Heretic's Faith

by Randall N Bills

  “Stravag,” he growled. At the last moment, he abruptly realized he’d not fastened the five-point restraining harness and began doing so at speed, as a roar brushed in through two levels of armor and a buffeting rocked the fifty-ton ’Mech in its giant cocoon slightly. Allowing too many worries to distract you, savashri. Then, without so much as a warning or a by your leave, he fell up, the harness keeping him in place, as gravity went topsy-turvy and the cocoon rotated madly as it fell away from the DropShip, until prepositioned attitude jets fired, aligning the ceramic shell for optimum insertion into the lower, thicker atmosphere.

  As the shell dug into the atmosphere, and the friction turned the ceramic shielding into a blazing torch that etched a white streak across dirty, gray skies, Kisho felt as if the cockpit were warming. It was not, of course. Kisho knew the insulated cocoon let so little heat through that the Wendigo’s hull would only be tolerably hot to the touch. Enough heat to warm the cockpit simply could not pass all the way through the shielding, the near vacuum between the cocoon and the ’Mech, and the Wendigo’s own insulation as well. But when you looked like a falling star, the body assumed heat and acted appropriately, regardless of such knowledge.

  Eyes closed, a trance walling off all emotions—sealing off this instant when a warrior found everything beyond his control and a single aerospace fighter could end his life before he might even grasp a joystick for return fire—Kisho rode out the atmospheric insertion. Replaying the plan in his mind, he could see the Outpost and the other DropShips of the flotilla, their cargo delivered like angry storks dropping bombs in place of children; their drive plumes flaring to brilliance as they poured on thrust, moving back towards orbit, their trajectories racing away across the horizon, where they would stay until the landing zone was cleared of enemies.

  Finally, sensors in the cocoon detected sufficient atmospheric pressure—the doglike electronic brain determining the life of the pod had expired—and explosive bolts shattered the geodesic armor plates and latticework, which were then torn away by the savage, roiling winds. Now, a metal man fell at several hundred kilometers an hour, heading towards a very unforgiving ground below.

  “Star, report,” Kisho spoke into the commline before the expertly engineered waste metal sheared completely away. A chorus of voices chimed in. Eyes glued to radar, he catalogued positions and tapped through short- and long-range settings to pinpoint his own Star, while verifying the locations of the other Stars in the assaulting force.

  “Flight Alpha. Report.”

  “Mystic. The sky is clear. There are no targets. I repeat, no targets.” As though in answer, a brace of aerospace fighters tore through near space, their contrails leaving a wide wake through the churning moisture of a heavy rainstorm.

  “Nothing?” You come that close to me again . . .

  “Nothing?”

  The adrenaline pumping through his system began to subside as disappointment set in. As the altimeter cycled down and he began the slow burn of jump jets to bleed off velocity in preparation for touchdown, he could not help but wonder.

  All this way. We came all this way. Where is the enemy?

  13

  Unity Palace, Imperial City

  Luthien, Kagoshima Prefecture

  Pesht Military District, Draconis Combine

  2 October 3136

  “You are sure?” Ramadeep Bhatia’s fingers itched for the tsuka of his katana. He wanted to feel the perfect balance and edge latent in the hilt and know decisive action would soon flow. Itched for something.

  “Hai, director,” the Musukosan No Ryu agent said.

  Ramadeep grunted. A shinai thrust from a kendo master through a face guard would not have caused as much consternation. Not pain. No. Consternation. And amazement she had flowed so easily past his guard. Why did I not think of this?

  The small, wiry agent continued kneeling on the tatami mat in the director’s secret chamber reserved for such receptions, slightly to his left but in arm’s reach, as Ramadeep’s fingers twitched and he flogged the failure. The bioluminescent glass beads hung from the low ceiling generated an eerie, sickly blue light, which blanched faces and washed away subtle facial nuances. Yet, in this room, the traditional Combine facade was left at the door. Considering the trouble and expense Ramadeep went through to build this buried chamber—bioluminescent lights (powered by sugar and fertilizer) so no unusual energy drains off of the palace reactors could be traced; no electronic devices, so unusual readings by scanners could not trace to the source; no wires of any kind penetrating walls for taps; and so on—one spoke plainly or never spoke again: one of the first things any Sons of the Dragon learned when inducted into the director’s innermost circle.

  He reached to the small bamboo tray at his right knee, where a neat stack of rice paper met his fingers, and he smiled, once more flogging himself for his vanity. In this room, of all rooms, he could not avoid the truth that in some things he was more like the Peacock than he wished.

  Ramadeep’s left hand reached with precision to the small teacup at his left and he sipped cold sake while his coal black eyes scanned lists, names, and time stamps. A new thought emerged.

  “Warlord Saito?”

  The man glanced up, intelligence gleaming in the odd light. “He was made aware, but by then Katana had already jumped out of the Pesht District.”

  “And if he’d found out when she was still within the Irece Prefecture?”

  “You know Warlord Saito better than I.”

  “Taigo.”

  “Hai, director.” The man said, bowing deeply, then straightening to a full kneeling position before answering him directly. “He would not respond. Or would ‘lose’ the information. She came alone, so he can ignore the affront. Especially as he will bury the information as deeply as he can. And when it comes to Saito, there is no one with deeper closets and more piles of skeletons.”

  He nodded, according his best pupil the acknowledgement. To this day, he remained surprised Saito ever managed to gain the warlord’s seat, much less retain it. Never did find out what he held over Vincent. “And the Peacock?” Ramadeep watched for any telltales and only found a slight flicker in the left eye before the man responded.

  “He will ignore it. It is warlord business.”

  Very good, Taigo. You still have trouble accepting my conclusions concerning the strength of the Dragon and yet you hide it well. You are coming along. “Hai,” he finally responded. “Saito has no reason to trumpet the weakness, and with the Benjamin Warlord seat still vacant, the geisha could troupe through all three military districts like a Canopian pleasure circus and it would only cause a small stir.” And when, oh mighty Peacock, will you replace the Benjamin Warlord? With wars looming on all sides, you cannot wait much longer. Can you? And why are you waiting?

  “And Warlord Tormark?” Taigo’s lips hardly moved as he spoke.

  A cool smiled curled lips. You may follow my lead, but you do not do so blindly. You respect the geisha and dislike my diminutive name. But of course, it would be impolite to explain such to me directly . . . even here, in our room of open secrets. He bowed fractionally, letting Taigo know his point was taken, if not accepted.

  He replaced the teacup carefully, the tingling in his fingertips still demanding answers. Or action. “Her bold move to contract Nova Cat forces was brilliant.” He gave that up grudgingly. “However, there are many types of battlefield victories and not all victories lead to success. Taigo, you may respect her for her battlefield accomplishments. She is, without doubt, an unsurpassed warrior, worthy of the blood of Minobu Tetsuhara that flows in her veins and his sword, which she carries. And she is quickly demonstrating her acumen for courts.” Though he would love to see her in the Black Room, attempting to deal with the other warlords. The cool smile grew perceptibly. Warlord New Samarkand in particular would enjoy breaking her.

  “If she is all you say, then why is she wrong for the Combine? Sakamoto was a fool and Saito craven, and the Peacock lacks the stren
gth of his forefathers. Only Matsuhara appears to hold the strength you seek. You say we need more strength for the Dragon? Why not Katana?”

  Ramadeep slowly lowered the rice papers, placing them back on the small bamboo tray, as eyes raked his brightest pupil. Though intelligent, dedicated, and fanatical, not even Taigo could stand up to such scrutiny for long. He slowly wilted. Though his posture remained ramrod-straight, Ramadeep could almost feel the man’s ki wither and waste away, a rock-hard sheet of ice sloughing under the brutal assault of summer’s high sun.

  “There is much you don’t understand. There is no true strength in the Peacock. He will never have the strength, regardless of the steel of his warlords. Even if all warlords were of the caliber of such men as Takashi Kurita himself, the Peacock would still be the Peacock. And the false strength he draws from the dedication of the likes of Katana can only weaken us in the long run. Can only crack a hard facade, which will cave if pushed.” Silence washed through the room as he watched Taigo stare inward, contemplating.

  Ramadeep once more cradled the earthenware teacup, savoring the gritty texture that almost made his fingers feel wet. Memories of a youth spent in the fields where such pottery sprouted from endless grandfather hands filled the moments before Taigo finally spoke.

  “An empty dragon’s egg.”

  Ramadeep closed his eyes for a moment, a quick prayer flashing silently, given for such agents. He would need all his Sons of the Dragons if they were to weather the storm already starting to break across the Combine. He opened his eyes and began to speak. “A false strength all the Pillars of the Dragon will fall prey to. Steel. Jade. Even Ivory and Teak. All will be seduced by the supposed strength of the Pillar of Gold, the Peacock. And when our enemies come for us, like an empty egg shell we shall shatter, and the scavengers will feast on our flesh.” He slowly clenched a fist and raised it before him, making sure to focus Taigo’s attention. “Katana,” he began, naming her for once in Taigo’s presence, in the hopes of hammering in his point, “is the most dangerous of all our enemies. For she will make the Peacock believe he is something he will never be. Worthy of the Dragon’s throne.”

  He slowly lowered his arm until it rested on his knee. “She must be stopped, and with Warlord Tormark there is only one way to do so.”

  Taigo slowly nodded, hopefully, finally convinced. We shall see if you are, Taigo. Time to step up the plans already in motion.

  14

  Kaona Island

  Wandessa Chain, Athenry

  Prefecture II, The Republic of the Sphere

  3 October 3136

  Rotten eggs sat in the back of Kisho’s throat, while liquid oozed from every pore, making his hair limp and soaking even the ballistic cloth of his cooling vest—an image of a fruit squeezed for all its juices flashed through his mind. I hope whoever drinks me chokes. He smiled wryly and raised the water bottle to squirt his face, thought better of it, and took three long swallows as he strode through the field of volcanic rocks in the small clearing of what appeared to be endless jungle. No use wetting my face. Feels like I am standing in a shower.

  “Kisho?” A voice spoke behind him. “Wait up.”

  He stiffened, on the verge of ignoring the call, then slowed and looked over his shoulder, the best he would offer while continuing towards the command tent.

  Tai-i Jing Smith, looking at him eye to eye as Kisho had guessed, strode towards him. “Mystic,” Kisho corrected.

  The other man held up his hands and slid on his usual sarcastic smile, but increased his pace to catch up. “Yeah. Sorry about that. Mystic. Forgot.”

  No, you did not. You forget nothing. Despite the man’s facade, after Kisho cracked it, it might as well have been a window for the tai-i’s ability to hide anything.

  “Man, is it hot here or what?”

  Kisho turned away from the absurd statement—might as well call the sun yellow-white. They walked almost in lockstep, their equal strides maneuvering past rocks too inconvenient to step over. The command tent for the on-planet forces loomed near.

  “So, had a chance to cool off yet?” Smith tried again, just as a towering shadow cut off the sun and blessedly lowered the temperature by a few degrees. In the distance sat the grounded Nearstar, intermittent smoke columns still rising from foliage smoldering after the ship had burned itself a clear area to land.

  “If not, I took a quick jaunt at the crack o’ dawn, about three klicks to the ocean. Warm as piss at this latitude, but felt good, even if I’m still scrubbing salt out of my crotch. Check it out.”

  With an effort, Kisho kept harsh words at bay. He knew the man referred to the meeting on the Nearstar and not any physical temperature. “Do you have a specific question you want to ask?”

  Underlining Smith’s friendly tone, animosity lurked. Why would the man not speak plainly? Afraid to offend? Afraid your superiors will send you to the backwaters of some Periphery world if you botch up this liaison?

  “Hey, just trying to make friendly conversation,” Smith said, losing most of his bantering tone.

  “And if I do not wish to have a friendly conversation? Then what?”

  “Dammit. What the hell do you want?”

  “Honesty.”

  “You want honesty?!” the man spat, coming to an abrupt stop.

  For a moment Kisho contemplated continuing, then thought better of it. The uncalled-for animosity seemed to seethe below the surface of the man’s eyes. Time to see if the wound could be lanced, staving off problems down the road. He stopped and turned, while keeping just far enough away. The other man’s prowess as a kick boxer would not be brought to bay without needing to close, giving Kisho time to react. Not that it should come to violence, but you were always prepared. . . .

  “Did I not ask for it?” Kisho said, words flat and hard as a strip of sand turned to glass by PPC fire. “Is it that I am a Clanner and you cannot abide us? Do you hold the sentiments to heart that led to our secret war with the Dragon during the Second Ghost Bear–Combine war?” Kisho continued, interrupting Smith before he could respond, his harsh words exploding between them. A good defense is a better offense. Throw the man off his guard and see what happens. “Have you encountered our lost brethren and been found wanting? Or is it that you cannot accomplish the aims of your mistress and so she must contract for outside help that eats at you? Or is it something about me personally? Is the idea of a mystic—a ‘vision man’—offensive to you?”

  The other man blinked rapidly and opened and closed his mouth several times, as though he were a fish out of water. At some other time the look would have been amusing, but Kisho barely paused in his verbal pounding.

  “What?” Kisho continued, cocking his head as though speaking to a small child. “I thought you wanted to talk? Apparently that is not the case.” He turned and resumed walking towards the command tent. Though the other man did not follow immediately, burning anger washed across Kisho’s neck like noonday sun. This is not finished. Not finished by a long shot. But to heal a wound, you have to cauterize it.

  He reached the command tent and entered to find a bevy of personnel moving about assigned tasks—Dragon’s Fury personnel, as well as Clan Nova Cat warriors and technician castemen. Even two labor castemen moved large computer consoles and finalized the setup of the holographic generator. A power cord bundle snaked out under a tent flap to the fusion generator, kept at some distance as the radiation shielding on the recharger was not as adequate as that of vehicular-scale engines.

  “Ah, Mystic,” Tivia Rosse said, waving him towards the edge of the holomap.

  Setting aside his encounter with Smith, he strode up beside his nominal superior, coming to a loose-limbed rest. He admitted for a moment that he wished the air-conditioning of the tent was active, but it had yet to be set up.

  “What think you?” she said without preamble, indicating the map.

  The holographic map detailed the Wandessa Chain islands, one of four such landmasses on Athenry. Their current island,
tagged as Kaona, was by far the largest in the chain, though another dozen could easily hide a small force of BattleMechs in the heavy foliage. The humidity and heat, combined with the density of foliage, guaranteed infrared scanning was almost worthless and magscans only worked when you got close enough that weapons were likely already flying.

  On the main island, several blue lights burned, indicating the on-planet forces of the Fury and Nova Cats. With the lack of evidence of any defenders, despite ample proof they were still on-planet, the initial plan was aborted and a third of the Nova Cat forces assigned to Athenry were kept in orbit. All the easier to deploy them when the main defenders’ location was determined. A half dozen red dots indicated last known locations of the Raiders—information taken from locals, thereby suspect.

  Kisho’s stomach had begun its familiar churn when an individual joined them at the table. Tai-i Smith stood across the holomap, anger etched on his face in dark lines limed with sweat. “Tai-i,” Kisho said respectfully, and went back to studying the holographic display. Perhaps I should not have been so direct with our Fury liaison commander? He shrugged. That path is already chosen. And I have something far more critical to deal with right now.

  As the relative silence stretched—the hubbub of the tent swirled around, as personnel finished prepping the room for an extended campaign—Kisho casually reached up to wipe away the sweat that began to coat his forehead and trickle down along the sides of his face.

  The fear began to take on a life of its own—a primal beast, clawing its way out of its cage, teeth tearing and claws rending. The fear that seemed to constantly plague him of late, now that Hisa no longer lent her aid. The fear from the moment he understood he was heading to war and that he would be assigned as a mystic to offer counsel. No, not counsel. That he could do. No, to offer portents. And visions. To provide Tivia with mystical guidance, when appropriate. After all, they could not sit forever on this world, quiaff?!