Exodus road

by Blaine Lee Pardoe

  He lifted his right arm and flexed his half-natural, half-artificial fist in defiance. "Remember this, and remember well. I have known you since our days in the sibko. I know the truth of what happened between us on Tukayyid. Knowledge is the ultimate weapon a warrior can carry into battle." The last line was one he knew would sting her. They were words their sibko trainer had drilled into them. How could she have forgotten?

  Jez stared back at him, her eyes narrowed in cunning. "There is another old saying," she said. "To the victor go the spoils."

  4

  Smoke Jaguar Planetary Command Post

  Warrenton, Hyner

  Smoke Jaguar Occupation Zone

  6 July 3052

  Trent stood at parade rest at the far end of the massive repair bay, arms behind his back, posture ever-straight. The rounded collar of his gray fatigues bore the markings of his rank and of his new unit designation, a roaring storm cloud with the eyes of a jaguar cutting through them in red. In the dim light of the huge bay, Trent cut an impressive figure, and only a closer look showed his scarring. No matter how long he spent healing, his body would always be marked by Tukayyid. The synthskin that covered his face was a lighter shade than the rest of him. His eye, ringed in a circle of circuitry metal, gave him an air of menace.

  Trent was actually pleased with the way he looked, however, and was beginning to call the face in the mirror his own.

  He had come to the repair bay to meet his bondsman for the first time. Phillip, the burly Master Technician, was leading her over to him now. The woman wore an old jumpsuit that was two sizes too large and worn through in some spots. Her long black hair was tied back carelessly. Her green eyes revealed a hint of her Oriental genes, but were puffed and weary. Trent realized that Master Technician Phillip must be making life difficult for her. He saw her half-glance at the Master Tech, and glimpsed the rage she was not totally able to conceal.

  Trent waited calmly for the pair to come within speaking distance, and he noticed the bondsman's eyes curiously examining his face. His scars, his mark of pride from battle.

  "You are Judith, quiaff?"

  "Yes, I mean aff, Star Captain," she said, catching her mistake before he or anyone else could levy punishment.

  Good, Trent thought, she is learning her place.

  He drew in a breath and straightened his stance slightly. "I am Trent, the warrior who bested you in the Racice Delta and who claimed you in the name of our Clan. You are my property, my bondsman. You are not a person now. You have no life other than that which I allow you. Do you understand, quiaff?"

  The words were required. The owner of a bondsman had to make sure that the bondsman knew his or her place. To Trent, it was simply the way of things—how things had to be, the Jaguar way. He had seen Judith fight on Tukayyid and knew that she was every bit the daring warrior that he was. She had shown herself cunning and fearless, which was why he had claimed her as isorla for the Clan. Now he had to tame her, break her spirit. But not too much. Just enough that she would remember who and what she was now.

  Judith looked down at her wrist where the bondcord was wrapped three times around. She rubbed the cord as if it bothered her, then turned back to Trent. "Affirmative, Star Captain. I remember the fight all too well. Master Phillip has made sure that I know my place in the Smoke Jaguars." She rubbed higher on her arm where a dark bruise was evident, proof that Phillip had used more than verbal abuse with his new charge. Trent did not balk. Such was the way of the lower castes.

  "Good. Then know this, your place in our Clan is among the technician caste. My own tech was killed during the recent fighting, and you will now serve in his place."

  "Understood, Star Captain. The Master Technician informed me of my posting two days ago. You will not be disappointed with my work. I have learned much already about how to service and support our 'Mechs."

  Trent saw a glimmer in her eyes, as if she had hopes in her new position. She does not understand how Smoke Jaguars deal with Inner Sphere bondsmen. "Judith, you will serve in this capacity for the rest of your years."

  "I seek to prove myself to you, Star Captain. One day, I hope to pilot a BattleMech in combat again as a warrior."

  Trent shook his head. "Negative, Judith. You do not comprehend the truth of your new life. We Smoke Jaguars do not subscribe to the folly of the Wolves or the Ghost Bears. We do not take bondsmen from the Inner Sphere and allow them to enter our warrior caste. That would dilute our breeding. You have tested as a technician, and you shall remain a member of that caste and serve always that role."

  Her expression did not change, yet Trent could not help but wonder how she was adapting to this new life. Among the Clans, being taken bondsman was not an unusual experience, but for someone like her the adjustment to her new status must be difficult. She had, after all, been a warrior—Inner Sphere or not, freebirth or not. And one of such skill that Trent considered her capture a prize. "What is the status of my OmniMech, Tech?" he barked.

  Judith pulled herself into a stricter stance, almost coming to attention, perhaps more out of habit from her former life than out of respect for her new master. "You were assigned another Mad—Timber Wolf." She shook her head as she corrected herself, about to use the Inner Sphere name for Trent's Clan 'Mech. "I've been working—"

  Trent stepped forward, getting right in her face. "You will cease using contractions, Technician. This is not the gutter of the Inner Sphere." He snapped at her like a training master at a raw cadet.

  "Aye, Star Captain," she returned as Trent stepped back. "The engine shielding had just been replaced and is operational. I am in the process of replacing the leg and refitting the cockpit components that have been damaged. Your T&T will be functional in two days' time. I hope to have all armor replaced in a week. Weapons pod configuration can take place after that."

  Trent shook his head to show that was not good enough. "My 'Mech must be fully outfitted, repaired, and readied for combat by the end of the week, I expect it to be configured in a primary configuration."

  Judith's face wrinkled in a mix of anger and frustration. "With all respect, Star Captain, that is not possible. There is a shortage of technicians, and I am all that is available. The schedule I gave you was ambitious as it was."

  The left side of Trent's face also wrinkled in displeasure, but the synthskin of the right side did not move, did not reveal any expression. "Did you not hear me the first time, bondsman? I am telling you that you will have to do better."

  "I do not know how—" ,

  Trent cut her off. "You are Clan now, Judith. You must learn to improvise. I do not care if it takes every hour of every day between now and Friday, you will have my Timber Wolf ready for combat."

  "By Friday," she said, lowering her eyes in a gesture of submission.

  "Good. On that day, I will take part in a Grand Melee. Let Master Tech Phillip tell you what that is and the importance of it. My BattleMech must be ready by then."

  She nodded. "I will do as you ask, Star Captain."

  "And then some," he added, pivoting hard and walking away from her.

  * * *

  The simulator cockpit bucked and swayed as Trent swung his Timber Wolf through another slugfest, this time with a Warhawk. While the primary monitor displayed an eerily likelife model of the OmniMech moving past him, he could not help but remember the last time he'd seen such a 'Mech, in the Racice Delta.

  He brought his already damaged Timber Wolf into a run and zigzagged across the possible field of fire. The Warhawk anticipated his attempt to evade fire. It laid down a pattern of suppression fire with its PPCs, trying to box him in and limit his movements. Trent admired the programmers of the simulator. It was so lifelike that it almost had an intelligence of its own.

  Rather than dodge, which would have permitted the Warhawk pilot to make a searing shot to his left flank, he rushed into a blue beam of charged particle energy. The simulator shook violently, and a wicked arc of azure charged particles danced like lightn
ing across his cockpit. The temperature spiked in the close confines of the cockpit, induced by heaters tied into the program, and Trent's skin began to crawl with the heat. Especially his synthetic skin, which didn't sweat like its natural counterpart. Nothing was as it had been. Things had changed. He had changed . . .

  He pivoted and fired a swarm of long-range missiles at the Warhawk, not waiting to see how many of them found their mark as the other 'Mech moved to a lower firing stance. The simulator bucked and heaved as he swung hard right. Three of the Warhawk's PPCs lanced out at his Timber Wolf. Their simulated beams slammed into his torso, ripping at the OmniMech's internal organs. Trent watched in frustration as the last of his armor disappeared and the beams tore at his internal systems. Failure lights came to life on his command console, their red beams of death the only illumination in the cockpit. Gyro failure. Engine shielding breach. Reactor hit. Each light told the story, one he did not want to admit was possible.

  Suddenly, all of the lights went dark. It was over. He hit the release that opened the cockpit pod of the stimulator with a hiss, and looked over at the tech in charge of loading and executing the program.

  "Numbers," he demanded sternly, lifting off his neuro-helmet and wiping the sweat from the left side of his brow.

  "You managed to take out the two lighter 'Mechs and inflict a total of thirty-four point five percent damage to the Warhawk before system failure."

  System failure. The words echoed in Trent's mind. Technician talk for his death. He would have to do better, drill harder and longer. The Grand Melee was only seven days away. He had to be ready.

  Trent licked his lips and nodded. "Load the simulator again. Run it with random encounters, all weight classes."

  "Aye, Star Captain," the tech responded. Trent pulled himself back into the simulator pod and prepared for another run.

  * * *

  "You are working late again," Phillip said, startling Judith as she contorted her body to fit into the small access hatch just under the cockpit of the Timber Wolf. The usually noisy 'Mech repair bay was oddly quiet at this hour, making her every grunting noise echo eerily through the bay. Only her head and one arm fit inside the space as she adjusted the circuity with a portable unit.

  At the sound of his voice, she emerged from the hole, her hair and arms slick and clotted with light green coolant and lubricants.

  "Is there a reason, Tech?" he said.

  "Aye, Master Phillip," Judith said. "MechWarrior Trent has ordered me to have his 'Mech ready by the end of the week—ready for a Grand Melee."

  Phillip softened his tone. "He did at that. Well, then, I shall assist you, for time is running short."

  "Thank you, Master Phillip," Judith said, bowing her head slightly. She had heard of the Grand Melee during her training. She knew she should have asked him about it, but another instinct told her not to. He's hiding something, and the less information I provide him, the more chances he will have to slip up. It was a hunch, but one she was more than willing to play.

  "Perhaps I will work with you on this—to set you an example of our techniques and procedures," Phillip said, adjusting his coveralls over the considerable bulk of his belly.

  Judith studied him for a moment and nodded. "I would appreciate that." She stood watching him as he moved around to the other side of the 'Mech and out of her sight. And I know enough to check over everything you do...

  * * *

  Trent emerged from the simulator, drenched in sweat, his legs quivering slightly as the muscles relaxed from his last run. The pod-like simulator hissed as its sliding canopy's retracting pistons released some of their pressure. He stood for a moment, then leaned on the simulator, not even looking at the tech who had run the simulation. The last run had been much better. Three destroyed 'Mechs of the same and lighter class. One other, a massive Gargoyle, had sent him into oblivion. But in the end, he had beaten the programming, the equivalent of facing live warriors.

  He drew a long breath and felt his chest muscles strain from the exercise. Trent knew he had pushed too far in the past few days. His body was still recovering slowly and painfully from his injuries, and now that the simulations were over, a wave of weariness washed over him.

  The all-out fighting of a Grand Melee would surely go faster than anything he'd yet achieved in the simulations and would require higher levels of endurance. He had yet to press himself that far because he knew his body was not yet ready. He had a week to prepare, a week to bring himself up to a level not merely to compete in the Melee, but to win.

  Trent felt a pressure that only a trueborn could experience. He was a Clan warrior, but he was thirty years old. By Clan standards, he had reached his prime. There would be fewer chances at a bloodname in his life, fewer opportunities for new commands. Unless he won a bloodname, he would soon fade into obscurity within the Smoke Jaguars. The thought of becoming obsolete gnawed at him, drove him on. It was that thought, that hidden fear, that pushed him to the Grand Melee. Ready or not.

  And if he failed, it would be a total defeat. At his age and without a bloodname he could easily end up assigned to a cursed solahma unit—aged and worthless warriors slated for suicide missions where luck might give them one last chance for the honor of a warrior's death. The Grand Melee was Trent's last and only hope.

  * * *

  The hulking man leaned over the desk to better read the information on his desktop display. He paused over one page of text on the screen, running one massive hand through his crew-cut blonde hair as he pondered the words.

  His office would not have been considered small by most commanders, but it was totally out of proportion for a man of his incredible size. Were he a MechWarrior like many of those in his command, the office would have been wasteful, too big. But as an Elemental warrior genetically engineered to wear and fight in the massive Clan combat armor, Star Colonel Paul Moon was huge by normal human standards. He seemed to be sitting behind a child's desk rather than one suited to a military commander.

  He turned his gaze to the blast-proof glass windows behind him and stared off into the city. Already a fog was beginning to rise with the break of day, the hot sun instantly turning the frost and light snow into steam. The Smoke Jaguar planetary command post did not offer much protection against the cold of Hyner. He thought he knew winter from his days in the sibko, back on the Smoke Jaguar homeworld of Huntress, but this freezing cold was something else.

  The Star Colonel returned his eyes to the screen and saw the image of his junior officer newly assigned to his Cluster. Star Captain Trent. The man was a Smoke Jaguar MechWarrior, but despite the length of his service and participation in the invasion of the Inner Sphere, had not earned a high degree of distinction. Yes, his actions during the initial phase of the invasion had been admirable enough. Reports showed that he was highly competent, a skilled tactical officer.

  But then came the record of his performance on Tukayyid. Moon had not been part of that fateful conflict, but some of his closest comrades had fought there—and died there. Instead of winning in short order as they had expected, the Smoke Jaguars had been virtually driven from Tukayyid. Worse, nearly two whole Galaxies had been destroyed. It was not the fault of their leaders. Lincoln Osis was a great Khan, having risen like a phoenix from the dead on Tukayyid. No, Paul Moon saw that it was not the leaders, but the warriors themselves who had failed against the Com Guards. Untried freebirth warriors—Inner Sphere barbarians—had beaten the alleged best of the Clans on that accursed planet.

  Warriors like Trent. He was among those to blame for the humiliation of the Jaguars on Tukayyid.

  Studying the man's service record, Paul Moon felt his contempt growing. Trent had risen to the rank of Star Captain, but had failed in an earlier attempt at a bloodname. Now he had filed a request to participate in a Grand Melee. He will fail in this as well. The odds are against him. The chances of winning a Grand Melee and going on to achieve a bloodname were so low as to be almost nonexistent.

  As an El
emental, genetically bred to fight in the powered suits of battle armor Clan infantry wore to rend apart enemy 'Mechs, Moon viewed the warriors who piloted BattleMechs with a certain degree of disdain. Clan society held warriors in a slightly higher position then Elementals, yet he thought that was not entirely justified. He looked down at his massive arms, his forearms callused where the internal webbing of his Elemental suit had rubbed him over the years, and smiled. Like all warriors who pilot 'Mechs, this Trent probably considers himself superior. I am bred to be larger, stronger, more deadly than any mere MechWarrior. And Paul Moon was now in a position to teach a man like Trent the reality as he saw it.

  The reports showed that this Trent had lost his OmniMech on Tukayyid, and that one of his other officers, Star Captain Jez, had stepped in and saved his life as he led a retreat. A retreat! That only added to Moon's disgust. A true warrior would have died in the trying instead of whimpering home like this Trent. To top it off, the man was in his thirties—passing his prime and headed nowhere. A mediocre warrior, not excelling, just surviving. Now he belonged to Star Colonel Paul Moon.

  No, he did not like this man already. The sooner Star Captain Trent was gone from his command, the better. He and the taint of Tukayyid he carried with him were intolerable. Like a stink that could not be washed away. Trent would lower the morale of his fellow commanders. He and Jez were from the same sibko, yet it was she who had proven herself. Ironically, she had done it saving his paltry life in battle.

  His fate is in my hands. I could perhaps rescue him, turn him into a warrior worthy of the name Smoke Jaguar. Perhaps, with time, he might yet be able to redeem himself. Star Colonel Paul Moon shook his head. No. Failings and weakness within the Clan had led to the shameful defeat on Tukayyid. Warriors like Trent had now crippled the invasion. They were not to be rewarded in the eyes of other trueborns but expunged.