zamakad, shrugging and saying nothing, her eyes wet with tears--but they were not here anymore, were they, either of them--and there was nothing, nothing whatsoever that tied her to Colibri anymore.

  Miri reached out, and took Tamestir's hand in hers, heedless of the cold touch of metal on her skin.

  "I'm not afraid," she said, again, and this time she almost meant it.

  FLEET CHAMPION

  ★

  by TOMAS MARTIN

  Knowing what to do with his life isn't an easy choice for Jax—until he watches the Lorican Champions fight . . .

  JAX WOULD NEVER FORGET the first time he saw a Lorican Champion. His father had taken him to the Games when he turned eleven, sitting up in the cheapest seats, right at the top of the arena. His father had used up over a hundred days of his leisure allocation to get the tickets. They'd travelled across the entire ship, taking lifts up thirty-six levels, and into regions of the Remnant he'd never seen before.

  "You're old enough now to understand the sacrifices our Champions make for the Fleet," his father said. "Never underestimate what they give up for us."

  The arena was packed, row upon row of seats stacked up into a steep bowl. Jax had clambered up behind his father, bewildered by the noise and more than anything the sheer amount of people. Maintaining life support for a section of the vast ship was difficult – his father worked on the air filtration systems and would complain bitterly if he saw too many people gathering in one spot, stressing out a room's supply of oxygen and power. The arena was the exception to that rule, like it was to so many others. When they shuffled into their position in the stands, the view of thousands of cheering heads and waving arms was breathtaking. Jax tried to count how many people there were, and lost count. Above, the wide clear dome showed only the stars.

  Many of the other fans came adorned in the colours of their Noble House, or waved banners with the sigil of a famous Fire Team or Champion. Jax recognised many of them – the supernova symbol of House Rondon, or the black and white checkered pattern of Baron Reitelder's Fire Team, Dark Arrow. Dark Arrow's Champions were amongst the most honoured in the Fleet, and their glories on the battlefield had earned them many followers in the crowd.

  Jax's father pointed across to the far side of the arena, where a string of square balustrades jutted out, separate from the main stands. A group of well-dressed figures had emerged in each balcony, and waved in turn at the gathered throng.

  "The House Nobles," his father said. "From tomorrow they will be here to watch candidates for new Champions, to replace fallen members of their Fire Teams or make new ones. But today we'll see the current Champions fight."

  A rumbling murmur of excitement in the crowd filled the bowl, building until the normal familiar vibrations of the ship's operation faded into the background. The nobles in their boxes each gestured to one of the five doors in the circle of the arena. The doors, marked individually with the sigils of a house, began to rise.

  The noise reached a crescendo of anticipation. Jax was buffeted by the people above and behind him as they clapped and stamped their feet, hollering and screaming. It was a bigger outpouring of emotion than Jax had ever seen from the normally sober inhabitants of the Remnant Fleet.

  With a hiss and a metallic clang that reverberated around the arena, the doors opened. In the darkened corridors behind, hulking shadows waited, outlines of huge figures. Jax had thought it loud before, but the roar of support became almost painful. His father hugged him close as the crowd surged around them.

  Jax peered into the open tunnel opposite, trying to catch a better glimpse of the armoured figures waiting inside.

  One of the nobles stepped forward in the central box and began addressing the arena. The holos zoomed in on him, projecting his image on the panels in between the upper tiers of the stadium. He was a tall man, clad in a fitted blusuit boasting many little folds and accoutrements, indicating his status. His dark hair was luxuriously long, and his lightly greying goatee immaculately trimmed. Compared to the simple appearance of many of the shipworkers in the stands around them, his noble origins were obvious.

  "Citizens of the Faal Remnant," the noble said, raising a hand to the crowd.

  "That's Duke Comorin," Jax's father told him. In the future, Comorin's name would become infamous for the catastrophic decisions he'd make during the Remnant's crossing of the Diamant Nebula, but back then Jax only recognised Comorin as one of the members of the ruling council from the Remnant newscasts.

  "Citizens of the Faal Remnant," Comorin repeated. The noise subsided as the standing fans strove to hear his words. "It has been 978 years since the Maelstrom took away the jewel of our heart, and we were forced to leave Artaria to its destructive clutches. Our home is gone, but we are still here. For centuries we have kept this fleetship on its journey away from the devastation at the heart of our galaxy, preserving our culture and our way of life."

  "And as the Remnant Fleets that traverse
the galaxy represent the worlds we've left behind, the Champions we send out into hostile worlds represent the best virtues of our noble houses and our culture."

  A cheer went around the arena. In the open tunnel, azure light flashed, as if a small thunderstorm was brewing. In the afterglow of the bright light, Jax caught the reflection of burnished armour plate and the ridged tines of a high-tech projectile weapon. The hairs on the back of his neck tingled with anticipation.

  "As we start the selection process for the Faal Remnant's next group of Champions, first we celebrate those who have already reached that lofty goal, and have sacrificed so much to keep us safe."

  Comorin gestured to each of the gates, and the light inside the tunnels began to increase.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you this cycle's finalists of the Champion cup, the most highly decorated Champions across all the Faal Remnant's missions. Let's see them!"

  Jax watched in awe as the gates lit up and out strode, in turn, five gigantic titans of battle. Though they varied in size, each exosuit was at least half again the height of the tallest man in the fleet. Though their profile was bipedal, the position of the human pilot inside was unclear, hidden beneath inches of reinforced armour and mechanical servos. Locked into where the wrist would be if their human arms actually reached that far were an assortment of intimidating weaponry, from huge cylindrical laser cannons to lines of coiled electromagnets crackling with lightning.

  As each Champion emerged, the holos around the arena projected footage from the battles they'd fought for the Remnant over the past star system cycle. Their names were projected onto every flat surface. Each time they stepped forward, the announcer would say a little something about them.

  "Our first contender is the deadliest Marksman in all of Faal, winner of the zero-g target tournament four times, let's hear it for Abel Rundark!"

  Rundark, one of three medium sized suits, raised the Torus Sniper rifle bolted to his left arm into the air to acknowledge the applause. His twilight blue armour was adorned with little symbols etched in bright silver, filling up almost every flat surface.

  "What do the symbols mean, Dad?" Jax asked, pointing.

  "One for each kill he's made on the battlefield," his father replied. Despite the gruesome answer, his father looked proud.

  Jax turned back to the arena, where the announcer was introducing one of the other medium-sized suits, a white stripe cutting vertically down its red frame, which compared to the others was relatively unadorned with trophies and symbols. As well as the particle rifle on one wrist, a long thin blade protruded from the other, swivelling on its mount in a series of whirls and feints as the pilot showed off for the crowd.

  "It's not often we get a Holista qualifying for the ultimate match in the tournament, but this field surgeon is no ordinary medic. Equally adept at causing damage with her blade as she is saving her fellow champions, Zarina Akpom aims to capture your hearts as easily as she could fix them on the operating table."

  "Next, from House Deaapos, the man who single-handedly held off an attack from six hundred rebels at the Atmos cybel gate. Without his heroic last stand, this entire vessel would not have made it through into the cybel network in time to avoid destruction at the Maelstrom's Edge. Our Heavy-Gee candidate, representing Crimson Danger Fire Team, is Brandon Ephraim!"

  Ephraim's suit was the largest of the five by some distance, with hulking great legs thicker than the torso of a man, and feet that looked like they could crush a tank. Mounted on his shoulders were a pair of heavy cannon, with a string of flechette missiles mounted to his forearms. Ephraim had neither paint nor trophies on his armour, but instead had not repaired any of the superficial damage from his previous battles, leaving the grey metal scarred with pockmarks of bullet impacts, chips and scrapes from collisions and one set of deep gouges down his torso that looked like they had been left by claws.

  "And, ever present at the finals due to his overpowering record as the most experienced champion in the fleet, Francesco Cortesi needs no introduction. His qualifications as Lead Fleetguard have turned the tide in many of Faal's darkest moments, and his captaincy of Dark Arrow for the last ten years has kept his Fire Team top of the league tables for much of that time. The other contenders will have to be at the top of their game to topple this legend!"

  Unlike the others, Cortesi allowed his canopy to open, revealing the pilot within the suit. Jax was surprised at how old the Champion was, his hair and thin moustache grey. His suit was the polar opposite of Ephraim's ragged beast, all immaculately kept, shining plates in the tell-tale black and white checks of Dark Arrow. The symbols of Baron Reithelder adorned his ornate shoulder pauldrons and gold filigree dotted the edges of his plasma carbine. Many of the greatest surviving Champions became nobility in their own right when they hung up their suits, and Cortesi certainly looked like he would be one.

  "Everyone keeps saying Cortesi's going to retire," His dad shouted above the roar, "but every year he always seems to just get better."

  "Our last contender may have the smallest Lorican suit, but judge this elite scout by her size at your peril. This Sigint's speed and stealth have given her Fire Team the tactical advantage on many battlefields, but she's no pushover in a one on one combat either. Making her first appearance in the grand final, it's Brianna Kerr of House Ocallan!"

  The Nimbus scout suit Brianna Kerr wore was dwarfed by the other three, especially Ephraim's Heavy-Gee behemoth. The suit's legs and arms only came just past where her own limbs must have ended, and the hands were much closer to gloves than the mechanised fists of the others. Her light green armour was intersected with an arrangement of yellow chevrons. A set of jump jets flared from her back, lifting her off the ground to the cheers of the fans.

  His father leaned over conspiratorially to Jax. "Kerr's from one of the smaller Houses. They hardly ever get this far in the tournament, and it makes the top table unhappy - notice how none of them are clapping?"

  Jax looked at the booth, watching the nobles look on impassively. Despite the lack of support from the upper echelons of Fleet society, there were quite a few in the crowd waving banners with yellow chevrons on green amongst them in the cheaper seats. His father noticed what Jax was looking at and smiled. He pointed to the green and yellow badge on his chest.

  "Of course, us dockhands love an underdog."

  Jax smiled. His eyes flicked back to Kerr's Nimbus suit, a little part of him believed that if he and his father willed her on, the outsider would have a better shot.

  The five Champions met in the middle of the arena and faced the Lords in the Noble boxes. In turn, they gave a salute or bow to the Lord or Lady that sponsored their Fire Team. The gestures looked odd and rather awkward coming from giant suits of armour. With the formalities out of the way, the Champions returned to stand outside their entrance tunnel, each perfectly still as an air of expectant silence settled onto the crowd.

  "Now you have met our contestants, this year's finest selection from our Fleet's great Champions. Tomorrow we will select the finest of our young recruits to join them, but today these five great warriors will give us a taste of their prowess, showing off the skills that keep our Fleet safe. Five worthy Champions have joined us here today, but only one can emerge victorious. Champions, at your ready… Fight!"

  A huge roar enveloped the arena as the suits sprung into life. Lorican suits, and the Champions within, were too precious a resource to have live fire during sporting events. Even with lower-power practice rounds, the fights were brutal enough that Champions still suffered terrible injuries, and occasionally even death. Jax was spellbound, transfixed as the Lorican suits leapt towards each other in a rush of orchestrated violence.

  Cortesi and Akpom engaged first. The younger Holista closed the distance rapidly, slashing at the older Fleetguard with great speed. The wily veteran ducked under the attack with a grace that belied the fighter's years and the size of his suit, and spun around to aim a pulse of charged particles at his oppone
nt's back. Akpom's suit sparked and smoked with damage, sending her sprawling to the ground. In two quick motions Cortesi strode across her prostrate form and triggered another burst into the helmet of his foe. The lights on Akpom's suit went dark, indicating that she'd suffered enough damage to end her challenge.

  "Wow," Jax murmured. It had all happened so quickly he didn't have time to process it.

  Around the other edge of the arena, the slow-moving hulk of Ephraim's Heavy-Gee was dancing with the lighter suit of the rookie Kerr. The Sigint scout's jump jets flared and pulsed, darting her out of the way of pulses from the thickset suit's cannons. The shots spun out into the crowd, sending the watching fans scrambling to avoid danger, until they laughed in relief when the particles splashed harmlessly into the shield protecting the crowd.

  Despite Kerr's manoeuvrability in the air, the overwhelming firepower of the heavier suit was forcing her into a corner. Jax clutched the seat, anxious that his chosen Champion would be next out. But then a series of impacts lit up the side of Ephraim's suit, staggering the Heavy Gee's approach. The behemoth twisted to glimpse this new threat – Rundark's crouched form in the far corner, squeezing off shots from his sniper rifle. The distraction allowed Kerr to dive down past Ephraim, flying in a spiral manoeuvre past the threat and into the empty space beyond.

  His original quarry gone, Ephraim turned on his new attacker, each thumping step forward a statement of intent. Despite the size of his suit, the distance between them decreased rapidly. It was not a large arena, and Rundark couldn't swing his sniper rifle around to get a close up shot before the bulk of Ephraim barrelled into him with an almighty crash. Ephraim took the smaller suit beneath him and began pummelling blows into the Marksman.

  Cortesi was the next to make a move. He twisted his wrists, spinning his rifle back onto its mount and releasing two smaller weapons, which he fired as he walked forward, intersecting the flight path of the aerial scout. Kerr's suit flashed and shook with the impacts and threw her to the ground, the jump jets cutting out as she rolled away.