Trial by Chaos

by J. Steven York

  "They could evade us if they knew enough about the planet's radars and sensors to tailor the ECM against them. And if they knew the details of the gaps in our tracking system, they could schedule their JumpShip arrivals and DropShip fusion-drive burns."

  "Blast it! We have been worrying about a handful of unaccounted-for 'Mechs, and the Combine could have been dropping in shiploads of reinforcements for all we know."

  "The good news is, I doubt they have been able to get much to the surface. It is possible they have set up a staging area elsewhere in the star system, on a moon or asteroid. When they deploy en masse, they won't be able to hide themselves. They will not have far to come, but at least we will see them coming."

  Ricco's patrol strike sled easily crossed the rubble-covered streets of the Krottenwik slum, but he was forced to keep his speed to a crawl to avoid the pedestrian and horse traffic that seemed to wander randomly across the broken cityscape. It took him ten minutes to cover the distance from the last navigable street to his destination.

  He homed in on a tracking signal until he found a demolished building with another strike sled and three hoverbikes parked on top. He popped the canopy on his hovercraft and stepped out. Inquisitor Janine, a tall, blond woman with shoulders so broad she could have been an Elemental, stepped up to greet him.

  He nodded in greeting. "What do we have?"

  "This way." She pointed. "Bunker in an old basement. Pretty nice setup. Seven adult, male Vegan bodies currently in residence."

  She led him down the narrow stairs, removing a flashlight from her pocket and turning it on as they descended into darkness.

  She stopped, removed a small bottle and a handkerchief from her pocket. She opened the bottle, dumped a little on the handkerchief, and held it over her mouth and nose. She offered him the bottle. "Cheap New Egyptian perfume," she explained. "Smells like a camel's ass to me, but it is just the thing for covering the corpse-stink."

  He shook his head. The bullet he had taken in his first Trial of Position had struck him in the face. The Clan medics had patched him up so that he didn't even have a scar, but somehow his sense of smell had never been the same. He doused his meals with garlic and hot-pepper sauce just to taste them at all, and crime scenes had never bothered him.

  He pulled out his own flashlight and followed her around the corner. Work lights on stands were set up in the corners, casting harsh shadows across the large space.

  "We suspect there was a generator in a hidden chamber up above, but it is gone now. All we have are the mounting brackets and connecting wires."

  The place was a mess of overturned furniture and emptied cabinets. Drag marks on the naked concrete floor suggested that several large items had been removed, and dusty outlines were all that were left to suggest that rugs and carpets had been taken as well.

  There was one body faceup just inside the doorway, and six others on the floor in various positions around the room. A seventh sat in a large lounging chair now splattered with blood. None were recognizable. On several, the faces were completely missing.

  "Somebody left the door open, and all kinds of scavengers apparently came down here for a picnic. There are mice, cats, dogs, even birds that could be drawn down here by the smell."

  "Things were taken, and for the Krottenwik, these guys obviously had a lot to take. Do you think this was a robbery?"

  "Evidence suggests that some of the larger items at least were removed well after time of death. I think what we see here is the result of scavengers of the human kind. I also think these guys were armed when they were killed. We have powder residue and shell casings for a number of conventional assault weapons, none of which are here. Maybe the scavengers took them."

  He inspected one of the casings. "Are you sure this is not a robbery? In this place, any of those things—the weapons, the generator, the rugs, and most anything else that was down there—could have been sufficient motive."

  "But if so, they would not have taken any one of those items, they would have taken everything. Besides, there is other evidence, which I will explain shortly. First"— she pointed at the man in the chair—"we have a probable identification on this body. The cane and the long hair are known trademarks of a small-time thug named Tim Gustavo. His older brother, Sean Gustavo, was a high-ranking warlord killed during our arrival. The younger Gustavo managed to recruit some of his brother's former soldiers along with some of their weaponry, setting himself up as the self-styled 'Warlord of Krottenwik.' He has been on our radar, but we had been unable to locate his headquarters."

  Ricco looked around. "Well, I suppose we know where it is now. Whoever did this to Gustavo did us a service." He turned towards the stairs. "Let us get out of this rat hole."

  They climbed back into the sunlight and relatively fresh air. Inquisitor Janine removed the handkerchief from her face, folded it and replaced it in her pocket. "We do not have any witnesses to the killing, but we do have reports of two well-dressed men entering Gustavo's enclave early yesterday before gunshots were heard. The men later emerged and created quite a commotion."

  "More gunfire?"

  She shook her head. "No. This is where it gets interesting, and why I called you in. The men handed out some gold ingots or bars, stamped with the name of Jacob Bannson. Of that much we are relatively certain. We have not located any of the actual gold, but one woman did take a tracing off one of the gold pieces." She reached into the other strike sled and produced a tattered piece of paper. Made using some kind of colored chalk or crayon, the tracing was obviously a complete version of the partial ingot being held back at the station.

  "What else did you find out?"

  "Not much. From there the stories get interesting and contradictory. Several people insisted that they drove in by limousine, which is clearly impossible. Several people, perhaps confused by the name on the bars, have insisted that Jacob Bannson himself was here. Others insist that he is coming soon, to help the people of Krottenwik, or at least the children, or perhaps even to drive the Ghost Bears off the planet."

  He nodded. "We have seen the gold before. Somebody, possibly somebody in Bannson's employ, is making the rounds of the city, dropping gold as they go. They are not going out of their way to be inconspicuous."

  She looked at him. "If Jacob Bannson is involved, this could be a matter for military intelligence. Should you alert the Galaxy commander?"

  He considered for a moment. He was almost certain that the information would interest Galaxy Commander Bekker, but he also knew it would be even better if he could deliver Bannson's agents themselves, and that certainly seemed within the realm of possibility.

  "No, I think we should hold on to this information for a while. Without providing them with any more information than necessary, I want all our patrol officers looking for more of these gold ingots. And anything else related to Jacob Bannson."

  He turned back towards his strike sled, kicking a broken bottle out of his path. "I want very much to meet Mr. Bannson's agents, and following the gold may be our key to finding them."

  9

  From the Great Work of Galaxy Commander Isis Bekker

  There is a footnote to the origin story of the Ghost Bear Clan, one I have always considered ill-fitting. It seems somehow out of place, as though it were added as an afterthought, and even as a child I could see this incongruity. I asked my instructors about it, and was sternly warned not to allow my mind to wander into such troublesome areas. "That way, Isis, lies the path to dishonor, and even to the bandit caste. A warrior does not question."

  And so I put my thoughts about that part of the story aside, and later even came to embrace it. But my concerns only lingered in some dark corner of my mind, waiting there, like the Ghost Bear, hidden and ready to spring.

  This is the part of the story that troubles me so: as Tseng and Jorgensson returned from their time in the wilderness, it is said that they witnessed two young ghost bears battling in a territorial dispute. This sight so impressed them that th
ey resolved to return and test themselves against a ghost bear after they had recovered from their ordeal.

  A year later, they led a hunting party into the frigid wilderness and were soon confronted by a large male ghost bear. The great bear reared up and roared a challenge. Hans Jorgensson stepped forward and roared back his own challenge. And then, as his wife and the hunting party watched, Jorgensson engaged the animal in single combat, armed with only a crude spear that he had made himself during the journey.

  It is said the battle was short, that Jorgensson used his superior speed to evade the bear's blows until he could drive his spear into the bear's eye socket, instantly killing it. Now, an outsider might question the idea that a hundred-kilogram man could so easily defeat a six-hundred-kilogram bear possessing more than twice his reach and claws the size of bananas. But as Clan, I cannot dismiss the possibility. When skill and luck are on a warrior's side, impossible things can happen, and Tseng and Jorgensson were seemingly gifted with both.

  The story goes on that the party soon encountered another bear, a female, responding to her mate's death call. This time it was Tseng who stepped forward with the spear and drove it through the female bear's heart.

  This was the birth of a sacred ritual in our Clan called the Clawing.

  In the early days, the Clawing required an actual return to Strana Mechty, but with that world lost to us in the War of Reaving, that is no longer possible or fortunately, necessary. When the Ghost Bear Clan moved to the Inner Sphere, they brought with them preserved embryos of our beloved namesakes.

  When suitable habitats were found on several worlds of the Dominion, cubs were brought forth from special iron wombs created for the task, and breeding pairs were released in likely hunting grounds. Some worlds were not suitable for the great bears, but on others, they thrived, pushing out native predators and adapting to new prey.

  Each year a few of the very finest warriors travel to the arctic wastes where the ghost bears live. The Loremaster of our Clan leads them into the hunting range of the ghost bear, so that they can relive the trials of Tseng and Jorgensson, and then test themselves in a fight to the death with a ghost bear.

  That one warrior might achieve such a miraculous victory is not impossible. That two should in a single day calls the matter into greater question. But I still maintain that it is not impossible, and in the universe, anything that is not forbidden is, at some point in history, mandatory.

  No, I do not question the possibility that our founders actually accomplished what it is said they did. The part that bothers me, that makes me question the truth of the story, or to suspect that it has been altered over time, is that they would seek to hunt the great bears at all.

  Unworthy though I am, when I try to place myself in the mind of Tseng or Jorgensson, I see only their love and respect for the bears.

  The bears saved them from death and nurtured them back to health. The bears made them part of their family. The bears shared with them their lessons, and sent them back to the world of men to carry these lessons to others.

  That they would have been drawn to return to the bears at some point is almost certain. That they might have killed a bear in self-defense, and that such defense might have been necessary against such savage predators, that is also credible.

  But that they would have set out on a calculated mission to murder our brothers and benefactors, that I find difficult to imagine.

  Surprisingly little is known about the ghost bear. It is such a sacred animal that our science caste hesitates to study it.

  I have read and studied what is known, and I can tell you this. Ghost bears fight almost constantly among themselves. They fight for territory, for mates, for dominance, for food. But they fight for cause, not sport. And they almost never fight to the death, or even to the point of severe injury. Once a bear has proven his or her superior strength, the other bear prostrates itself in a show of submission and the bears each go their own way.

  To kill another bear, to do it great injury, would be to weaken the entire pack. Evolution craves efficiency even more than do the Clans. In nature, little is wasted, and the penalty for violating this rule is extinction.

  Every year, new hunting parties set out on the Clawing. Less than half return, and less than half of those are successful. And yet, as I consider it, even that is too many.

  That one warrior might best such a bear is possible. That two might in a day is barely credible. That one in a thousand might do it throughout the march of history, that I can also believe.

  But a quarter? Even one success per year seems too many.

  And that is where dark thoughts creep into my mind. I have heard rumors, whispers, of hunts conducted without honor: with powerful weapons, with traps, with poison bait. I do not wish to believe such stories, but it is otherwise difficult to explain the numbers. It sickens me to imagine warriors, not even deserving of that name, would so dishonor our Clan and our most sacred totem. But like the victory of Tseng and Jorgensson, it is not impossible.

  Though I once and again questioned the story of the first Clawing and the practice of the ritual itself, there was a time when I, like any young warrior caught up in the passion of our traditions, craved to be a part of it. I dreamed of stepping into an icy land, not unlike the place where it all began, walking in the footsteps of Tseng and roaring my challenge to the great bear.

  It was not to be. I had one opportunity, but I was outranked by Ivan Gurdel, a warrior from my sibko, and he went instead.

  I was not bitter. I had known Ivan Gurdel all my life. We had been playmates. We had fought side by side and back-to-back. We had been friends, and we had been family, and we had coupled joyously.

  In honesty, he was a better warrior and a better leader than I will ever be. No one I have ever met was more deserving of such an honor. I know with as much certainty as I know any single thing in this world, that Ivan Gurdel faced his Clawing with honor, that he faced the great bear alone, with but a spear in his hand, and that he fought with courage, strength and skill.

  Ivan Gurdel did not return from the wilderness.

  In my darkest thoughts, in my most troubled dreams, I think of Ivan. I wonder, what is a ritual that may reward our weakest and most dishonorable, and sends many of our greatest to their wasteful, unnecessary doom? We were always taught that the Clawing was a purification ritual, that it returned to us only the strongest and most worthy, and made our Clan always stronger.

  But what if that was wrong? What if it returned to us the weak and deceitful? What is it doing to us then?

  Nasew Spaceport, Southwest Industrial District

  Nasew, North Nanturo continent, Vega

  27 November 3136

  Conner Hall watched from the front stoop of the barracks as the Confederate Mk III DropShip, a gleaming, inverted pear shape, descended from the sky on a tail of fusion flame. As it grew larger, panels slid back on the ship's lower flanks and four sturdy landing legs unfurled. Thrusters fired around the ship's "waist." rotating it so that it was aligned with one of the landing pads scattered across the field. Even from a kilometer away, the roar was deafening, and a blast of hot air washed over him like he was standing in front of an open furnace. Then the ship's engines throttled up slightly and it slowed, settling over the flame pit before touching down with a ground-shaking thud and shutting down its engines.

  The sudden silence was stunning. Conner continued to gaze at the big ship, engine nozzles still glowing red with heat, gasses and steam venting from dozens of ports. Just looking at the ship made him feel better. It was going to solve a lot of their logistical and deployment problems, and take some of the pressure off their thinly spread forces.

  Karen Tupolov stepped up behind him and looked at the newly arrived craft. "What's this, then?"

  He turned and grinned at her. "A welcome gift from Galaxy Commander Bekker. For the moment, it is a shipment of badly needed spare parts and a few new VTOLs to replenish our depleted air units. But once the DropShip is
empty, it will be assigned to detached duty here. It will allow us to deploy a Star of our 'Mechs to any trouble spot on the planet in approximately forty-five minutes, or call in reinforcements from the outlying units on short notice."

  "That's wonderful."

  But there was a hesitation in her voice that gave him pause. He thought for a moment. "Your unit has never made a DropShip deployment, has it?"

  She shook her head and flashed him an embarrassed smile. "As I've often said, the FVR is low-rent, low-tech and local. I've never even been off this continent, much less to space."

  "Trust me. In this type of deployment, you will be in and out of the atmosphere so quickly that you will hardly know it."

  She laughed, and absently brushed a wisp of hair back over her ear. "Oh, that's very reassuring."

  He smiled at her. "I have every confidence that you will do fine, but you and your people should be trained on DropShip procedures. I would like to do a practice deployment soon, if we can arrange things so that it does not endanger city security." He looked at her curiously. "You are not afraid, are you?"

  She laughed again. "I know it's foolish. I've been piloting IndustrialMechs since I was fifteen. I've watched my world fall apart around my ears, and I've battled warlord assault 'Mechs with not much more than a glorified steam shovel. Nothing should bother me by now. But yes, I'm a little afraid."

  "Fear is not a warrior's enemy. Recklessness is not his friend."

  "That's nice. Where did you read it?"

  "On a bathroom wall on Pomme De Terre, I think."

  She laughed and put her hand on his arm. The touch didn't seem to carry any special meaning, but he liked it nonetheless.

  "There is more good news on that ship as well. Among the spare parts is some war salvage traded with Alpha Galaxy on Alrakis. With these parts, we should be able to put several of the warlords' 'Mechs we salvaged back into service. Just think, you could be in the cockpit of a real 'Mech soon!"