He did not get sick. He did not have transit disorientation syndrome. Absolutely not. But he preferred to avoid talking to anyone for as long as possible after each jump, which tore a body from the weave of reality and then reassembled it in the subjective blink of an eye. All he needed to do was not open his mouth for about ten minutes and it would be fine. Of course it would.
Stupid stravag lower castemen.
Entering the passageway, he began to gingerly make his way towards the vessel’s only gravity deck. Should have been on the gravity deck when we made the jump. Just wanted a first-time view of the Arkab system. Just to give a nod of respect to the amazing Azami troops who have cross-trained with our warriors. Like us, they are honorable warriors the Combine couldn’t subdue, and so House Kurita instead levied regiments for its use . . . just like they did with us. Had to be there . . . should have been on the grav deck.
As he made his way down corridors, several Lancers’ warriors passed his position, each nodding respectfully, making a circular finger gesture pressed to the chest. But the long years of training at the old man’s knee held true and his eyes automatically registered and cataloged each minuscule reaction as the warriors under his counsel slipped by. From the way their hands moved, to the pulse at their necks, to the rise and fall of their chests, to the dilation of pupils: a checklist, which, when compared to the framework of thoughts within, added up to one of the best polygraph tests available . . . and all without the other person even aware of the scrutiny. It took a lifetime to master (he was far, far from perfect!) and not all could master it. But for those who could . . . the Lancers, who disliked mystics, effectively lying about their respectful greeting, stood out like images painted in glowing smears across infrared goggles at night.
Many rumors swam through the warrior caste, murmurs of this ability, but none voiced it, despite the unease the warriors felt. After all, it could not possibly be true, quiaff? But it was. After all, this technique was verifiable. He had tested the results numerous times and knew the truth of it. Unlike visions and portents and so much else. . . .
Though no sarcastic smile ever graced his lips, Kisho nevertheless acknowledged each show of respect (lie or no lie), filing away such information for the future. Just one more burden you placed on me, old man, quiaff? One more.
Reaching the exterior of the gravity deck, he waited for an open tram, then boarded with several others (they packed in, but never once touched him) and the car slowly accelerated to match the spin of the grav deck—he always hated how long the tram took, regardless of the knowledge that not even veteran spacers could handle zooming between microgravity and half gravity at any appreciable rate—where it mated to a hatch and disgorged the occupants.
“saOathmaster,” a voice pounced almost the instant he left the hatchway, nova cat to its prey.
He turned towards the voice, only mildly disconcerted to have run into Tivia so quickly.
“Yes, Star Colonel Rosse?”
“Have you reviewed the personnel codexes?”
“I am currently in the process, Star Colonel.” Trying to second-guess me? His pulse quickened at her presumption, though her eyes managed to keep any true irritant from sparking into outrage. Her deep, almost indigo eyes seemed catlike, as though she had had genetic implants from a nova cat; for a moment he thought he saw vertical slits and the flash of glowing luminescence from the lighting coming down from the central hub.
“Okay, okay,” she said, swinging her head slightly, sending brunette, shoulder-length hair swinging. Her too-large nose even wrinkled, as though trying to avoid a smell.
Trying to avoid me?
“There are several Elstars in the Lancers.” Her tone of voice spoke her discomfort and Kisho smiled slightly. Ah, that is it. Or maybe both.
A different permutation of the genetic breeding program himself, Kisho held no reservations over the still relatively new philosophy entrenching itself within the warrior castes of such Clans as Jade Falcon, Wolf, and even the Ghost Bears, and now starting to appear among the Nova Cats. A philosophy originating within the Scientist caste (if word from the Watch could be believed, the Falcon caste, of all places), which believed it had been wrong to allow the Elemental, MechWarrior, and aerospace pilot phenotypes to remain unchanged for centuries. That just as the breeding program mixed new genes to create the next greater generation of warriors, phenotypes should be massaged as well, experimenting, ever looking to create the epitome of the warrior caste.
As for the Elstars (a phrase Kisho believed the old man coined: elite ristars), they could look . . . very different, each Clan moving its warriors down different paths, from pasty skin and emaciated, to squat and broad, and so on. The percentage of Elstars to the general warrior caste was still minuscule; they were only used for the most important missions. But their superior abilities and their burgeoning alien looks threatened so many warriors.
As do we mystics. And at least it is only the flesh of Elstars the Clans rape, and not the mind and soul as well. “They will be evaluated as any other warrior,” he finally responded coldly.
“Do not be offended, Mystic. Simply my job to make sure you know all my men and women. Quiaff?” She canted her head, her last statement almost a challenge.
Once more Kisho’s irritation flamed out under her assaulting stare. ’Mech class-weapons have stares like that, Star Colonel. She knows? He almost jerked, as though someone spoke softly in his ear. Before he could catch himself, he actually glanced to the right, as though expecting to find someone. He glanced back and found his neck muscles bunching at the smile twisting her lips and lighting her eyes. How can the game be slipping away so easily? After all these years?
“TDS.”
“Neg!”
“Sorry,” she said, hands raised, though no apology tinted her voice.
“A strange echo. Thought I heard something.”
“Aff. A strange echo.” He tried to avoid her eyes and finally glanced away, as though looking for someone. He ignored the fact that hearing voices was often a symptom of TDS, and she knew it.
“Well, I will leave you, though I hope to see your report on my personnel before we jump. The Republic is all too close, regardless of how many weeks remain before we meet battle.”
“Aff, Star Colonel. You will have it.”
She nodded her head, those too-knowing eyes once more prying under flesh and tumbling every twig and rock hiding secrets within. She turned away and gracefully leapt onto a ladder mounted on the unmoving bulkhead, which immediately carried her away as the grav deck continued to spiral.
You would make a good reader, Star Colonel. Are you a Moly? He chuckled darkly at the idea of her developing latent abilities, before the obviousness of her comments washed coldness along skin, raising goose bumps. She knows you do not believe and does not care, provided you do your job. He shook his head slowly. But how can I do my job, if I do not believe? The conundrum was painful.
He reached down to a small pocket on the thigh of his single suit and retrieved a small energy bar as he began making his way towards his favorite place, an out-of-the-way set of chairs and a table. As the spicy nuts and meaty fruits of Irece filled his mouth with memories, he easily moved among crowds of Nova Cats, a shadow hiding in the shadows and moving effortlessly without detection. Mystics, after all, were outcasts, but he made it a fine art.
“Kisho,” a delicate voice intruded. Stomach muscles began to unclench as he slowed to a stop and focused, then redoubled in intensity at the pair moving up to stand within arm’s reach.
A more strange match he could not imagine. Tall and thin, almost to the point of gangly, Hisa’s thin cheeks, bland eyes, and lackluster hair assured him no MechWarrior would ever mount her likeness on a flatvid in their cockpit. Hisa stood, as usual, slightly hunched, as if expecting a strong breeze at any moment and preparing to shield against it.
Her companion, short and stocky (not fat, all muscle), with dark complexion, overly large eyes, and unique, amon
g the Mystics, fiery red hair—an almost unheard-of case of the genefather’s genes overpowering those of the First Mystic—Tanaka did not simply stand. Instead, he seemed to meld into his current position, his feet sealing to the ground, so a punch of a BattleMech’s fist would not dislodge him, even in the half gravity.
“Kisho,” Tanaka said, the clipped, deep voice a perfect match for the solid body. They both bowed slightly, then formed the circular finger gesture pressed to the chest.
He bowed in return and calmly returned the sign of respect for a mystic, while frantically throwing himself into a first-stage trance in an effort to distance his fluttering spirit from his body. They would find no truths betrayed by his physical form.
“I see you still cannot accept the weakness within. You will never master it, if you will not accept.” Tanaka spoke, dark eyes all too knowing.
Savashri. Does everyone know? Hiding anger and trepidation was one thing. A blatant lie about wanting to be on hand to view the Arkab system as some type of honor to Azami warriors was another thing altogether, when it came to Tanaka, whose vision for truth-telling went beyond even Kisho’s excellent forms. No, better to say nothing at all.
Twin eyes lunged and parried as though they were bared blades, Tanaka looking to batter down doors he could almost perceive; Kisho, in a defensive stance, throwing up a whirling screen of scintillating gray.
After several long heartbeats (a lifetime under his scrutiny!) Tanaka simply turned and walked away. As though the hatch in a cockpit popped following a horribly overheating battle, Kisho sucked in the stale, regurgitated air of the JumpShip as though it were the sweetest mountain air on Irece, redolent of evergreens and the heavy moisture of coming rain.
“He would not push so hard, if you did not keep yourself apart,” a voice caressed his ears. Kisho glanced away from the retreating back, only slightly ashamed to be imagining PPC bolts stripping flesh and vaporizing bone. “We outcasts must stand together, quiaff?” A smile in the voice.
“He has no right to push at all!”
“Of course not. Shall we actually sit down?” she responded, her voice devoid of any recriminations as she walked the half dozen paces to his favorite spot—a set of utilitarian chairs surrounding a small desk, all secured to the floor in case of a gravity deck malfunction. Well away from any other location, it afforded a refuge in plain sight.
For just a moment he chose not to follow, sure that he heard accusations in her tone. Yet something about her drew him reluctantly to her side, where he deliberately took a seat. The neoleather gave little and the hard backrest reminded him of an interrogation chair. No creature comforts. The Clan way, quiaff? He kept the sarcastic smile from his lips with no small effort—having lost first trance with the departure of Tanaka—and wiggled into the seat in a vain effort to find a more comfortable position.
“How are your dreams?”
His head whipped towards her like a targeting reticule to an enemy target. “What?”
“Your dreams? How are they?”
“They are my own.”
Her bland, brown eyes held his face with a completely different sensation then Tanaka’s. Where his demanded absolute obedience without question, hers seemed to beckon, to show him her own soul and invite him to do the same. Slightly akin to Yori, he contemplated, thinking of their meeting almost a year gone, but not nearly so serene, not so accepting. He glanced away, almost ashamed to peer through another’s spirit windows. He shivered despite the warmth of the deck. How can you bare yourself so easily? Akin to standing naked in front of your peers . . . but a thousand times worse. Ten thousand.
“Of course. Simply a conversational piece. You have proven difficult to know, Kisho.”
Because I do not wish to know you, or anyone. Too late, he knew the partial lie, even to himself, might be betrayed to Hisa’s eyes. Despite their bland and soft appearance, the old man would not have chosen her unless she were a mystic of unparalleled abilities. A mystic, very different than Tanaka in her approach, and yet identical to him in every way that mattered.
She believed.
His stomach began to cramp once more as the yawning hole tore further within him. A gaping wound across which no hand might reach.
“You must have a headache.”
He came out of his growing despair with some difficulty, confused at her odd observation. His eyes widened slightly to find her hand outstretched to him. Are you reading my mind? Do you have the old man’s power? For a tick in time, he almost believed, could almost see the knowledge written within her liquid vision. Then he came to his senses. More trickery.
I know your tricks, Hisa. They hammered them through me as well. They will not work on me.
Nevertheless, he laid his hand gently within hers, drawing away attention from the knowledge of her motives. She began to gently massage his hand, particularly seeking out the pressure point in between the thumb and index finger, back towards the palm. A sudden pressure and he gasped with the sharp pain. Yet, as usual, the pain brought a relief, a lessening of the headache he did not know he had. As though it were a cold compress drawing off the heat of an infected wound, the pressure fell away from his temples, down his arm and out.
He took in her eyes once more and wondered if she drew the pain to herself. Such a fool. A little release of pain and you immediately fall back to your indoctrination.
“Sometimes it can be such a little thing. Just a hand to hold and a gentle massage to release the pain within.”
Ah, you do it so well. Tanaka has nothing on you, Hisa. And yet I am pulled to you. Your pheromones work overtime to synch our heartbeats and raise my own endorphins to a level where I cannot think, but want you.
“And sometimes it takes more, Hisa, quiaff?”
“Aff.”
He canted his head at the world of possibilities in her statement.
6
The sound of forged steel sliding from a boiled-leather sheath hissed like burning sap in the guttering darkness.
Breath loud in his ears, he let the cross-hatched, smooth leather wrap of the hilt and its familiar weight bring reassurance. Shadows gyrated and leapt across moss-strewn stone, as frigid wind wafted down endless corridors, sending sputtering torches into gasps of agony and raising goose bumps. His harness creaked slightly as he shifted leather-shod feet across the pitted, ancient stone, trying to find a dry bit of ground. The comforting presence of a companion at his back calmed a fluttering heart, allowing him to unlimber stiff joints and prepare for the coming battle.
As though it were a tide of physical water, something ebbed into the room, under the iron-bound wooden door, washing across the filthy floor, pushing detritus of unimaginable ages aside as it engulfed his feet. He choked off a scream, as the fear beat within, fanned by billows from warm coals to a white-hot forge threatening to consume everything. Numerous scars across arms, hands, and chest ached as muscles bunched, tendons stretched, and skin pulled taunt until the battle marks stood out rigid and harsh as the day they were born, like a dollmaker stretching satin to the breaking point to make a closing stitching.
“It comes. Ware,” he said, voice horribly harsh and stiff with restrained terror, a mouse squeak in a giant’s domain. When no response came, he turned, only to find an empty room. The hint of the companion’s presence was already fading.
He opened his mouth to yell the companion’s name and abruptly couldn’t remember. Couldn’t remember where the person came from, or even what the companion looked like. Could only remember the pain of betrayal like a hot, cauterizing blade.
A sound. Nothing truly coherent, more felt than heard, slipped underneath the iron-bound wooden door. He spun back around, his finely tuned balance off so he slipped on wet stone, almost crashing to the ground. Despite previous knowledge, his eyes moved to the leather hinges; they were moldy and half eaten by rats. A determined child could force his way in, much less the thing stalking him. The thing coming with burning eyes, and teeth and claws and strength, fr
om endless darkness. Coming to take away all he knew.
All he had built across a lifetime.
Knuckles cracked and color drained from flesh as the sound materialized, undulating closer to the door. His heavy breathing spiked, at first covering the sound. Despite his resolve, he took a hesitant step back. Then another. One more, as the crescendo of the thing’s movement overcame the volume of his body’s betrayals.
A small puff of white shot underneath the door, followed by a sound he did not recognize. He jerked his head upwards as stinking droplets fell from a stalactite of some mucus, splashing onto his bare shoulder through the top opening in the leather chest armor, hitting his head with their incessant beat, fingers of doom to his skull. He bumped into the wall with a painful crack to his elbow, just as another puff underneath the door billowed, and this time the knowledge burned through. He tried to find strength in his grip on his blade, but numb fingers refused to move.
Snuffling. The nightmare taking his measure, assuring it tracked down its prey. Its exhaled breath in the frigid room raised bumps that turned white and hard as an armadillo shell. Fear dilated his pupils and locked his arms, arms long accustomed to facing battle with sweeping blows. A roar thrashed the air, booming against the door, sending a shower of ancient stone flakes and droplets raining across the room, as though a small dervish coalesced.
He almost vomited as his stomach clenched until his vision ran red. The door exploded inward with a sound to shatter eardrums, and crimson eyes and mouth stretched wide, launching into the room to rend and destroy and kill and kill and kill. . . .
Spirit Cat Encampment
Addicks, Prefecture III
The Republic of the Sphere
29 July 3136
Heretic's Faith Page 6