Delphi City, Barcella,
Kerensky Cluster,
05th December 3045
0815 hrs
The hoverbus slid to a halt at the terminal, sending up small swirls of dust from under its undercarriage. The doors opened to allow its passengers to disembark onto a platform constructed to compensate for the higher height of the doors due to the air skirt below the bus.
Descartin eagerly left the bus with his sibkin, ready to enjoy a day outside the confines of the training camp. Such excursions were few and far between, and they had not left the training center since their arrival there. This was a rare opportunity.
Barcella’s G6III sun shone brightly in the sky, pouring down waves of heat onto the inhabitants of its third planet. A few clouds flittered slowly across the blue horizon, showing no particular inclination to rain on that day, though some of Barcella’s inhabitants would often wish for rain to wash away the dust of the day.
As Des descended the steps of the platform, laughing and joking with his fellow cadets, he tried to take note of the civilians around them. They seemed like completely different people from the warriors and techs he was used to at the training center, dressed in nondescript clothes as they rushed from one place to another to do their jobs.
The gravity of the planet tugged at his legs, but he easily ignored the 1.3G exerted by the planet, having grew up with it his entire life.
To a native of Terra, used to cooler weather and a lower gravity, Barcella would have seemed like hell. Right now to Des, however, it was heaven.
The group of cadets looked like a bunch of tourists, though the cadet markings on their brown jumpsuits, the military boots they wore, and their severe hair crew-cuts made their identities clear as warriors-in-training.
There were scattered groups of civilians walking along the wide city streets, lined by tall buildings. A gang of laborers roared out a song of toil even as they struggled to lift their heavy crates onto a nearby truck. Two well-dressed women, scientists, Des guessed from their white coats, wore frowns on their faces as they rushed to the terminal. A man of the aerospace pilot phenotype carried a briefcase in one hand as he ambled easily into a building.
Des noted all this and more.
“Let us look for something to eat,” he suggested as they came to a stop in the city center, a large square dominated by the huge statue of a snarling nova cat facing an Atlas mech.
Built just after the world was chosen by the clan to be its capital, the statue was a symbol of the clan’s strength, a show of their refusal to quit despite the odds.
“Where are the places we can go?” Petra asked.
“Well,” Jovre said as he flipped through a small battered notepad fished out from a pocket, “there are three ‘more expensive’ canteens just a few blocks away. We could go there, but the prices are quite high.”
“We can afford it,” Des commented. “After all, we have not been using any of our credits for the past few years.”
The Inner Sphere system of work and pay did not exist in the clans. Individuals were given a certain amount of credit allowance for the purchase of essential items like food and clothing, which must be used within a stipulated period of three months before the allowance is reclaimed by the clan.
As warrior cadets, Des and his sibkin enjoyed slightly greater leeway. Even though they were not considered to be ‘working’, they were still given a small allowance, which was allowed to accumulate past three months.
The amount was small, only 10 Kerenskys per month. Yet after more than 3 years of training, the cadets realized they had a small fortune on their hands.
“I am sick of the ration bars in camp. I want to have some real food for once!” Feelia declared. The others nodded in agreement. The food in the training facility was a far cry from the food they had in the nursery and training crèche. Protein bars, a gray mush that tasted like cutboard, and water that looked as if it came from the sewage(it was brown in color) were not their ideas of what food, or even combat rations should be like.
“So if there are no objections, we will go to one of the better canteens.” Des gestured to Jovre, “Lead the way.”
“But what are we going to do after eating?” Deserk asked.
“We will come to that after food.” Des replied. He had every intention of having everybody split up to do their own purchases, because that would also make it easier for him to get to his showdown with Secorra without anybody finding out about it.
Des did not quite understand why he was reluctant to let the others know of the impending fight, but it just seemed like the correct thing to do.
Or maybe he was just afraid of losing in front of the others, he admitted to himself.
They came to a well decorated establishment, with bright lamps and colorful designs painted on its walls, in stark contrast to the drab buildings beside it. There were two small statues of mechs placed on each side of the front entrance, both the menacing hunched-over shapes of the Timber Wolf omnimech. The fragrant smell of food wafted through the door, beckoning people within.
Such places were rarities in clan space, and often served to cater to the higher members of clan society. Members of the lower castes could never afford the expensive food, and the limits placed on their spending meant that they could not save up for such treats either.
A well-dressed laborer in a simple white and black uniform greeted them as they entered the ‘canteen’. “Good morning, young ones. May I have your credit chips?”
The clan system of payment did not consist of any physical notes or coins, but an electronic system that used an unique individual chip linked to a central system for accounting and record keeping purposes. The card would be inserted into a card reader, which would then require a fingerprint or retina scan for the transaction to be processed.
The only people with hard currency was the merchant caste, due to their work in inter-clan trading. Non-merchants in possession of hard currency were regarded by clan law as black-market racketeers, and often punished accordingly. Only warriors on special assignment could be granted exemption from this rule.
As they handed over their cards to the laborer, from which their purchases would be deducted from when they leave the store, another laborer showed up to direct them to their table.
“Wow, if this is what is in store for us when we become warriors, I will be sure to try my very best to be one!” Ori exclaimed in glee as the group sat down.
“Even if warriors are able to come here, do you think they will have the time to do so?” Deserk countered. “Warriors spend all their time training and fighting, not thinking of ways to fill their stomachs!”
“Then why are we here?” Ori shot back. “If you think that is what a warrior is about, how about you leave this place right now?” Deserk’s face grew a bright red, and both cadets stood up as if to fight.
“Stop it!” Descartin ordered. “We are here to relax, not get at each other’s throats. Now sit down, and stop making fools of yourself!”
The two squabbling cadets stared venomously at each other for a tense moment before sitting back down. The other cadets made sure the two sat as far apart as possible, also on Des’s suggestion.
Des took up the one menu list on the table, but he was surprised to realize that he had no idea of the meaning of the words. “Uh, do any of you know what all these mean?” He asked as he passed the menu around the table.
“Sautéed chicken, broccoli in oyster sauce, clam chowder soup? I do not understand a single word that is written here!”
“Do you have a problem?” A stony faced laborer came up to their table.
“Uh,” Des hesitated for a second, “we are new to this, and do not know what we should eat. Could you consider our credit limit, and perhaps suggest items that come out to a total of about 15 Kerenskys for each person?”
The man nodded with half-lidded eyes, and started to list out a series of dishes which none of them were able to comprehend. Meanwhile, an obscenely obese merchant sitting near their table rattled off a string of dishes for his order. Obviously, he had no problems with the names.
“Is this sufficient?” The laborer asked.
“Uh, yes. That will be all. Thank you.” Des stammered.
By the Founder, that was embarrassing. Des had no illusions about their lack of knowledge, but their sheer ignorance about how things worked in a civilian canteen was absolutely unforgivable. He thought about getting Jazelyn to explain some simple facts of life to them.
That same self-disgust ended as soon as the first plates were placed in front of them. They could barely make out the meats and vegetables, but the taste and texture of the food was something that Des was sure would stay with him forever.
An hour later, the sibko trooped out of the canteen in a much, much better mood, along with a newfound appreciation of the simpler pleasures of life, namely food.
“What is next?” A beaming Lintya asked. Des guessed that the three large drumsticks of fried chicken she ate had something to do with her sunny disposition.
Well, he could hardly complain himself, since he had several large servings of baked potato sitting comfortably in his stomach.
Des stretched his arms, trying to work out some of the lethargic feeling that often came after a heavy meal. “We go where we want. After all, the bus back to the training center leaves at 1700 hrs. I expect everybody to be back by that time. But until then, the whole day is ours, to enjoy ourselves as we will. I do not expect another chance like this until our Trials of Position.”
“So that is it? We split up and meet again later, quiaff?” Deserk asked.
“Aff. Except you, Deserk, you are with me.” Des said as he pulled to one side, even as the other cadets trooped away happily.
“Huh? What?” A puzzled Dee complained. “The others get to do whatever they want, but not me?”
Des did not reply immediately, but continued pulling a protecting Deserk into a small alley. “Aff. Listen, I need your help, because I have some… other business to attend to. You are the only other person who knows about the holovids, so you are just about the only person I can ask to do this.”
“Concerning the holovids?”
“I got the few I had from a junkyard, and since then I had tried to search out scrap heaps and rubbish dumps for more. But our time at the training center had dried up my access to such places, so this is a rare opportunity.”
Deserk understood instantly, though it was clear he was not amused. “You want me to search those filthy, smelly dumps for more holovids?” His face was one of disgust.
“Aff. Sorry, but I really had no choice. I have something on in about, “Des glanced at his watch, “an hour’s time. Consider this a favor, quiaff?” Des looked at his fellow sibkin with a hopeful smile. To Deserk, he looked like begging.
Deserk sighed heavily. “All right. I will do this for you. But,” he glared at Des, “You owe me for this, and you owe me big.”
“Definitely. I am a man of my word.” Des started walking away, out into the street.
“But what are you doing that is so important?” Deserk shouted after him.
“I cannot tell you now. Maybe later. Good luck finding the holovids!” Descartin jogged off.
He hated leaving Deserk like that, but he had no choice. The nearest scrap heap was quote far away, and Des did not want to expend extra energy going there and then coming back to look for Firm Street.
Looking at a street map of the city, Descartin ascertained the location of the street. As luck would have it, it was only two blocks away, a small side street leading to another section of the city.
The streets slowly emptied of people as the early morning rush of people getting to their workplaces eased. Des saw several police troopers on patrol, handling their stun batons with authority and calm.
He paid them little attention. Des found a small bench near Firm Street, and sat down to wait, while wishing that he had not eaten so much for his breakfast. His stomach complained mightily at the sudden influx of rich food.
Des forced down his unease, hoping that it would subside after an hour. He did not anticipate fighting hand to hand in anything less than top form. He had seen how hard Secorra had been working out recently, trying to overcome his weakness in physical combat. Even though he had beaten the instructor in their first meeting, Descartin knew it was largely due to luck and surprise. There would be no such advantage in the duel this time.
Des loitered around the street for an hour, alternating between short walks to try to help his digestion, and sitting on the bench trying to relax. Despite his best efforts to remain calm, he got more and more agitated as the hour of the fight approached.
“Afraid, quiaff?” The harsh voice of Secorra suddenly grabbed his attention, even as Des instinctively pivoted on one leg, his hands rising up into a defensive stance to face his opponent.
Secorra stepped out into the dimly lit street, his bulky body casting a sinister shadow on to the ground. He wore a large black coat, which he promptly discarded onto a nearby crate.
Des did not like his situation, which was almost alike to the one where his Mercury faced Secorra’s Wyvern. After a few years of growth, he was still slightly shorter than Secorra, and he had less muscle bulk. Even though he was faster, with the reflexes and speed of youth on his side, the narrow street would reduce that sort of advantage.
“Shall we begin?” Des snarled through his uncertainty, trying to hide his trepidation.
“Aff.” Secorra rushed forward.
Des easily parried the first few blows, but Secorra kept up the pressure, throwing punch after heavy punch, with a few kicks here and there to avoid predictability. Des fell back slowly, blocking and dodging while trying to spot an opening for his own attack.
As an impatient Secorra mistimed one punch, Des saw his chance. Slipping under the meaty fist of his enemy, Des ducked his entire body down low, then rose quickly, head-butting Secorra under his chin with his legs providing the force. Blood flew from Secorra’s mouth as he staggered back.
The instructor did not pull back his punch, however, using them to grab the back of Des’ uniform and pulling him along. One knee drove into Des’s stomach.
Des felt his entire breakfast leave his mouth into a half-digested puddle of brown goo on the floor even as he continued slugging away at Secorra’s head. Opening up his right fist into a palm, he slammed the open palm up the front of Secorra’s face, and breaking Secorra’s nose in the process.
Secorra howled with pain, but dropped down to one knee and made a leg sweep, which Des barely avoided by jumping into the air. It was a mistake, as Secorra rose up quickly before he could land, ready to land a finishing blow.
Des twisted his body around in desperation, and managed to push off a nearby wall with his hands, just evading Secorra’s heavy punch and tumbling to the ground in a painful landing, but still very much in the fight.
A grunt alerted Des to the next attack, as Secorra lowered a shoulder and charged straight towards him. Gathering his strength, Des managed to leap up and over the charging man, barely clearing Secorra’s body by a few millimeters.
Both fighters turned to face each other again, this time covered in blood, sweat, and vomit. Their heaving shoulders indicated their exhaustion, taking in heavy breaths as they struggled to pull in more air for their lungs.
“Come on!” Des shouted as he went on the attack this time, snaking a fist upwards in a feint towards Secorra. Secorra refused to fall for it, moving forward with his body held low. Des turned the feint into a real attack, taking hold of Secorra under his collar, using the man’s forward momentum to propel him into a throw, up and above his shoulders, and then driving him past the ground.
When using momentum of any sort, regardless of a punch, kick, or throw, always try to drive the blow past what you see. That often makes the blow a lot more effective. It was a frequent piece of advice from Jazelyn.
Before Secorra could recover from the bone crunching slam, Des clutched his opponent’s neck.
“Time to finish what I started last time.” Des whispered as he squeezed with all his strength.
Oathmaster Biccon Winters was a stern woman, focused on her task of keeping the traditions of Clan Nova Cat alive. She had held the post of Oathmaster for a long time, and would undoubtedly continue to hold it for years to come.
She woke up that morning with a splitting headache after a bad dream, of which she could remember little. Her staff had avoided her for the entire morning, obviously sensing her displeasure and unwilling to draw her ire. They acted more like mice than nova cats that day, creeping around on tiptoes for fear of setting her off.
Biccon could not really understand why, but she felt more and more angry as the morning wore on. She felt cooped up in a cage, even though the Oathmaster’s office near the middle of Delphi City was one of the largest buildings on the planet.
Time to go for a walk, she told herself. Besides, she had not traveled out into the city for quite a while, and today was as good a day as any other.
Clad in the ceremonial garb of the clan Oathmaster, she cut an imposing figure even among the muscular warriors of the clan. She wore a flowing black robe, and an armor chest plate emblazoned with the image of a nova cat with its jaws open, set on a field of stars. To an onlooker, it would really seem as if the cat was actually springing away from the chest plate.
As she stepped out onto the street, she felt a strange feeling of flash through her spine. It was an unfamiliar sensation of foreboding, not fear, but Biccon had long since learnt that the difference between the two was slight, and that one often leads to the other.
She held a lot of pride in her warrior prowess, even though she was already at an age considered to be solahma in most other clans. Despite that, she was still more than capable of taking on an elemental in physical combat, almost a mandatory requirement for the post of Oathmaster, for she had defeated all who stood before her years ago in the Grand Melee for that exalted role.
She was a mechwarrior of the Winters bloodline, but the base genetic template of the Winters line often provided superior hand to hand combatants, even if they were not elementals. The mechwarrior lines of the House were small with respect to the elemental ones, but still highly respected, and the clan had jealousy guarded possession of the genetic material ever since their founding on Strana Mechty.
She wandered the city, letting her feet take her on sheer whim, though she did feel something tugging at her senses, beckoning this way and that.
She was not the least surprised, then, as she walked into a side street to see a brawl in progress. It was almost as if she was guided here.
Perhaps this could be important, she thought.
A youth was holding down a larger man by the throat, apparently trying to strangle him. Both struggling combatants were covered in blood, vomit and sweat, snarling as they twisted around on the ground to gain leverage over the other.
Biccon was more than a bit surprised to see that the man being strangled was actually wearing a red daggerstar on his collar, a symbol of his rank and status, while the boy was wearing the uniform of a cadet. And the boy was coming ever closer to choking the life out of the man.
It looked to be a fair trial, but it also looked wasteful, and the clan could ill afford the loss of a warrior, especially against a mere cadet. Biccon resolved to step in.
She walked forward so that both fighters could see her, then uttered a single word.
“Stop.”
The boy looked up, his hands still clenched around the man’s throat. The man was already unconscious, the veins of his neck bulging blue with asphyxiation.
“Release him.” She ordered.
The boy stared back defiantly. “Neg.”
She was not the least impressed by the boy’s bravado. “Disobey me, and you shall regret it for the rest of your short and miserable life.” She smiled grimly, as if welcoming the chance to fight.
The boy reluctantly withdrew his hands from around the man’s neck, and stood up slowly.
“Step back.” She ordered as she walked forward to put a finger against the man’s neck. She was relieved to feel a weak pulse. Another few seconds and the man would have been dead.
“What is your name, cub?” She asked.
“I am Descartin, of the Burning Tooth sibko.” He was practically glowering, his fists at his side ready for another fight.
“Stand away, cub, you stink.” She gestured to the man, “Pick him up.”
Descartin complied, struggling to lift the man’s body up into a fireman carry, but the expression on his face gave away his resentment.
No matter. She was more than a bit intrigued by the fact that a cadet only about 15 years old would be able to defeat a fully trained warrior. Was this what she was supposed to find?
Descartin muttered angrily to himself as he followed the tall woman through the streets of the city, with Secorra over his shoulder. He had half a mind to throw Secorra down onto the floor and getting rid of the instructor once and for all, but the menace exuded by the woman gave him enough reason not to do anything foolish.
When the woman had appeared, he had thought about fighting back against her intrusion, but the attire and look of the woman, not to say of her attitude and confidence, had quickly convinced him that belligerence in this case was probably going to be detrimental to his health. Having once been hammered by Varro Drummond once before, Des had learnt the value of picking fights he could win.
Not that he was in good shape either, as the bruises and vomit all over him indicated. The one thing he wanted right now was a good bath.
Des did not like the strange stares following him as they walked, feeling like a convict on his way to the gallows, another little factoid he had obtained from the holovids.
I hope Deserk is not having too much trouble finding the holovids, Descartin thought to himself just as they finally came to a halt before a large building.
The sight of the building was truly shocking, but what came next had him in mortal fear for his life.
It was the way the guards at the front door bowed respectfully to her. “Good morning, Oathmaster.” The well-armed guard greeted her.
Biccon Winters nodded once in reply, and strode inside. A dumbfounded Des stared at the building stupidly until she turned around and gave him another of her death glares.
Des hurried forward with his burden, the guards shooting him with looks of disapproval as he passed through the glass doors of the entrance.
I will be lucky if they post me to potato peeling duty for the rest of my days! Des moaned inwardly.
The Oathmaster led him up a long flight of stairs to a room.
“Put him down,” She pointed to a cushion, “follow me.”
She brought him to another room, a changing room apparently for laborers and techs working in the building. There were also a few shower stalls.
“Take a bath here. There are some clean clothes that I think will fit you in one of the lockers. Wear them. I will talk to you again in a short while. You do know how obey instructions, quiaff?”
Des did not trust his own voice, so he simply nodded instead of speaking. Biccon Winters left the room.
Twenty minutes later, Des was wearing a clean set of light blue technician fatigues, and sitting nervously on a bench in the changing room when a technician entered the room.
“The Oathmaster will speak with you now.” The woman said. “Follow me.”
She showed him to a door which was labeled with the insignia of the clan and the rank and position of the occupant.
Des took a moment to focus himself, and then opened the door.
The first thing that he noticed was how big the office was. The second thing he noticed was the Oathmaster sitting behind a large wooden desk.
The third thing he noticed was Secorra standing rigidly to attention beside the Oathmaster’s desk in a clean uniform. Descartin was especially happy to see the bandage on Secorra’s nose.
“Cadet Descartin reporting, sir!” He stood to attention as soon as the door closed behind him.
“At ease.” The woman said. “I declare your trial null and void, since it was not sanctioned by a superior officer. What I want to know now, however, is what made you think you could get away with murder.”
“Murder?” Des was flabbergasted. “I do not understand.”
“You fought against a warrior of the clan without the permission of your superior. Such action is punishable by death.”
Biccon Winters stood up, and walked in front of Des. “However, I also understand that Training Officer Secorra was the one who challenged you in the first place, and as clansmen, are we not obligated to fight back when provoked?”
She continued, “Therefore, Secorra will undergo surkai, for he was the one who started this matter first. You will decide his punishment, and then we shall all let the matter rest, quiaff?”
“Aff.” Des knew that it was the best he could hope for.
“Officer Secorra?” The Oathmaster prodded.
The instructor grudgingly walked in front of Des, and said, “I ask for forgiveness. I have done wrong, and I will accept the punishment you decide.”
As hard as he tried, Des could not keep his glee off his face as he replied, “I forgive you, but perhaps the Oathmaster should decide on the proper punishment.”
Biccon Winters nodded approvingly at the way Des had handled the rite of surkai, and said, “Training Officer Secorra, your punishment is to be reassigned to the Fiery Trail Training Center. You may leave now. The two of you will never bother each other again. What say you, Cadet?”
“Well bargained and done.”
As Secorra left, Des found himself still standing in the Oathmaster’s office. She sat back down behind the desk.
“Cadet, I have reviewed your records, and they are mildly interesting. One thing I have noticed is that you tend to push the odds as far as you can, and so far you have gotten away with it. Here is one piece of free advice, cub, since I feel you still have some potential and capable of redemption.”
“Do not believe yourself as above others. Certainly do not fall into the temptation of discarding everything else in your pursuit of victory and glory. Most importantly, do not ever think you are invincible.”
Des shook his head. “I have never thought myself as that.”
“But you might in the future, and that is why I am warning you now of the dangers of arrogance. Beware, I shall be keeping an eye on you.”
“You may leave. Technician Irina will take you to the changing room, where you will be given back your cadet uniform. It has already been cleaned and dried. Wear them back, and go back to your business. ” She dismissed him with a wave of her hand.
Descartin was never more relieved in his life as he quickly saluted, pivoted around, and marched out the office. He resolved to look for Deserk, to share this interesting turn of events, and also to celebrate Secorra’s departure from their lives.
It had been an interesting and fruitful day, even if that surat Secorra was not dead.
Oathmaster Biccon Winters stared again at the records of the cadet. To tell the truth, she was more than a bit impressed with his abilities. But what fascinated her most was the fact that she knew the warrior in charge of the training facility and one of the training officers for the sibko, Varro Drummond and Jazelyn.
Varro Drummond had been an excellent Star Colonel for the clan, but the vision he had along with then Star Commander Jazelyn had left no choice for the clan but to relegate them to training duty, with injury being Varro’s reason and battle fatigue as Jazelyn’s.
The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced that the day’s incident was not a mere coincidence.
Perhaps the future is revealed in more than visions, she mused.
She picked up the commset on her desk, and dialed in the connection to the Training Commander of the Ways of Seeing Training Facility.
As the line was opened on the other side, she spoke.
“Good afternoon, Varro Drummond. This is Oathmaster Biccon Winters. I have something to tell you…”