Heretic's Faith Page 3

“So they won’t strike at us, but we don’t have the forces to strike at them, and if we don’t strike at them, then no other faction will see the need to keep us from possibly handing Terra to the Dragon. Does that about sum it up? An impasse?”

  Five heads nodded in unison.

  “Which means you die.” Shimazu’s voice once more exploded in the small command office, pulling eyes like filings to loadstone.

  The blatant confirmation of her thoughts didn’t lessen her desire to be rid of the man. She sighed heavily. “Exactly.”

  “What?” Parks asked, the obvious confusion in his voice spilling liberally across his features.

  “The Dragon is testing me. And to sit still is death.”

  “The other warlords will eat her alive,” Drexel jumped in, quickly grasping the situation. “Even if the Dragon doesn’t first.”

  “I can’t sit still. I must act.” She clenched a fist on the table, hating those words worse than anything else in her life.

  “But we already covered all the bases,” Parks said, earnest eyes suddenly widening. “Mercenaries? That’s not what you’re thinking, is it? ’Cause I got to tell you, that way leads right to hell. Sure, grab some lucrewarriors for the easy assignments, but for trying to secure the rest of the worlds in Prefecture II and prep for taking Dieron . . . no way.”

  Katana finally calmed enough to respond, having already come up with the answer some time ago. She’d hoped her advisors might find a way out for her. But it was not to be. She glanced around the room, meeting each pair of eyes, letting the leader within calm their fears. As you taught me, Old Master. After all, she knew what she was doing. Right.

  “Spill it,” Drexel finally broke out, bringing a smile to Katana’s lips.

  I wonder if I’ll need to pull them all back down a rung or two when I’m really a warlord. The thought troubled and saddened her all at once. Her eyes again found the metal rank insignia, dark and latent, perched as a raptor on the table, waiting for her to unleash it.

  “Nova Cats,” she finally said. A nekakami spirit warrior would’ve been heard across wet grass at a hundred meters for the depth of silence that swallowed the room. Amazement, incredulity, absolute confusion: a myriad of emotions twisted features equally.

  “God dammit!” Shimazu practically shouted. He laughed and banged the table and laughed, until Katana was on the verge of taking her blade to the idiot. “Goddamn, Katana. That’s eggs, woman. Giant, iron-cast, ’Mech-sized eggs. I love it.”

  “Will they play?” Fusilli recovered first, a strange look actually twisting his features slightly.

  “I don’t know,” she managed, overcoming her continued dismay at the yakuza’s blunt, boisterous style. “But I’ve got to try.”

  “You?” Crawford said.

  “Don’t even start,” she cut him off with a slash of her hand. She was not looking forward to the confrontation with the Old Master, and wouldn’t have it here with her own command staff. “If we have any chance of bargaining a force from Clan Nova Cat, it can only be me. Honor for honor.”

  Though Crawford stood on the verge of opening his mouth, he finally leaned back, discontented but willing to accept that Katana could not be swayed from her course.

  “When will you leave?” Drexel asked.

  “As soon as possible. To the depths of House Kurita is a trip. I’ll be back as quickly as I can.”

  There seemed nothing else to say. She slowly rose, accepted salutes, and moved out of the room and down the hall towards her quarters, where she’d grab her already prepped bag and immediately head for the DropPort, where a DropShip and a select crew already waited.

  Their previous meetings had been filled with securing the worlds they currently held. They knew what needed doing. Now she must once more throw herself into Fate’s hands and hope like hell she survived. As the noise from her talking command staff finally fell away, she had a sinking feeling all the backlog of karma she was generating would see her reborn as a Capellan in her next life.

  2

  Ways of Seeing Park, Barcella

  Nova Cat Reservation, Irece

  Irece Prefecture, Draconis Combine

  15 March 3136

  The air stank of expectancy.

  As though not just the room, but the whole world held its breath. As though the entire Milky Way galaxy paused in its furious thousand kilometers per second hurl through the vacuum of endless space; the entire known universe paused in its endless destructions to pay tribute to these births. After all, the universe, regardless of all its obliterations, represented the pinnacle of birth and new life and creation. For with each collapsed star, destroyed planet and annihilated solar system, a new star spun into existence, a world coalesced, a cooling planet spawned alien flora and fauna.

  And some tin cans spit out life.

  Kisho shifted uncomfortably on the tatami platform, overly aware of how many long hours of preparation for the rite were infused into this moment. The taut muscles of his neck almost creaked audibly and his jaw clenched against the sharp pain. He surreptitiously worked his head in a small circle to relieve the pinched nerve.

  Serves me right for skipping tai chi this morning. The thought didn’t bring relief. Trying to shake off such sacrilegious distractions, he concentrated once more and slipped into a light trance, while the room exploded in activity over the birthing, a babble of voices breaking the pause and sending the universe back on its endless spiral into the unknown. A cascade of noise Kisho took in with no immediate awareness of individuals, content in allowing the din to wash away his disdain for the whole process.

  Please.

  “Canisters one through fifty report optimization. Decanting commencing.”

  “Thirty more work chits and I can earn passage off the reservation.”

  “For the whole month? Where did you get the extra work chits?”

  “No, I worked a deal for two weeks.”

  “Canisters fifty-one through one hundred report optimization. Decanting commencing.”

  “Have you seen the new ’Mech. The Wendigo? It is awe-inspiring.”

  “No. But, Jib—you know him, the technician casteman I introduced last Homecoming Day? Jib said he worked on part of it and he could not resist talking about it. I hope to see it someday.”

  “Hold. Canisters three and nineteen and sixty-seven report abnormalities.”

  “Status review?”

  “Have you heard? We’re going to war?”

  “War, really? That cannot be right.”

  “Stop your contractions.”

  “Confirmed. Unknown contagions introduced during final cycling to optimization.”

  “The Dragon gone to war?”

  “I spoke with her and I do not believe you. The council will never agree to our pairing. How dare we ask?! Savashri.”

  “Percentage of deformity error?”

  “Point oh-three-nine.”

  “No, I don’t think the Dragon’s gone to war.”

  “Stop your contractions!”

  “Stravag. The Dragon has gone to war. And you know we will go as well. After the downsizings, they will have to contract us, quiaff?”

  “Terminate.”

  “Aff.”

  “Aff.”

  The constant, soft purr of machinery hitched for a moment (did the others even notice?), and three lives snuffed away, their potential taken at the minuscule chance of missed perfection.

  Is it so simple?

  Kisho slowly opened his eyes to take in a birthing chamber few, even within the scientist caste, ever saw. The Mystic Chamber. Buried so deep within the bowels of the genetic repository—at the bottom center of the entire Mystic complex—Kisho’s first impression on visiting the room was that it sat on the bedrock of the continental shelf.

  Despite the ongoing shuffling of bodies moving in between the hundred steel canisters—each container an explosion of multihued wiring, and the bank of machinery coating each wall in technological fungus—his mind’s eye
transported him outside, to an overhead view of this most sacred of grounds.

  The Ways of Seeing Park. In the wars following their Abjurment from the Clans—the Ghost Bear–Combine war, the second Ghost Bear–Combine war, and even in the depths of the horror known as the Jihad—though so much of Barcella lay wasted, not a leaf or a mortared stone was damaged here. Others saw it as good fortune. The Nova Cats, with their visions and portents, saw something entirely different. Despite all they suffered, all the lands given to them and then stolen back by the Dragon, despite all the deaths and hardships, this was their land. Their sacred ground. Here, despite every blockade thrown up against them, they prospered and survived.

  Do I believe that? The thought floated up from the depths. Doubter and blasphemer that he was, Kisho ignored it, content for now to allow his inner eye to roam across this holy of holies.

  The Ways of Seeing Park stretched for long kilometers in every direction, with a mammoth, hand-built wall of stone towering around the entire perimeter. Near the only entrance, the Circle of Equals glade waited for such important trials as the annual Oathmaster Grand Melee.

  Off the back of the glade and filling most of the park, a rugged, natural woodland ran untamed and uncut, where several packs of nova cats thrived. They’d adapted well to Irece. Thriving colonies of nova cats existed on all the continents as well, but the cats within this sanctuary were viewed as a level above.

  Finally, Kisho’s inner eye moved to take in the mammoth genetic repository, sitting some five hundred meters from the Circle of Equals. The Neo-Gothic, circular building thrust to the sky, with flying buttresses, vaulted roof, and triforium. The glossy black edifice—a combination of native stone and nanostructured ceramics—seemed to swallow the bright morning light, pulling in energy as though to power the sacred events performed within. Rising almost three hundred meters into the air, the piercing structure represented the defiance of the Nova Cat Clan, its ability to rise above it all.

  Around the base of the cathedral, as though children protected under raptor’s wings, twelve house-sized chapels nestled, their limestone walls works of art. Ornate friezes depicted the glorious lives of each Bloodname warrior deserving of such honor and the House Blood Heritage. Each chapel contained repositories for the DNA of every member of a given Bloodname House, living or dead.

  As though it were a peregrine catching site of prey, his inner vision suddenly swooped low, through the gargantuan doors, and then wafted down endless tunnels, moving ever deeper, ever quieter, ever more still, until Kisho opened his eyes wide to the here and now.

  “Mystic, we have ninety-seven confirmed decantings.” Kisho’s new eyes found the green-suited speaker—his head and face mostly covered with protective gear, but strong, blue eyes spoke competence and arrogance in equal measure. A true Clansman.

  The other dozen people in the room paused in their work, looking at him. Long minutes must have passed. He glanced down and his stomach muscles began to cramp in their usual fashion. Must it always be this way? Cannot I perform a rite just once without this? He took a slow, deep breath and recommitted himself to his role. Let the games continue.

  Kisho slowly unfolded, careful to hide the weakness of his pained muscles. Idiot! No missing tai chi! At the head of the room, his ceremonial black, leather-suited form stood out in the sterile whiteness and soft greens like a blazing antiflame—a void. Like the cathedral itself, in the Peace Park. A statement of what we are.

  His eyes roved over the room, taking in the mystic sibko of newly born potential—double the normal warrior sibko size. After all, most would never see adolescence, much less become mystics. So maximization was required. And if this were not bad enough, the year interval between each new sibko—to incorporate what had been learned into tweaking genes and subtly massaging training to ensure full potential—was cut down by a third. Because the Oathmaster knew war was coming months ago, and he ordered a new mystic sibko over a half year ahead of schedule, in defiance of tradition. To replace the losses that will surely come, old man? Regardless of the decade and a half it will take before they will be of any use? Do you see so far, old man? Is war so inevitable? Will it grind on inexorably?

  Does the First Mystic’s blood cry out at such rape? At our splicing and dicing of the blood-soul over and over and over? Kisho’s teeth bit into his tongue until sweet copper quenched the shaking threatening to tear free of his iron grip.

  Must it always be like this? A soft sigh whispered between lips compressed into a flat line, before they quirked into their usual arrogant twist. Yes. It must.

  From Blood of the One

  Mystics to steer, to guide—spirit

  Past, Present, Future to seize

  His voice carried strongly in the chamber, setting up a slight echo, reverberating in countersynch to the shush-shush of machinery, before falling away. All bowed low, while Kisho stepped lightly down off the tatami platform and moved languidly towards the first canister. He glanced through the ferroglass and saw a decanter, with gray eyes. Always gray.

  With a hiss and pop of equalizing pressure, an unseen scientist released the hatch, and the wet newborn drew in its first breath, after an automatic body-response of a cough to clear the lungs of fluid. The astringent smell of birthing-fluid chemicals assailed his nose and coated his tongue with vileness. Yet, despite his disquiet, intelligent eyes stared at Kisho, as though the spirit within already knew its meaning. Already knew its life’s purpose and acceptance shrouded him like the armored carapace of battle armor to his trooper.

  Kisho managed to resist clenching his fists in jealousy.

  With strength he did not feel, he firmly placed his right palm upon the child’s forehead and closed his eyes. Within, spirit muscles screamed with an agony of yearning and need. Searching, pummeling the depths of darkness, demanding. Something. Anything.

  “Ken’ichi.” He spoke softly. “Strong one.” The name effervesced upon his lips, but brought no comfort. It came from within, not without. Never from another source. Only from himself. Never the burning vision handed to him as to who these sacks of flesh would be, what names they would be allowed to bear once they passed their Trial of Mysticism.

  He moved on to the next canister as the same sounds precipitated the opening of the top hatch and an identical ceremony unfolded. And so on. And so on. And so on. A ceremony as empty for Kisho as the three failed canisters, already flushed clean of failure.

  But how do I flush myself clean of failure?

  Eyes itched as he moved on to the next child.

  Interlude I

  So many forsake memory, in the passage of time.

  Thinking the nova cat unaware, languid in starshine.

  But long the predator bides time, seeking visions and portent, knowing a time to strike comes. And so it begins.

  —The Remembrance (Clan Nova Cat),

  Passage 512, Verse 12, Lines 1–8

  Japan, Terra

  Prefecture X

  The Republic of the Sphere

  27 April 3135

  Kisho slowly walked along the banks of a stream, uncaring of its name but appreciative of its subtle gurgling and the peace in its incessant dedication. Another cherry blossom undulated down an invisible current, before easing into the water without a ripple; it joined a dozen other white and pink blossoms, already on their journey downstream to destruction.

  “Such a waste.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Kisho sucked in a lungful of oversweet air as he quickly found the voice that startled him. Eyes narrowed taking in the beautiful woman across and up the small stream a dozen paces. After a moment, he remembered himself and inclined his head. “I beg your pardon, Kurita Yori-san. You startled me.”

  Her features warred between annoyance and mild pleasure as she wended around a small sapling, coming closer—graceful in an unconscious way—before she responded. “Then that debt is discharged.”

  “Debt?” he responded.

  “Over you
startling me at our previous encounter.”

  As ever, in place of the displeasure he should feel—regardless of the mildness of the rebuke—only . . . kinship . . . seemed available to him. Though they could not help but interact on the DropShip during the long transit from the Combine into Republic space, it should not have been enough to cement such a feeling of closeness—a companionship he would never feel for Tanaka, though they were raised and trained together.

  “However, Mystic, it behooves you to stop using that name. I am Yori Sakamoto.”

  And, of course, there it was.

  Another cherry blossom spun into view, the beauty of its delicateness and purity an accent to Yori’s slim form and perfect features. Kisho opened his mind but found no desire for coupling. Instead, he felt an honest closeness, as though they were sibkin. And in a way, they were.

  Both outcasts for the blood that flowed in their veins.

  “What is a name? Does it change who we are?” With a sudden desire to feel the cool, clean grass in his fingers, Kisho eased into a sitting position, feet a scant meter from the edge of the stream. His fingers immediately tweezed out the fibrous-textured plants, their flat blades calling to be rolled into forms, as though he were a child trying to occupy time.

  She expertly stepped over the small stream, the hem of her demure kimono not even rippling in the hop, and paused before joining him on the ground. “The last time we met, you told me I could be anyone.” Her soft voice almost seemed an orchestrated counterpoint to the gentle bubble of water and the sighing of the winds through the cherry trees.

  Kisho pointedly glanced around and she nodded in resignation towards where her trailing guards were hid. He nodded in response, as though the very presence of those guards cemented the words he spoke. “No, you cannot be.”

  “What?” She said, taken aback, a frown beginning to mar her smooth forehead. “Yes, you did.”

  “Neg, Yori-san. I said you could be anyone you wanted to be.” As he spoke, he slowly began to strip the grass, folding the various-sized blades without conscious thought, while his mind wandered across seldom-trod paths.