Fire Warrior

I

04.58 HRS (SYS. LOCAL — DOLUMAR IV, Ultima Seg. #4356/E)

The storm was coming.

Shas’la T’au Kais closed his eyes and tried not to think of it.

There would be noise and confusion, he supposed. There would be guns and blood, comm chatter and smoke. There would be screams.

He’d been taught since birth that anxiety, especially when dwelt upon, was an inefficient sentiment. Mentally reprimanding himself, he closed his eyes and set his mind adrift, not caring to dwell upon his nascent fear.

He remembered...

On the eighth-tau’cyr a

The sand settled in the basin of the battledome, its tiered auditorium rising in silent rings overhead. Devoid of the massed crowds that gathered for the festivals every kai’rotaa, it seemed almost unreal in its emptiness. Kais preferred it this way, grateful that his training was conducted beyond the public gaze.

The other youths, glad of the hiatus, watched with casual interest as the shas’vre supervisor conducted a bemused conversation with the communicator on his cheek.

“It’s impractical,” he declared, apparently addressing the open air. “No. Well, yes, of course I appreciate that, but today’s exercises are uncompleted an — Who? Oh. Oh, I see.” He swivelled briefly to regard Kais, one eyebrow lifting subtly. “Yes, he’s here. Very well.”

The other youths, following their mentor’s gaze, turned their inquisitive faces to stare. An interruption of this nature was entirely unprecedented.

“Kais?” the old warrior grunted, features etched by a lifetime of T’au’s relentless sunshine glare. “It’s your father. He’s come to visit.”

Blip.

Another digit disappeared from the round-cornered countdown panel on the wall, its sudden absence sucking on Kais’s attention and plucking him lightly from his memories. He risked a guilty glance around the interior of the dropship, checking that none of his fellow warriors had spotted his lapse into reverie. Seated in rows along either wall of the windowless transit hold, supported by padded deployment seats with gently curving restraints, the others seemed as preoccupied as he was.

The dropship, an Orca-class shuttle with ample room for his entire hunter-cadre, made no noise. Somehow, Kais decided, that was worse. Somehow things might be better, easier, if the craft juddered and corkscrewed, battered by unforgiving turbulence and afflicted by all the horrors of unreliable technology the tau so stringently avoided.

If, perhaps, each fluted bulkhead was something other than perfectly sealed and rigorously tested, or if the ship’s stabilisers were less accurate, or the carefully moulded deployment seats less comfortable... If there were noises to distract him, discomforts to irritate him, minor inefficiencies to prey upon his nerves...

If, if, if.

If the plummeting vessel were anything other than perfect, sleek, silent and utterly efficient in every way then perhaps he wouldn’t be sitting there desperately trying to avoid the thought that was fighting for prominence in his mind.

I’m going to die out there.

He closed his eyes and wrestled his awareness back to the battledome on T’au.

His father arrived with a retinue, of course.

The entry portal yawned open to reveal six shas’la line warriors, moving with the feline confidence and grace that Kais was already begi

Finally satisfied with the security of the location, and barely even glancing at the young trainees arranged nearby, the warriors lowered their long pulse rifles and stood at ease. Reacting to some unseen command, the portal opened again and Kais’s father stepped through.

Shas’o T’au Shi’ur — Commander of the Fifth Ten-Cadre, hero of Uor’la, favoured disciple of Aun’shi, thrice prevalent in Trials by Fire and honoured with the appellation “Strong Triumph” at the battle of Fio’vash — was not nearly as tall as Kais had remembered.

He hadn’t seen his father in three tau’cyrs: a long time, even by the detached standards of the fire caste. In the literature and imagery that filtered its way into the training facility, O’Shi’ur was typically seen clad in his colossal battlesuit, striking a pose against the pied skyline of some alien world. The por’hui media bolstered his legendary reputation, oozing rhetoric upon his defence of the tau empire and his efforts to carry its creed to the as-yet unenlightened races of the galaxy. He was a hero, plain and simple, and Kais had lived beneath his shadow since he could remember.

And now here he was, as unavoidable in life as was his image in the media. A medium-sized individual with unremarkable features: skin the pale grey-blue of his caste, nasal cavity a slash of perfect symmetry bisecting his brow, broad upper jaw and jutting chin entirely consistent with average fire caste features. He was somewhat lean, perhaps, but certainly not the muscled giant that stalked Kais’s nightmares, frowning and condescending, criticising everything he did. He wore simple combat fatigues, embroidered in places with small stripes of rank and caste. Kais thought he looked old. Old and tired.

A chime sounded, breaking the expectant tension of the dropship’s hold. Kais glanced at the drop-commander seated nearby, half dreading the significance of the signal.

Shas’el T’au Lusha, his scarred brow creased, seemed just as lost to the dangers of introspection as Kais had been. Only at the sounding of a second chime did the commander blink and peer around the hold, his frown dissolving. Kais felt reassured by his calmness, as if serenity were somehow infectious.

“Five raik’ors, first group,” he grunted, glancing at a readout beside him. “Final checks.”

The troopers obediently began examining weapons and combat gear, tightening servo clasps on armour plates, double-checking ammunition loads and polishing the already spotless optic clusters glaring from their crested helmets.

Kais appreciated the thoroughness. The group had been combat-ready for three decs already: a tortuous period of troubled imaginings and expectations, the malignant seeds of self-doubt growing and gnawing at each trooper. For many this would be their first real combat mission, a baptism of uncertainty and violence. Any last-moment wargear maintenance was entirely redundant, but at least it occupied their minds. Kais applied himself to the task with gusto, glad of the distraction.

Directly opposite, Vhol clucked his tongue in unconscious frustration at some imagined imperfection in his rifle. Deriving from the distant sept of D’yanoi, the stocky trooper was a constant source of amusement amongst Kais’s comrades, forever scrutinising the minutiae of technology like some misplaced member of the earth caste. His homeworld had a reputation for rusticity and the squad rarely let him forget it, nicknaming him “Fio’shas” — the worker-warrior.