Petr almost laughed out loud. He’d been mistaken. Though she might lose this battle—Heb’s battlefield prowess would be formidable—he would be watching Sanda for the glory she would eventually reap. If she failed at this Trial of Bloodright, no doubt another opportunity would present itself. Someone who could fight equally well across the battlefield and negotiation table, worth a Star of ’Mechs. Though the Clan tried hard to instill such abilities within its warriors, few truly rose to the occasion; few held the versatility and mental agility to excel in both fields.
“You have both been found worthy before this skate. Present your tokens,” Jet said, opening up his hands, palms up. Both warriors reached to their waists to an unseen pouch, withdrew polymer coins the size of their palms, passed them to the Oathmaster.
Jet raised his hands, presented the tokens to the assembly and spoke. “As with the random selection of your opponents, any battlefield, any negotiation table can turn to savage you with the sharpest teeth. Who will be your opponent cannot be known. Where your conflicts will occur cannot be foreseen. Any warrior worthy of a Clan Sea Fox Bloodname must overcome any odds, any situation, any circumstance.”
He raised one coin. Though at too much of a distance to see clearly, Petr knew it showed the image of a sea fox with bared teeth, as though ready for the kill; the warrior’s name was engraved across the bottom. “The hunter lands on top and chooses the form of combat: unaugmented or augmented.”
He raised the other coin, which Petr knew displayed a sea fox with bowed head, protecting itself, ready to turn a setback into victory. “The hunted lands on bottom and chooses the venue for the combat. In this way, each warrior fights in a form not of his choosing.”
“Seyla,” filled the chamber, as though spoken by a single voice. A god’s voice, proclaiming the nature of blood and whose genetic material would be used to create another generation of warriors. Almost the definition of deity.
Jet moved to the mechanism on the podium. Used almost universally by the Clans, the funnel in standard gravity couldn’t be simpler. The coins were inserted; then gravity dragged them spinning down, chasing each other until one fell on top of the other.
In microgravity, this system could not work. In its place (and appropriate for the Sea Fox and their aquatic namesake) a water-fed tube system served. A continuous tube ran in a squished donut shape: two straight pieces approximately a meter and a half long, joined with two elbow pieces. The bottom third of the pipes sank into the funnel-shaped opaque base that gave a nod to the funnel used for centuries and hid the pneumatic pump tied into the system. The upper portions of the pipe were a clear polymer, which revealed a dizzying array of rods connected to the walls of the pipe, creating a maze through which the coins would fight.
Within this closed system ran freshwater taken from the oceans of Itabiana (one of the few worlds wholly owned by Clan Sea Fox), where the sea fox, transplanted on the brink of extinction in the last decades of the previous century, now thrived.
Jet moved to the base of one of the tube sections and inserted both coins through rubber seals, tapped a button. The surge of water as the pump created circulation sent the coins on their desperate bid to be the hunter. Almost hypnotic in their motion, the coins bounced, jittered and skated over and under the obstacle rods, inexorably dragged forward by the current. Up a meter, flattening along the top and pushed back down to brave another terrifying jumble.
A coin sank into the first suction trap, cutting off flow there and sending the other coin to the second suction trap; the pump cut off immediately and both coins cycled out through double-walled seals, dried on the way: the hunter on top, the hunted on bottom.
Jet reached forward, grasped both coins firmly and raised them for all to see: hunter in right hand, hunted in left.
“Heb, you are the hunter. How say you?”
Drawing himself up to his full 2.2 meters, he practically shouted, “I shall fight augmented.”
That surprised Petr. Heb towered over the diminutive Sanda; an unaugmented fight would be difficult for Sanda to overcome. Perhaps he knew something about her zero-g fighting skills Petr did not.
Jet held up the other coin and turned toward Sanda. “Sanda, you are the hunted. How say you?”
Without a moment’s hesitation, she spoke with a demure confidence Petr instantly took a liking to. “The moon of Coma.”
Jet nodded firmly, raised coins until he joined both in clasped hands directly above his head. “And so it begins.”
“Seyla.”
Petr watched as both warriors launched themselves back to their assigned positions; all would traverse this cycle of the ritual before any departed for their coming battles. Jet thumbed the remote at his belt and the sequence began again.
Though he fiercely loved the traditions of his Clan, at times they warred with the merchant within. Was this all worth it?
The extravagance of Trials of Bloodright were legendary. A DropShip would spend precious time and fuel reserves to burn to the moon of Coma, simply for the purpose of the fight, simply because Sanda requested it. Other such requirements would unfold this day as well. The battles would repeat themselves, as would this ceremony: the sixteen victors returning to be paired once more, the eight subsequent and so on until only one victor emerged. Until only one stepped forward—one warrior proving worthy to hold a sacred Bloodname.
Petr slowly shook his head. There were times to be a merchant (plenty of times), but today held room only for warriors, and traditions stretching back almost three centuries to the Founder himself. There could only be one answer to such a question.
Aff.
12
Tumbled Heights, Near Halifax
Vanderfox, Adhafera
Prefecture VII, The Republic
14 July 3134
The bivouac bustled with energy.
Technician castemen scrambled across mud-slicked ground, uncomplaining of the same conditions that elicited moans of protest only yesterday. Laborer castemen worked hard to clean up the mess the monstrous, gale-strength storm (whose claws tried to drag even the multiton ’Mechs across the ground) wreaked across a half week. Hauling away logs, righting tents, cleaning off vehicles, making small repairs where needed: a veritable labor of Hercules.
They bounced with anticipation.
An ancient J-27 ammo truck procured from the locals churned through the mud in a vain attempt to bring its metal food to the hungry bins of a waiting Thor. Spinning, slipping tracks kicked up a rooster’s tail of goop and slop that shot four meters into the air and a good ten meters back, splattering vehicles, ’Mech legs and personnel alike.
Nothing could dampen the mood.
Though the Trial of Bloodright began several days ago (an honor for all, whether one participated or not), today would be different—a different honor altogether. An honor—unlike the Trial of Bloodright—that allowed nearly every Sea Fox warrior, along with a significant percentage of the laborer and technician castemen, to directly participate.
Today began the Rituals of Combat, live-fire training exercises pitting everything from battle armor to ’Mechs to aerospace fighters against one another. Because they were so often in the depths of space for long months, if not years, Aimags took any opportunity to test their warriors’ edge, ensuring they did not become dull from lack of use. The Rituals of Combat were so much more than mere exercises—imbued with mysticism and invested in tradition; points won and lost in the Rituals impacted an Aimag’s honor and glory within a Khanate and even the rest of the Clan