Текст книги "Way Of The Clans"
Автор книги: Роберт Торстон
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29
Nomad felt as if he were being pulled in two directions. On the one hand, he wanted this mission to end so he could return to Ironhold and continue doing what he loved, tinkering and fixing. On the other, his respect had grown each time the young man wriggled out of their imminent grasp, and he began secretly to wish Aidan would succeed. But with someone as tenacious as Joanna under the orders of someone as stubborn as Roshak, this mission threatened to go on forever. Roshak had said they could not return until they had found Aidan, and only universal catastrophe or Roshak's death could change that.
Joanna was positive that Aidan was somewhere on Tokasha. He had, after all, been identified at the spaceport, and all departing ships and shuttles since then had been searched thoroughly. The worldwide surveillance network indicated that no prohibited vehicles had been spotted anywhere on Tokasha. Unfortunately, Aidan's trail had grown cold. Nobody seemed to have seen him after he had subdued his captors and fled the spaceport.
"It is as if he vanished into thin air," Joanna said. She and Nomad were in the spaceport's officer's lounge, filled with oversized chairs and long tables. Joanna relaxed in one chair, her head nearly buried in the long, dark fur of her dress cape. They had just finished interviewing the base commander.
"Perhaps he did vanish. He is, as you have said so often, resourceful."
"I am never sure what your sarcasm means, Nomad."
"Are you sure it's sarcasm?"
She suddenly gave him a backhanded slap against the side of his head. His vision blurred. It was the first time she had struck him, though she had previously not hidden the fact that she wanted to.
Joanna made no explanations or apologies. All she said was: "I think we have been on this mission for too long. If it goes on longer, I may have to kill you."
"Just to relieve tension, Falconer?"
She stiffened as she mentally examined the remark for its implications, then replied, "Something like that."
"So what do we do next?"
"I suppose we could travel around, ask questions."
"Tokasha's a large planet. It could take a few days."
Clearly disturbed by his continued sarcasm, she tightened her fists. But it was not in Nomad's nature to retreat, even if it meant suffering another slap from Falconer Joanna.
"I know the planet's large and, for that matter, heavily populated."
"Have you made a computer search?"
"I tried. But Aidan's name would not be on record, nor is it likely he will identify himself truthfully anywhere on Tokasha."
"What about the name of someone else?"
"Who else?"
"This is a Jade Falcon planet. Other members of his sibko may have been assigned here."
Joanna stared at Nomad for a long while, then she relaxed her body, opened up her hands, and smiled. "You may have something there," she said. "I will get Iron-hold's Personnel Depot to send us the complete sibko roster, including those who failed before they came to us. In the meantime, I still recall a few cadet names. Let us try them."
Nomad rubbed the side of his face as they left the lounge. His skin still smarted from her blow, but he was happy to see that her hands were unclasped and swinging unthreateningly at her sides.
30
"Why do all the scientists have last names?" Aidan asked Peri. "They are not Bloodnames, are they?"
"No, they are not. I am told the custom is in use only within the scientific communities themselves. Outside, even in the smallest Clan group, they are not allowed to use them."
"But why have them at all?"
"That I do not know. Aidan, I have only been here a short time and I—"
"The names give us an identity that we deserve but are not allowed to earn," Genetic Officer Watson said. He was standing at the doorway to the lab, his stomach-it seemed—halfway into the room in front of him. It was unusual to see an overweight person anywhere in Clan society, so severe were the conditions of life, so austere and controlled. Watson, and for that matter, a few of his colleagues, were pronounced exceptions to the rule. Their lives were sedentary, these obese people might have said, but Aidan knew it was because they had ways of obtaining food not available to other castes. The genetic program was considered so valuable to the Clan that the Councils allowed scientists many privileges, one of which was the apportionment of extra rations. Several of the scientists also maintained a hothouse where they grew various fruits and vegetables. In the few days since Aidan had been hiding here, Watson and the other scientists had encouraged him to eat well. Now even he was beginning to feel a bit flabby around the middle.
Watson ambled easily into the lab, twisting his body adroitly to avoid disturbing or dislodging any lab furniture or equipment. Despite his bulk, the man always seemed graceful to Aidan, who figured the agility came from the continual need to maneuver among typically narrow work spaces. "Our names are not Bloodnames, nor have we earned them according to the rites and customs of the Clans. They are like open secrets. In our own environment, we use them to remind ourselves of our own importance. Perhaps it seems foolish, but in a corner of the universe where warriors reign supreme, where they are the only ones who merit the surnames originally held by those who followed the great General Kerensky in the Exodus, other persons also have the need to feel that their contributions represent another brand of heroism, if you will—are also worthy of some honor. Thus, we award ourselves names, and make no mistake, we fight for them just as fiercely as do warriors. Our melees are not violent, but they draw blood nevertheless, maiming egos rather than limbs."
Aidan's brow furrowed. "I do not understand, sir."
"Those of us with surnames have achieved something, have shown skill in scientific study or observation. We do not fight in a field, but rather vote in our own small councils at to whether an individual deserves to have a labname, as we call it. We cannot call it a Bloodname, in spite of the blood we metaphorically spill in order to achieve one. Perhaps this mimicry of warrior customs seems absurd, but I do believe that we carry our lab-names with a pride that is near the equal of a warrior with his or her Bloodname. I can see that you are still puzzled, Aidan."
"I do not understand all your words."
Watson laughed, a good, hearty bellow that threatened to dislodge solutions from Petri dishes. "I suppose we like to flaunt our vocabularies around here, as well as our achievements. Let me just say that the labnames help us psychologically as well as giving what you warriors call a command structure to our organization."
"What I have wondered," Peri said, "is where the names come from. None exist among the Bloodnames."
"No, they do not. The names are those of past scientists who have contributed throughout history. Thus, I am Watson, after the man who discovered DNA. Newton is Newton and Tesla is Tesla because of certain contributions those scientists made to the evolution of science itself. Sometimes, if we transfer to another lab and discover an already-entrenched Watson or Newton, we have to petition for a new labname. It is a complicated life, my children, a complicated life."
The phrase my childrenhad an almost vulgar sound to both Aidan and Peri. Though neither was born of natural parents, neither would have been willing to give this imposing scientist lectures on Clan prurience.
"Why I am here," Watson said, "is to tell you of a general communique that specifically mentions you, Aidan. It included a clear description, plus the information that you are being sought because of your criminal activities."
"That is a lie! How could they—"
"No doubt a design to force anyone who has seen you to turn you in. I sent back the routine sort of message, that no one of that description has been seen in this region."
"Thank you, sir."
"But I must warn you, I cannot vouch for others here. If any of them come upon the communique and decide to win a few points with the planetary council, then the game is up."
"You should go, Aidan," Peri said after Watson had left them. "This place may be too dangerous for you now."
"It is the only place on Tokasha where I have friends. And, Peri, all Tokasha is dangerous for me. I am tired of traveling from place to place. I like it here, here with you. I will stay."
"I do not know whether to be pleased or angry. If they find you, I—"
He put his hand lightly over her lips. "As you always say to me, hush. Let us not concern ourselves."
He took her into his arms. As they embraced, Aidan was besieged with dangerous thoughts. He had been honest in saying he wished to stay with Peri, yet staying together went against all their Clan instincts. Only in the lowest castes were permanent relationships allowed, even encouraged. And then merely to ensure the maintenance of a population numerous enough to provide personnel for all the services necessary to the warrior caste and for the industries scattered among the Clan planets. One of Nicholas Kerensky's principal intentions was that no essential facet of Clan life be understaffed.
The higher castes had no trouble maintaining proper population levels. The scientists, for example, kept their ranks at optimum levels through casual procreation among themselves. Peri had told Aidan that once she was fully qualified in the caste, it was expected she would breed with various of her colleagues at the station.
"Does that not disgust you?" Aidan had asked.
"No. Why should it?"
"Peri, you were once a warrior, belonging to the highest caste possible. Not only that, but because warriors do not have to create or bear children, you would never have been made to carry a child in your womb, you would never—"
Seeing that Peri was laughing, Aidan stopped. "Aidan, you forget, we are no longer warriors."
"I never forget."
"Yes. Your problem. Definitely a problem for you. But, remember, I did not come as close to becoming a warrior. I am settled with my new life, just as you are not. I do not detest the thought of bearing a child. I even look forward to it."
With an unpleasant feeling starting in the pit of his stomach, Aidan no longer wanted to discuss the subject. It seemed to him as foul, as obscene, as listening to laborers speak in contractions or Watson referring to others as his children.
"Aidan, you perhaps will someday want to create your own child, you—"
"Do not even say it. I wish only to leave my imprint in a gene pool."
"Which you never will."
"Peri, how can you talk like this? How can you even look forward to having a child?"
"That is easy," she said, almost mysteriously. "Easier than you might think, Aidan."
"You havechanged, Peri. In the sibko you would not have had such thoughts."
"This is not the sibko, Aidan."
"No, it is not."
"There is some bitterness in your voice. A surprise."
"Why?"
"You never used to indicate your emotions, at least within the sibko. Perhaps to Marthe alone, but certainly never to me or the others."
"As you say, we are no longer in the sibko."
The conversation so disturbed him that Aidan wondered if he should leave the science settlement, but then the feeling passed. He was becoming used to being with Peri. Feeling the warmth of her now, he could not really understand why it seemed to leave him with a vague sense of guilt.
If the next few days were pleasant, Aidan found that Peri's embraces had taken on a strange hint of desperation. Each time they coupled, she behaved as though he might be gone within hours. It was not long before she was proved right. When they heard the first sound of a heavy VTOL skimming along the top of the nearby forest, they were in each other's arms for the last time.
31
Aidan is apparently going to be uncooperative, wrote Falconer Commander Ter Roshak. Falconer Joanna's report—spoken to me, as I had ordered, so as to leave no written record—indicated that she had caused a bit of an uproar on Tokasha, bullying her way around as she did. I destroyed all her dispatches as soon as I heard she was bringing Aidan back. I have a complaint from a scientist, self-styled Watson (one of those filthy and useless lab-names), which charges that Joanna injured him severely when she confronted him in his office.
I can see her knocking the scientist about, at least until (as she told me) he cried out that it was he who had sent her the communique revealing Aidan's presence at the science station. He is still angry about the way Joanna treated him, and he has sent me a message asking me to reprimand her. I will not, of course. She was acting properly. So, like any communication from a lower caste, even one as important and, by some, exalted as the scientists, I will ignore it. Watson should have known better than to send it anyway. These scientists tend to have stupid ideas regarding ethics. If they lived even a day in a warrior's body, they would think differently.
It was shrewd of Tech Nomad to suggest checking computer records for members of Aidan's sibko. I understand from Joanna that this Peri was quite surprised when her former training officer strode into the lab, demanding that Aidan reveal himself. She told Joanna that Aidan was no longer there, speaking rather smugly, I am told. Sibkin, even those who have progressed out of the sibko, may still retain old ties, I am also told. That may be true. As for me, I never think of anyone from my old sibko.
I would like to have seen Aidan's face as he rushed into the nearby forest, only to encounter Tech Nomad holding a submachine gun on him. They tell me Aidan did not even blink at the sight of the weapon (a part of the story I was, ironically, glad to hear) and that he rushed at Nomad, who had the presence of mind to whack Aidan on the side of his head with the gun instead of pulling the trigger. Nomad said he had to hit the young man two or three times, and that even as Aidan was passing out, he made a grab at the Tech's ankles, knocking him off his feet. He is still limping along, a graphic reminder that Aidan never gives up. That is something I intend to exploit.
Aidan is now being held in an underground weapons vault near here. I did not want to take the chance that someone might recognize him. My plan requires that no one know who he is, or was, especially those with whom he will serve.
Nor must anyone know the complete plan, not even Falconer Joanna, and certainly not Aidan. To Joanna, the annihilation of the freeborn training unit will seem a fortuitous accident. Even if she suspects something, she will never know for sure. As far as Aidan is concerned, his new identity will be a godsend. I know the young man still hungers to be a warrior. I could see it in his eyes on my one visit to the vault.
The freebirths will die in an active minefield. I will claim that Falconer Erica was informed about the mines, but that she obviously did not deign to inform the cadets. Once in the field, it will seem that the freebirths panicked, with only one survivor.
In my interviews with Aidan, at first I gave him the standard disciplinary lecture about deserting his post and all the other standard-manual rigmarole, but even he knew I was going through the motions.
"You do not chase a deserter all over the globular cluster and bring him back without some other reason," he commented drily.
I put my false hand onto his shoulders. He flinched a bit beneath it, but had enough respect to sit still.
"I am returning you to cadet training with another unit," I said.
"Why?"
I admired his unhesitant reply. Everything about him had the makings of a good MechWarrior, even his stubborn inquisitiveness.
"It is my decision. That is all you need to know. Do you not wish to be a warrior?"
"More than anything else in my life," he said fiercely, showing emotion for the only time during our interview. Had any question remained about whether I was going to all this trouble for the right person, the doubts fled now.
"Then you should not complain."
"How can I go into a sibko? They would never accept an outsider."
"That may be true, but it is not for you to worry about. You must trust me. Your new group will accept you. All I need to know at this moment is whether you agree to follow my orders in this regard. When I call you to me next, you will be prepared to reenter training—at a late stage, incidentally—no matter what the circumstances."
"You know I will, do you not?"
"Yes, I do."
"You must have known that even before coming here. Yes, I agree. Is there anything more I need say?"
"Nothing."
He nodded. Satisfied, I left.
Tomorrow I will send the freeborn unit to the obstacle course. I have already laid the charges that will destroy it. I must set them off myself. I can trust no one else.
32
There were still seven survivors, besides himself, in Jorge's unit. Freeborns all, they had the audacity common to freeborn cadets, the conviction that they had just as much right to be warriors as the more arrogant trues. Perhaps even more, for the so-called truebirths were merely the products of concoctions placed in vats rather than the fruit of passion and subsequent womb-nurturing. Jorge knew that, like him, his fellow cadets believed that they could prove themselves as good as any warrior. They looked forward to their Trials with as much eagerness, if a shade less expectation, than truebirth cadets. The only drawback was the knowledge that, even if they succeeded, they were destined for assignment to garrison units on the most backwater posts, with no hope of ever engaging in honorable combat against another Mech-Warrior.
No matter, Jorge thought, as his unit marched to its next test. Stepping desultorily at their head was Falconer Erica, their tall, muscular training officer who had made no secret of her distaste for the assignment. The freeborns felt that they had to work doubly hard to learn necessary information because Erica so often neglected to instruct them properly. She frequently disappeared, and the gossip went that she had a good taste for bad wine. Whatever they smelled on her breath in the rare times they were in proximity to Erica, it was foul and suggestive of ephemeral fermentation.
They arrived at their destination, an obstacle course where they had already qualified. Erica explained that they had been ordered to perform a re-test, to verify that their skills had not degenerated in the three months since originally passing through this rather simple set of challenges. There were some mutterings among the free-borns, most of it complaint that they were only being retested because they were freeborns and that no sibko would ever have to endure this. Erica had to quiet them down, bellowing in that distracted way of hers that the sooner they performed the task, the sooner they could leave. She pointed out that neither was she particularly pleased with the situation, which required that she accompany them all over again. Perhaps, thought Jorge, the real test was intended for her. Perhaps her superiors had discovered her drinking habit and wanted to see if she was still qualified to train cadets. He relished the thought that Erica might slip off an overhead ladder into mud, or wind up with her nose twisted in some netting.
As if to insult her own cadets, she managed to get out ahead of them in the first stage of the course. Then she stopped on a hill to rally them with her own special brand of disparagement.
They swung over streams on ropes, went hand over hand along the raised ladder, crawled along a narrow log above a chasm, and climbed over a disabled 'Mech (just the model of one, made of light and flimsy material, Jorge noted this time through) into a fake minefield whose small charges could do no more harm than sting exposed skin. Jorge, whose memory was excellent, took the lead as he ran a path that avoided any of the fake explosive charges.
For a moment, he did not believe the loud blasts behind him, thinking they were some theatrical addition to the obstacle course. The screams convinced him otherwise.
Turning around, he saw the smoke rising, obscuring everyone behind him, then one of his fellow cadets come stumbling out of the smoke, his face already bloody and mangled, an arm dangling at his side, connected to the shoulder by the merest tissue. Jorge did not recognize whoever it was that suddenly fell at his feet. He saw no one else, but some of the bits and pieces flying through the air must surely be parts of bodies.
Something hit his arm, a piece of shrapnel that tore open a narrow wound. His mind churning in confusion, he turned and ran from the dreadful scene. What could have happened? This field was not supposed to be laid with active mines. It was all simulation. Were all the others dead? What in the name of hell was going on? What had happened? What had happened?
He ran right into the arms of someone who seized him, held him tight for a moment, then flung him away. Jorge stumbled across the ground, managed not to fall, and then turned around. The man in front of him, he realized, was Falconer Commander Ter Roshak. What could Ter Roshak be doing here? he wondered. Had he come at the sound of the explosions? But why would he be anywhere near a minor obstacle course in the first place?
"You are Jorge, are you not?" Roshak asked.
Astonished by the question and the fact that his commander knew him, Jorge merely responded: "Yes, I am. Sir."
"I am pleased."
"Pleased?" Jorge grimaced as the pain in his arm grew. He held onto the wound with his other hand and felt blood seep through his fingers.
"Yes. If someone was going to avoid my little sabotage, I am happy it was you. It shows how well I chose for the person who from now on will be you."
"Be . . . me? Sabotage. I do not understand."
"It is not necessary that you do."
Suddenly Jorge saw that Ter Roshak held a submachine gun at his side. Raising it quickly, the commander fired it point-blank at Jorge.
Jorge stared down at his chest. With his good hand, he tore open his fatigue shirt and saw the holes on his chest. The bullets had entered him at six or seven places, little bloody circles that seemed to grow as everything else began to fade out. Before he died, he thought he saw only the six or seven circles, growing larger as he, for the last time, wondered what had happened, what had happened, and then the circles abruptly disappeared.
