Heretic's Faith Page 10

  “You thought what?”

  “That you might have an answer,” he responded, frustrated, opening his eyes.

  “There are many answers.”

  “Stop it.”

  “I am only saying what you know is true.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “What does that say, then?”

  “It says you are pushing me with the same callousness as Tanaka.”

  Hisa’s back moved every so slightly. It might have been a need to clean an extra spot he could not see, but Kisho, despite anger, felt shame at the barbed reply. She had never been, nor ever would be, like Tanaka. That’s why he had opened up to her. Why he had begun to feel she might be the person he could open up to—well, not completely, but as complete as anything . . . That she might bear some of his burden for him, just for a little while.

  That she might understand.

  And now this. But he would not apologize. Absolutely not. Especially when she would not even look at it. “Am I no longer good enough for you? If your faith in our path, if your faith in what we do is so strong, if you are so stravag-bent on giving me a helping hand, then why not help me with this?” He despised the self-loathing evident in the words.

  Without a response she snagged her bag, opened up the hatch, and slipped through as though fleeing, leaving him floating and openmouthed. This is it? She leaves like this? She leaves me like this? Arrogance and fury overcame a desire to turn his back on what she obviously held out in falsehood and he struck legs out behind, pushing off the bulkhead and arrowing through the hatch, expertly grabbing a handhold, and with a well-placed foot on the opposite side of the corridor, shooting after her.

  “Hisa. How dare you walk away without even answering my question?!”

  “But I have answered it,” she said softly as he caught up to her at the turbo lift.

  Anger, still firmly entrenched, sank talons deeper at her refusal to look at him. You surat. You are worse than Tanaka. False friendship. False understanding. And now you throw it in my face. He raged until he almost saw red, and he ached inside with the possibility that the easing of his burden, that the slow easing of the nightmares, would all be surging back, redoubling their efforts to annihilate him.

  The door to the lift opened and, once more, Kisho contemplated letting her go. But for the first time in his life he’d allowed a door to open, and his fury at her betrayal could not be vanquished without a final showdown, without him stripping her with words, so she might hurt as well. Kisho slipped through just as the lift closed, reorienting feet to the left as that became the floor and the lift moved to the right, now “up.”

  He opened his mouth, intent on unleashing a torrent of vitriol to strip her flesh as a nova cat would its prey, and she finally turned towards him.

  No shields.

  No protection.

  Nothing but the depths of her soul, of her mind, of her heart laid bare.

  Her entire being awash in her eyes, waiting for his judgment.

  He thought their previous encounters were powerful. He thought she had lowered all her interior walls at previous couplings. But nothing could prepare him for the sheer dazzlement as she bared herself to the full powers of his reading ability. He wanted to shut his eyes, desperate to stave off the flood of such horrifying intimacy, and simply could find no will. The very humbleness with which she handed herself to him stole all thought but that he was a surat of the basest sort for his disparagement of her actions.

  “Kisho, I have tried. I have tried to help you, but you will not accept it,” she began softly, the very gentleness of her delivery more devastating than any bombastic recital of dogma. “You think visions and faith come from without. As though it is a giant river you are trying to find, so that you may lie down on its soft banks and dip your hands into the blessed waters when you will.

  “But it does not work that way. Faith is not something from without. It is not a river I can grab buckets of and hand around, hand them to you. By the Founder, if it was only so easy,” she whispered, eyes entreating with a power to pull his soul out from his body. “But it is more precious than that. It is not out for all to see. Faith is within you. Faith has always been within you. It cannot be shared. Only my actions, based on my faith, can help to nurture another’s. I cannot give it to you. You have to see what I have to offer. I have tried to offer all these weeks . . . all these months and, yes, even years, though you probably would not remember. I have offered my testimony of what I know.”

  Her voice strengthened. “You have to see it and you have ask why you do not have it. Why I bear the same nightmares and the same hurts and burden as you, and yet find a tranquility you lack? And then you look for it. You want to look for it. And if you truly want to find it, you will. It is that simple.”

  She closed her eyes and he almost collapsed to the floor, as though released from being pinned to the bulkhead by the power of her honest desire to help him. When she opened her eyes, all of her safeguards were in place; once more the demure, over-tall, slightly ugly little mystic. Or so he had concluded so often. But the power he had seen! The utter conviction! For the first time since the final days of the Room, his eyes itched with a need to shed tears.

  “Look inside you, Kisho,” she breathed softly as the lift came to a gradual stop, allowing them enough time to grab one of the hand railings to arrest their forward movement before the door opened. Then she was gone.

  But I have, Hisa. And I find only blackness.

  11

  Jesica’s Revenge, Merchant-class JumpShip, Nadir Jump Point

  Athenry, Prefecture II

  The Republic of the Sphere

  15 September 3136

  The shuttlecraft finished maneuvering, attitude jets bleeding off all but a fraction of the remaining velocity. With a hollow boom that shook teeth and rattled bones, the craft expertly nestled into an unusually configured docking point—exclusively built for shuttlecraft—on the tramp freighter Jesica’s Revenge, a Merchant-class JumpShip.

  As the ship held a self-contained small craft bay, Kisho initially could not understand such lavish expense. Comprehension came as he concentrated on thinking like a Spheroid. No honor. Only tricks at every turn. How can I take what is yours for nothing? If the Revenge kept the shuttle and most of its personnel outside the confines of the JumpShip, it became difficult for such a craft to take over the ship—a very effective brig, as they could lock down the docking collar.

  Of course, the shuttle might try thrusting free. He chuckled as he undulated out of the seat and somersaulted with passable grace over towards the hatch, where there was already a knock. Then again, in that case, we would all likely die, quiaff? The humor hung hollow.

  Before he reached the hatch, a Nova Cat technician casteman tapped back on the door, answering loudly. After a moment, a return tap and the hatch began to spin open. No electronic intercoms? Then again, that required added expense. And could break down, adding more expense. An expense a tramp freighter likely could not, or would not, afford. Especially as a handy wrench and a good shout did the job. He already liked this captain and her tight ship. No waste. Only the business at hand.

  The hatch swung open and two burly men stood on the other side, their well-used coveralls spidered in a dangling harness that included everything from wrenches and hull patches to what appeared to be a holy book of some kind and a thermos. Men used to working straight twelve-hour shifts carrying everything they might need. Again, they rose a notch in Kisho’s book, despite their Spheroid natures. Competent is competent, regardless of your station.

  The man on the right, holding a wrench, rubbed a stubbled jaw, smeared with some lubricant. “Welcome to Revenge. You Kisho?” He spoke in short, clipped tones as he directed the words to the technician.

  “Neg,” the Nova Cat said, waving a hand in his direction.

  If not for the Spheroid presence, he might have instructed the lower casteman on proper decorum towards superiors (especially to a mystic!), bu
t knew this was neither the time nor the place.

  He drew in a deep breath to focus on calm, and almost gagged at the strong stench leaking from the ship into the shuttlecraft. Do they kill and gut animals right on the ship? He swallowed and focused. “I am Kisho,” he said, stepping lightly forward in his mag-slips and bowing low, before meeting their eyes again.

  They both appeared to be sizing him up, with half-hidden smiles despite their best efforts. For this first of what he knew might be many meetings with merchant ship captains, he had donned not the ceremonial leathers of his Clan (they were not worthy of such honors), nor the simple suit of a MechWarrior, but the subtle and powerful accoutrements of a mystic.

  Though sheathed head to toe in leather, it was not the glossy black of ceremonials. Instead, soft, doe-skin-style pants, with stitched glyphs across their surface, covered legs from waist to soft-soled black ankle boots. On his left, thin twin belts woven through the fabric of the pant leg fastened to a small, ivory, obelisk like stav, fifteen centimeters long. At the top of the stav, several lines and diagrams signified rank and caste, analogous to the glossy black polymer staves worn by other warriors. Below that, for each event deemed worthy by the Oathmaster, a small bas-relief—minuscule, requiring an artisan of exceptional skills—etched the ivory, wedding the mystic to his spirit stav. The upper garment—swathing torso and arms to the wrists—made of alternating gray and black stripes of doe-skin leather, a mimic of the nova cat’s poisonous and barbed mane. On each upper arm, a gray cat eye—a Nova Cat mystic was all-seeing, all-knowing.

  Kisho knew their derision, yet wore his caste as a shield better than any diamond-filament armor. He might not have believed in all the mystic caste conveyed to outsiders, but he did believe in his caste and its value . . . especially when it came to surats like these.

  “I am expected by Captain Veronica,” he finally said, breaking off their rude stares.

  “Ah, that’s true. Right, mate. This way to the bridge.” The right one leaned over and whispered something as he turned to leave, eliciting a barking laugh from his companion.

  Allowing a Nova Cat to get away with such insubordination was one thing. Allowing this surat to get away with it was something altogether different. Kisho stepped forward with his left foot, planted his left hand on the edge of the hatch, then swung a hard-edged roundhouse kick into the laughing face. Completely unprepared, the man didn’t even blink before his head snapped back into the bulkhead and he went unconscious, like lights cut out during a thunderstorm.

  The momentum carried Kisho up off the floor and he used his left hand as a pivot point, spinning with the momentum, tucking legs into a ball as he hopped over his arm, rotating both laterally and vertically, and back down and around to the ground, where his mag-slips readhered. All before the other merchantman could do more than turn around and yell.

  “What the hell is this?!” The man shouted, yanking a pistol out from a concealed holster. “You trying to take our ship?!” His other hand reached towards a comm device at his neck.

  “Of course not,” Kisho responded, as though nothing untoward had just happened. “If we wanted your ship, it would be ours. Your companion needed to be taught respect.”

  The other man stared as though Kisho had sprouted horns and a tail, then slowly raised the pistol. “The hell you say! Stupid, arrogant Clanners. You can’t just come on our ship and lay a smack down.” The man’s voice continued to rise, face slowly flushing a deep crimson verging on purple. “You can’t just do that!”

  “And you cannot disrespect a mystic of Clan Nova Cat,” Kisho responded with a calm arrogance that slicked the room with power. The impasse stretched until Kisho finally broke the silence. “If you are going to shoot me, get it over with. We have a world to take and you are holding up the operation. Beware, though; if you kill me, any scavengers will have trouble finding anything bigger than your wrench on this wreck.”

  The calm delivery seemed to get through to the man, and his mouth slowly opened wide before he gulped and reluctantly put the weapon away. He reached up to his comm device. “Jak, send a medic down to the shuttle collar. Make sure Spinner is okay.” The man nodded once more, then turned away, unhitched his feet, and sailed down the corridor.

  Kisho almost laughed harshly at the sullen but beaten look on the man’s face. As it should be.

  At less than half the length of the Comitatus, the coasting journey to the captain’s ready room took little time. The placement of the shuttle docking collar was purposeful, allowing little to no access to the rest of the ship. Perhaps this section could even be sealed off from the rest of the ship.

  He entered a small room, to find the man (he had not even introduced himself properly!) talking rapidly to a woman he assumed to be Veronica. Dull-eyed, short, and frumpy, without the deference paid by the crewman to the captain’s bars on the too-large jacket she wore, he might have dismissed her. As Kisho entered and stopped, the woman held up a hand to silence the other, then spoke bluntly.

  “You hit my man?”

  “Aff.”

  No other response. He noted a tightening of her eyes and quickened breathing. Violence. On the edge of violence so easily? Then he understood how she maintained control on this ship, despite her obvious lack of charisma.

  She abruptly smiled, waved away the other man (ignoring his expletive), and slipped smoothly into a chair, locking the restraining bar. She waved a hand towards him. “Spinner’s needed an attitude adjustment since I brought him on at Bethel,” she said, motioning him to take a seat.

  Kisho nodded, pleased at her subterfuge—pleasant words in direct contrast with her body language made the game more interesting. For a moment he almost smiled at the situation. Am I becoming a Sea Fox? Enjoying the art of the deal as much as a battlefield? His thoughts spun to the disc he carried, before settling back to the matter at hand. Despite their strange ways, there was much to respect in the Foxes.

  “Why you here?” she finally spoke.

  He reached—slowly so as to not provoke her; she carried a weapon or three on her person, he felt certain—into a small pocket in the front of his mystic uniform and pulled out a small bag. With a magnet mounted on one side, the clear polymer shrink-wrap held a small data cube. He casually placed it on the table between them, the magnet latching to the table with a clear snap. He nudged the bag and shrugged.

  Her dull eyes flickered to the bag, then pinned his face until he pulled his hand back. She then reached forward, pulled the bag free with a scrape, and slowly squished it as she looked to see what type of cube it might be.

  Kisho’s eyes roved over the small room, but found it utterly empty except for the table and chairs, which were bolted with a strength that would defy an Elemental’s attempts to free them. No one could use something from this room to stage a boarding action. He tasted the air with a quick tongue flick. At least they had closed the hatch, walling off most of the stink. Would they be worth this effort? Perhaps too far down for any type of honor? He kept the sigh silent. Too late now.

  “So, what am I to do with this? You just giving it to me? If so, I got a trash compactor and an air lock date next week,” she finally responded, setting the bag spinning between them.

  “Of course, I would not expect someone of your station to work without proper remuneration.” He watched, amused, as she vacillated on how to respond, but could find nothing to get upset about—the deadpan delivery robbed it of context. “I would bid for an open transmission of the data on that cube to every system you enter from now until one year has transpired. Additionally, when you encounter any other merchant ships, you transmit the data and request they do the same.”

  She cocked an eyebrow and tilted her head, as though suddenly trying to figure the angle. For the Nova Cats to request a direct audience, there must be something else, right? She might as well talk out loud. “Don’t know,” she responded. “A whole year is a long time. Might forget after the first two systems. As for other captains . . . don
’t like them much and they sure as hell don’t like me.”

  Obviously. Once more, his right hand dipped into a pocket and pulled out a data disc, without a sealing bag, and set it spinning slowly towards her. “I think you might find the information on that disc . . . interesting. Perhaps enough to cover my bid for work.”

  She shrugged, but the tightening around her lips spoke of intense curiosity. Hunger. Hook set and reeling in. All too easy.

  “Perhaps I might. Perhaps not.”

  Kisho nodded in return, playing the game to the hilt. “Perhaps not.”

  After just a long enough pause, she reached and grabbed the disc, then motioned to the man standing by the closed hatch. With a sullen look still printed firmly on his face, the man reached towards the back of his harness, unhitched a small data reader, and handed it to the captain. She slotted the disc and began reviewing. Avarice lighted dull eyes as they opened until they appeared on the verge of popping from their sockets. She finally looked at him.

  “This can’t be the real deal.”

  Kisho nodded gravely, teeth pinching cheek in a pinprick of pain to keep from smiling. “I can assure you, it is, as you say, the real deal.”

  She glanced again at the screen, then back at him. “How can I verify it?”

  He shrugged. “That is up to you, Captain. Obviously that is only a fraction of Clan Sea Fox’s network in this region, but just enough of a slice to allow . . . the right merchant to make significant headway in several markets.” For a moment he hated the idea of turning over the hard-fought Trial of Possession isorla to this surat, then shrugged it away. We do what we must. He hated how much he sounded like the Oathmaster at that moment. Placing a hand on the table, the cool metal a nice contrast to the stuffy room, pulled him back to the present. “If it proves false, then you can jettison the data cube at your earliest convenience.”