A Warrior's Sacrifice

A Warrior's Sacrifice
by Ross Winkler

http://rosswinklerauthor.com/

Copyright © 2016 by Ross Winkler
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Published by: Winkler Publishing, Portland, OR

Publisher Contact: [email protected]

Cover Design by: Phil Markel

http://www.philmarkel.com/

Editing by: Allister Thompson

ISBN: 978-0-9973233-0-6

First Printing, 2016

Printed in the United States of America

To Rob.

Thanks for everything.

Book 1

CHAPTER ONE

This was a dream. He knew it the instant it started. It didn't ferry him away to a magical place where he was the hero, the only one capable of saving whatever fairyland the random firing of his brain had thrust him into. His mind flung him backwards in time. He was a boy again, and this was a dream of actual events.

Not a dream. No, a nightmare.

He knew what was coming — he'd survived it once, and relived it in his sleep from time to time.

It was his mother out there in the small grassy clearing, and she fought one of the aliens, one of the lesser leaders of the warred-over lands of the Eur-Asian continent. They fought with swords and fists and feet, striking and slashing at one another, the soldiers of both parties oblivious to the greater danger that stalked through the trees. Both parties had lingered too long. The Republic had found them.

He was mesmerized by both fighters' skill, prideful of his mother's prowess. With a feint and a lunge, she cut a gash along the alien's cheek. His mother was about to win.

This was how the memory always began, this sense of hope, of elation and pride.

Then came the killing.

Trees shattered, blowing bark and leaves in all directions. Bullets tore into man, woman, child, and alien without discretion. His aunt fell into a bloody heap atop him, and though he was only nine years old, he'd been trained in the ways of war. Instinct took the place of a mind forced to inaction by fear. He pushed the dead woman away, his clothes hot and wet with her blood, and scrambled towards the trees.

He somehow found his older brother among the shouts and death that accompany war. They crawled between the bodies of alien and family, and made it to the shadow of the tree line. Then they ran, the older brother pulling, pushing the younger forward, urging them both ever onward, faster. They spoke to each other, but the words were said in panic, half-formed and unrecognized, but somehow comforting.

The battle receded into the far distance, but
things
crashed through the underbrush on all sides. They were monsters, suits of powered armor equipped with sword and rifle, each bearing an insect-like head.

His brother pulled them into the hollow formed by a web of exposed tree roots. They stopped, panting from their flight and fear. The tread of the monsters continued on. They were safe.

A twig snapped. Leaves rustled.

His brother pulled a knife from his belt. He was ready to kill — his opponent if he could, his brother, and then himself if he couldn't.

An armored hand snatched the older boy out of the furrow. There were a few seconds of struggle, a scream cut short. An armored helmet loomed out of the darkness, jagged, insectoid. The boy tried to flee, but his hiding place had become his prison. The armored figure bound his hands and feet and carried him away into darkness.

The boy, now a man, awoke in the lighted barracks in which he slept. He took a few ragged breaths to calm the trembling in his chest and limbs. This was how it always was when he woke from his memory-nightmares. There was no one to comfort him, only the slatted gray underside of the top bunk.

He checked his com, sighed. He might as well get up and get ready now.

Today was his graduation.

CHAPTER TWO

The sky roiled. Angry thunderclouds bashed and hammered with their sheets of rain, their peals of thunder. It was a vain endeavor, for the shielding that surrounded the city below would protect it from orbital bombardment, and all the lightning strikes cast against it by a black thunderhead created the barest ripple across the shield's face. Instead, the clouds buried the sun, choking the life-giving light from reaching the earth below.

The shield, however, cast its own glow and sustained the orange-yellow light of the setting sun, of dusk, at all times. Far below where shield met sky, 2000 soldiers stood at parade rest, unaware of the maelstrom overhead. Of those 2000, only a handful — the one hundred graduates — were shown dreng.

Those hundred stood on the plasteel steps that led up into the Maharatha Academy complex, a series of buildings where they'd spent the last year and a half training in everything from covert operations, to alien diplomacy. They waited in groups of four, their uniforms crisp, the red piping almost glowing against the midnight black cloth; above them, matching flags hung limp in air unstirred by the storm's wrath. The flags added jarring swatches of color to a city of gray, a city where all buildings were built of plasteel because it was durable and efficient. Because it was dreng.

Other bolts of red-rimmed black cloth hung from a plasteel archway that spanned a platform arranged with chairs and a podium. Politicians and brass from every branch of the Warrior caste sat with quiet, attentive faces directed at the speaker.

Farther past the archway, other Maharatha waited, slouched with the easy stances of tested veterans. Behind, Warriors from the Tercio caste flanked the stairs on both sides. They wore their bright blue combat armor, swords held high. Between them, families and lovers and partners stood silent upon the stairs.

The ceremony was a nice act of closure: this was where Maharatha inductees began their eighteen-month training, and this is where they ended it. Once they crossed through that arch, they would be the elite.

The attending crowds clapped, and the old man who had been speaking took his seat with the other politicians of the Beirat Council. The Oniban stepped to the podium. "My friends," she said, sweeping the crowd with eyes so brown they were almost black, "I stand before a class of the Republic's finest warriors: the Maharatha. It is through their efforts and their sacrifices that the Republic stands here today."

She paused, and all in attendance leaned forward. "The Maharatha have a long history tracing back to the First Exiles, those courageous and Drengin men and women who fought against the Siloth invaders and their Choxen puppets." Soft, triumphant music started up in the background. "Through their sacrifice, remembered now in our holidays, they forged themselves into a mighty fighting elite. Fearless, intelligent, resourceful, they represented the best that Humanity had to offer."

The music increased in volume, along with the power of the Oniban's voice. "Their teachings have been preserved and are represented in the flesh by those that stand before you now. They are ready to command the Republic's armies, to strike down the enemy bases where their disease has infected this planet. They are ready to lay down their lives for the Republic! For Humanity!" Her voice echoed through the academy's corridors, her words carried into the city streets beyond; the music rose to crescendo, and the gathered crowd cheered.

The graduates remained stoic.

"Now," the Oniban began again, "graduates, step forward through the arch."

The soldiers shifted, rotating in lockstep until they could pass, four abreast, through the archway. The music blared. The crowd went wild.

As they passed through the arch, the veterans stepped forward, kissing, hugging, shaking forearms with the newest additions to their caste. They handed to each new Maharatha a projector that would display the Maharatha symbol: a circle, split into six sections by a diamond, one half of the diamond black, the other white. The four semicircles around the outer edge each held a different color: blue, green, brown, red.

Not all were greeted with delight as they crossed the threshold into elitehood. A tall, lean man with dark skin, short hair, and brown eyes that pierced, was not greeted.

"So you made it, Corwin," said the nearest veteran. Those who overheard turned to watch.

"I did," said Corwin. He settled back onto his heels, knees bent.

The veteran's mouth twitched in a smile. "Don't worry. You won't be challenged here."

Corwin didn't relax. At every transition he'd been challenged, from one crèche to another; the first day of his training with the Tercio; the first hour in the Academy.

The veteran tossed the projector. Corwin caught it, never taking his eyes from the soldiers before him. The veteran smiled again. "Good luck, Quisling." He turned to join in the celebration with the other Maharatha.

The graduates' families had reached the archway now, and they passed by Corwin, yielding to him a wide berth. Children, excited at being released from their crèches for a few hours, gawked at Corwin on the way past. Parents pulled them onward, casting quick glances of disgust. Elders hobbled by, glaring.

He was not welcome here, and he was fine with that. This ceremony was not for him anyway. It wasn't even for the graduates; it was for their families. Some of the graduates came from a long line of Maharatha, and this was expected — to test into any other caste would be to fall towards jendr and mean their removal from their family and their bloodline. For others, this was the first family member to "make it," and it
was
something to celebrate.

Corwin had no parents, no siblings, no elders. He was an orphan, and while being considered Dreng-less — one who was without family or heritage to call his own — a far worse stigma followed him, always.

He was a Quisling, from a long line of Quislings, the last of the line of Family Shura. Corwin's mouth twisted into a shadow of a wry smile.
Oh the irony,
he thought. From Quisling to Maharatha; from traitor to the pinnacle of the Republic's caste system.

His lips returned to their usual neutral, grim position. His parents might even have been proud of this accomplishment.

He wished they were alive, but he knew better. There was a bitter kind of solace in the fact that they were dead. They were his enemy now. He was sworn to fight the Siloth aliens and their mutants, the Choxen. Corwin's family had been neither of those things, but they had raided Human settlements and traded with the Choxen, and that made them the enemy of the Republic.

The Republic's hate and fear was understandable. Where the Siloth were the puppet masters, they were so far removed from the day-to-day reality as to be just a concept to most Republic citizens. The Quislings and the Choxen were the real terrors, the monsters that clawed and scraped away the veneer of safety and civilization that most civilians hid behind.

The Choxen still resembled the Humans they once were, their faces equal parts masculine and feminine, though the species lacked any kind of gender. They were easy to identify because they were clones, and if you knew one face, you knew them all. The only features that defined one from the next were their scars, each one unique and meaningful to the owner.

The Quislings were the real danger. They were Humans in every sense of the definition and could infiltrate the smaller settlements in the wilderness between cities. They were the ones that could open the gates and let in their families to raid and capture; they could snatch a child from his bed and never raise an alarm.

Corwin grunted a bitter laugh. The skills he'd learned as a Quisling had allowed him to test into the Maharatha. Where the crèches taught similar skills, they were honed on a practice field where the only consequence was a bloodied nose or broken bone. Corwin was a battle-tested veteran by the time the Republic had captured him in the woods at the age of nine.

And he'd been cocky then, so sure of himself that he'd convinced Mother and Father to take him along on that prisoner trade. He had that sinking feeling again, that hole that opened in his soul and threatened to swallow him up. Corwin pushed himself back from the edge, changed his mind's focus from the internal to the external. His nerves settled.