He sighed heavily. For the last half hour he’d been attending to a far larger mess of the same stuff in the hangar.
How much brain did this man have?
He was back at the medi-bay now to dispose of the bodies. The place had gone quiet, a different scene altogether from an hour ago when the two Clansmen were first rushed in and the medic pronounced them dead on arrival. The five or so other Clansmen who had carried the bodies in exploded at the medic, shouting that he hadn’t even examined them yet and demanded he begin emergency treatment, immediately.
The Aberrations’ medic was no doctor, wasn’t even a real medic, for that matter. He just so happened to be the one plugging up holes most often on raids, enough for Bar-Kas to eventually make it official and appoint him to the post. Lack of formal training aside, one didn’t have to have attended some prestigious Island school or spend their formative years sewing up puncture wounds on the cliffs of the Black Ranges to diagnose a man with half a head as suffering from an acute case of being dead.
Still, Cheserg knew from his time as squad leader that fighters can be blind to reality when it came to brothers-in-arms falling in battle. The First Clansmen were in harsh and unfamiliar surroundings, preparing to carry out an unknown mission they had not been briefed on or trained for. Already two of their own had made the casualty list, and not by way of honorable combat but rather as the result of an unfortunate accident. The medic should have gone through the motions, if only for morale’s sake. Not doing so could only lead to further denial and erratic behavior, which is exactly what happened.
Cheserg ordered the medic to take a closer look. The Aberration checked for a pulse and even made a cynical show of listening for breath from where the mouth of one of the corpses used to be before his head exploded. Upon completion of this short, preliminary examination, the medic looked directly at the five Clansmen and declared, unnecessarily, “Well, whaddya know? They’re dead.”
Cheserg was forced to step in and order the rest of the Clansmen to stand down as the five rushed forward, looking to open up the same sort of wound on the medic that he used to mock their dead team members with. A few threats and one or two references to staining the honor of the First Clan had the men backing off. He sent them away to get some rest, warning that they could be shipping off anytime within the next day or two and it would be smart to take advantage of a real cot while they still had the chance.
Alone in the medi-bay now, Cheserg checked his watch. It had been a little over an hour since they’d arrived back at the Habitat. He wondered how much effective sleep he could get in between now and whenever it was they would be heading out again. Throughout his stint as one of the Second’s Aberrations he’d learned to cheat his circadian rhythm and convince his brain that minutes of rest were in fact hours, and an hour of sleep was a full night’s worth. But cheats could only pile up so much before they caught up with you. When a raid was over and done with he would invariably have to pay it all back in full, plus interest. It didn’t matter what the mind could be made to believe, the body eventually crashed, and crashing on a raid was not an option.
What disturbed Cheserg even more than not knowing if he would be getting enough rest to function, was the feeling he got from the Second lately; that he was of the opinion sleep was something an Aberration could afford to do without, among other things. Bar-Kas had always been tough on the men but this wasn’t about toughness. It was something else. Ever since the Nebulous, the Second Son had been acting different, changed somehow. It was unnerving.
A telltale squawk from an incoming communication sounded off in the squad leader’s open helmet:
“Cheserg?”
“Yes, Second.”
“How’s the downed Clansman?”
“Which one?”
“The hero who tried saving the day.”
“Didn’t make it.”
“Not surprising with most of his brain splattered on the hangar floor. And his fellow Clansmen, how’re they taking it?”
“Not well. They’re angry.”
“Good. Hopefully babysitting time is over, then. I want you to take the other downed Clansman’s helmet, the one that wasn’t cracked, back to the prep station. Pressure proof helmets are hard to come by and we need every one we’ve got.”
“Second, that helmet malfunctioned. It’s what got the man killed.”
“Check the slot for the facemask.”
“Second?”
“There’s an Island Coin wedged inside. That panicked armature probably jammed the thing right down to the base. I want that Coin back, by the way.”
Cheserg unsheathed the combat knife strapped to his thigh and dug into the slot where the facemask secured to the helmet’s neckline. Sure enough, an Island Coin popped out and rolled along the medi-bay floor coming to rest eerily beneath the gurney of its victim. An unsettling thought came to Cheserg as he vaguely recalled the Second flipping a coin in his palm during reentry. He stood there, unmoving, staring at the coin where it lay.
Bar-Kas must have read Cheserg’s mind. “Anger’s a better motivator than fear on any day, Cheserg. One dead First Clansman now save’s a lot more on mission. They needed something to get angry about. Besides, the man’s fate was sealed the moment he broke on the Raider and lost his lunch. One way or another that man was going to die. Better now, among his Clan, where they could honor him properly and burn his body on the pyres of his forefathers, than by shaming himself in battle and left to rot in an unmarked Island grave.”
Cheserg wasn’t quite convinced. First off, it was two First Clansmen who ultimately paid the price of Bar-Kas’ judgment, not one. The body count was already piling up. Perhaps the Second sensed Cheserg’s reservations because he added, “The other Clansman’s death was unfortunate, but if he had listened to orders he’d still be flying out with us - which reminds me; we move out at Full Dark, everyone, tonight.”
Cheserg sobered up at that. “Doesn’t give the men much time to recharge. They’re still feeling the after effects of the adrenaline dump from our last action. Not to mention the detour to pick up the First Clan-”
“I know, but we have no choice,” broke in Bar-Kas, overruling Cheserg’s concerns. “The client is expecting a two day lag from the time the package is in place. We need to be there before that. You heard what that Race official said on the liner. We don’t have much time. Our window can close at any moment.”
Cheserg worked his jaw in frustration. “Can I be frank with you, Bar-Kas?”
The use of the Second’s actual name was a break from etiquette beyond anything even the Aberrations were known for and the Second Son did not like it, but he held his tongue. He needed Cheserg for this mission, had waited too long and was too close to get caught up in formalities. “Always.”
“This is bigger than anything our men have attempted before, by far-”
“Are you telling me they’re not up to the challenge?” the question had a threatening tone to it.
“Don’t get me wrong. Our Aberrations are the best there is and their loyalty is unquestionable. They’ll die for you-”
“Will you die for your Second?”
“Of course,” replied Cheserg, immediately, offended. He didn’t like having his honor doubted. As an Aberration himself he was perfectly willing to die following his Second into battle for the sake of a mission, so long as that mission wasn’t the act of dying just for the sake of it. “My concern is not whether the men will follow you, or whether they’ll die trying. My concern is whether they’ll succeed or not. If they crash, honor alone will not carry out the objective.”
There was silence over the headset. Cheserg wasn’t sure if Bar-Kas was weighing the merits of what he’d just heard or fuming because of it - perhaps both. Normally the squad leader was able to read the Second and anticipate his every thought, but again, something was different about him.
“Enough of them will suck it up,” was Bar-Kas’ eventual answer. “Just make sure they’re all ready
to ship out at Full Dark.”
With that timeframe Cheserg figured he had about four hours of sleep remaining. He performed a mental check of his own sleep bank to see just how much he had left in the vault. There was some, but like everything else at the moment, this mission was different, and there was no way of telling if it would be enough.
Will you die for your Second?
He looked back at the dead Clansmen.
“You there, Cheserg?”
“…Yeah.”
Chapter 16: Blood
The Habitat, Caras 4
“I THINK WE SHOULD GO BACK!”
Bar-Kas called up the slope to his older brother whose pace was holding steady in a set-and-lunge cadence showing no signs of fatigue despite the grueling climb: Grab a handhold, dig in a toehold, settle back on a tensed up glute of the coiled leg, aim, spring up to the next handhold. The process repeated itself relentlessly, with every step, every lunge, every grip, serving as a reaffirmation of Bar-Kan’s determination to beat the mountain.
Beat, win, conquer, these were the words that defined the mindset Bar-Kan used to frame every challenge he took up as he blasted through life, picking fights with it on a daily basis just to see how he’d fare.
Bar-Kas knew his voice didn’t carry. He could almost see the wind snatch his words out of the air and drag them away, kicking and screaming. He called again louder, directing this voice off to the right, hoping he gauged the distance correctly so that this time the easterly wind would drag his voice back on course to collide with Bar-Kan at the moment he would reach his next perch. “FATHER WOULD NOT WANT US TO BE OUT HERE.”
At first Bar-Kas thought he might have misjudged, his voice carrying above the form of his brother who was flattening himself against the rock face several meters ahead. But after a few moments he realized Bar-Kan wasn’t pressing on so he knew his message had gotten through. He also knew exactly what his brother looked like at that very moment, despite the fact that Bar-Kan was still turned away from him, facing the mountain. When his brother did finally look down, the smile was there, clear as day, just as Bar-Kas had expected it would be. A mischievous smile that relished an ever increasing state of the odds.
“HE WOULD LOVE FOR US TO BE OUT HERE,” Bar-Kan called back. “HE’D JUST NEVER ADMIT IT OUT LOUD.”
It was what their father WOULD say out loud that had Bar-Kas worried. Both he and his brother were born long after their father’s conquest across the Mainland to unite the Clans, but wounds ran deep and were in many cases still raw. Trespassing alone on another Clan’s Ipsidian mining territory was a good way to get oneself knifed, First Family or not.
Even scarier, though, was the prospect of facing the Patriarch’s wrath for getting caught and potentially upsetting the delicate balance struck between the Clans, the balance the Patriarch had fought for all those years ago to achieve, the self-purported noble cause he had raped, murdered and pillaged for and what he continued to kill for on occasion whenever he deemed it necessary. It was his life’s work, and in truth, Bar-Kas wasn’t at all certain the Patriarch was his father first, Patriarch second. Getting caught on the wrong slopes of the Ranges offered the very real possibility he might find out which it was, something he was in no rush to learn.
Like ashen rivers running parallel to each other, the Black Ranges divided the Mainland into culturally related but socio/politically distinct populations along each and every one of its banks. Crystalline Ipsidian jutted out from their slopes in shiny patches of black, glassy shards, contrasting with the plain, dull, chalky rock comprising most of the range’s outer layers.
The two brothers reached a final section of cliff with a sheer gradient of 90 degrees that climbed to a height of forty meters before leveling off at the top of the mountain. The straight drop could only be avoided by taking a circuitous route along the right side of the wall where its top shelf gradually receded until merging with the slope they were currently on a half kilometer down. From that point the path could be taken up the mountain to the left, doubling back along the top of the wall until reaching the mountain’s summit at roughly the same point they would reach it if they risked the climb. It was the difference between a twenty minute treacherous shortcut fraught with exposed shards of Ipsidian or a slightly less treacherous one hour detour.
“I THINK WE SHOULD HEAD TO THE RIGHT. IT LOOKS LIKE THE TOP OF THIS WALL MEETS UP WITH OUR LEVEL ABOUT A HALF KILOMETER DOWN THAT WAY.” Bar-Kas waited, crouching on his perch several meters below his brother, watching, hopeful that Bar-Kan might for once in his life opt for the obvious choice. His brother was motionless again, and although he did not look down, Bar-Kas could still see that arrogant smile he wore; in his stillness, in the relaxing of tension in his long and youthful forearm muscles gripping the wall, in the cessation of his back torso’s rising and falling with each and every breath. Before him, statuesque on the rock face, Bar-Kan exuded a foreknowledge of success.
All at once, his brother was alive again, leaping up and grabbing a small round rock that looked like the fist of someone trapped inside the mountain who had tried to punch their way out, only to get their hand stuck halfway through. Having grabbed on with both hands, he pulled his legs up into a crouch beneath himself. Bar-Kas waited from his position on the slope below, giving his brother space to work. He didn’t want to crowd Bar-Kan while he picked his way up the wall. He could see that his brother was aiming to reach a fissure in the rock face a meter above him. The fissure ran in a jagged vertical up to the top of the mountain, widening as it rose, like some giant fist had smashed the summit, splitting its top nearly all the way through.
Bar-Kan rocked back on his haunches before kicking out with his legs and hoisting himself up with his arms. His right hand let go of the fist-like rock to reach for the fissure while he continued pulling himself up with his left - and everything went wrong.
The rock still supporting Bar-Kan’s left hand and most of his body weight dislodged from the wall. For a brief, breath-catching moment, it looked like his brother might manage to get the tips of his fingers over the lip of the fissure, stopping his fall before it would begin, but it was only Bar-Kas’ mind slowing things down as he looked on in horror, helpless to prevent what was about to happen. His brother dropped backward, right hand still reaching, straining, willing itself to grow longer and make the grab, left hand still holding on to the rock that betrayed him.
The initial hit wasn’t all that terrible, the sharp gradient of the slope preventing a forceful impact. In many ways, a onetime painful landing might have been the preferred outcome. Instead, what began as a relatively short if sudden descent, escalated violently, tumbling, pulverizing boulders and slicing up shards of Ipsidian along the way. The sheer speed of revolutions Bar-Kan’s body was rolling through terrified Bar-Kas. He quickly calculated that his brother’s current path set the two of them on an inevitable collision course and the instinctual part of his brain opened up a dialogue with his logical side, presenting him with a hard and fast choice: Either puff himself up to make himself bigger, acting as a human speed bump in the path of his brother’s descent, which may or may not slow his brother down but would in all likelihood drag him along into the slide as well – or alternatively, flatten himself against the rock face and allow his brother to roll right over him. The second option was definitely the safest bet of the two but it would also condemn his brother to surviving the fall all on his own.
Bar-Kas began lifting his upper body away from the mountain, puffing out his torso and extending his arms to catch his brother while bracing for the impact. The fast approaching mass of flailing limbs and swirling bits of debris caught up in the roll loomed ever larger by the second.
He panicked.
Dropping back down to the rock, he tucked his chin tight against his chest and squeezed his eyes shut. A violent rush engulfed him and he was vaguely aware of absorbing blows to his head and back. It passed as quickly as it had come and as soon as he felt he was in the clear he craned
his neck down the mountain, calling out.
“BAR-KAN!”
His brother continued to roll for several more meters before springing his body open from its cradled-up position causing him to slide instead of roll, his hands flailing every which way, desperately trying to grab hold of something, anything, to stop himself. Before Bar-Kas knew what had happened his brother jerked to a halt.
Time froze. Nothing moved and not a sound was heard. It was as if the whole world were trying to get its bearings.
“BAR-KAN!”
“aaaAAHHHhhaaa.”
The answering cry was guttural, building with pain and outrage before petering out again, spurring Bar-Kas to action. Turning onto his rear he slid down to where his brother had stopped as fast as he could manage, digging in his heels and spreading out his arms to control is decent. A part of him dreaded to find his brother hurt, the other part dreaded having to face him unhurt with the possibility of his knowing how he’d chosen to save his own skin over risking an attempt to save his own flesh and blood.
Pulling up alongside Bar-Kan, Bar-Kas took in the sight of his brother who was now resting on his knees. His upper body and face were prostrated forward along the ground, both arms outstretched, gripping a small rock hand over hand. The rock looked like it must have been what had stopped the descent. If his brother wouldn’t’ have grabbed it… Bar-Kas quickly shook the thought away. It wasn’t something he wanted to consider in that moment. “I tried to stop you,” he explained, breathless. “I tried...”
Hearing the words coming out of his mouth, he knew he sounded nervous, guilty. Still, Bar-Kan looked OK from this vantage point, all things considered. Perhaps a bit shaken up from the fall but basically OK. “You were moving so fast, I... are you hurt?”
Bar-Kan’s back rose and fell with deep and deliberate breaths but he didn’t respond. His forehead rested on the ground and the biceps of his outstretched arms on either side of him covered up his face. This time Bar-Kas had no idea what expression his brother wore and it made him nervous. Slowly, Bar-Kan lifted his head. He stared intently at his hands, one overlapping the other, left hand on top. He lifted up the left to reveal a slick, red smeared right hand with a finger length spike of Ipsidian jutting out from the back of it, impaling him to the rock he’d grabbed to stop himself.
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