Way Of The Clans

He figured two bursts from his right-arm pulse laser should be the fusillade that earned him qualification as a MechWarrior, and he lined up the Hellbringerin his sights.

Keeping track of his proper trio of opponents, Aidan had not seen the fourth 'Mech that came toward him, ru

His hoped-for finishing shots at the Hellbringerwent wide as the intruding 'Mech made a direct hit against the cockpit of Aidan's Summoner.He could feel the heat of fire rushing at him as the computer a

He flew high into the air as the cockpit area of his Summonerexploded behind him. His consciousness left him just as he realized that he had been beaten by Marthe. She had not only shot him down in the Trial a moment before he would have qualified, she had obtained her own second Trial victory, earning her the right to enter the Jade Falcon Clan as a Star Commander, the very rank for which he had been aiming. Now there would be no rank for him, no chance to become a MechWarrior. Marthe had destroyed those chances for him. Marthe, to whom he had been devoted from the earliest days of the sibko. Marthe, who had once thought she might love him. How could she have double-crossed him just as he was about to qualify? Was this the true way of the Clan? It was with these last thoughts that Aidan hit the ground in his ejection seat, immediately passing out from the excruciating pain in his left arm.

22

I saw my chance and I took it," was Marthe's succinct explanation as she stood by his hospital bed, casually holding her brand new Star Commander's field cap in one hand. Aidan wondered if the cap was meant as a further insult as he gingerly touched his legacy from the battle, a broken left arm.

"But the sibko, Marthe, what about the sibko?"

"What about it? There is no sibko any longer. We outgrow the sibko. That is the way."

"We were once so close."

"As children. We are not ..."

"I know, I know. We are not children now."

"Do not be bitter."

"What do you expect me to be? I neededto be a warrior. "

"Need is not a good warrior trait, I suspect. We are trained, we succeed or fail, we find our place in the Clan. Those who succeed at beingwarriors earn their Blood-names and find their place in the gene pool. That is all that happens, or should happen. You nearly succeeded in becoming a warrior. So few get even that far. Now you are assigned to the technician caste. You will be a good Tech. The Clan has found the proper place for you, and you accept that, quiaff?"

He wanted to deny it, but he said, "Aff."

She turned to go.

"Marthe?"

"Yes?"

"You had already made your first kill, and you had a fine chance at a second among the opponents selected for you."

"I remind you that one of them did defeat me finally, stopping me from achieving a third triumph."

"All right. But you might have won, without turning on me, without—"

"Do not say more. I did what was proper. The rules provide that, in a melee, any 'Mech on the field is a fair target in a Trial. You were a fair target."

"But what of all the time we spent together, all the feelings, all the—"

"Do not talk to me of feelings. Such things are illusions for which we have no time—"

"But once you said perhaps you loved me."

"A child's game. It was only the foolish stories Gly

He could not mistake the sarcasm in her last statement. Not only did she place herself above him, but in terms of Clan castes, she now occupied a higher social position. He would never persuade her of the unfairness of her tactic—nor, deep down, did he actually believe it was unfair. It was unfortunate, yes, and he was bitter about it, but he could not call it unfair. No matter that he had formed an excellent strategy. He had not been able to achieve it because, like a failed commander in a battle, he had not anticipated something in the forces aligned against him.

"It makes no sense for us to talk together any further," Marthe said. "I came, obeying the customs of politeness. Defeated and hospitalized enemies must be visited once. So I have done. If we meet again, it will be as members of different castes, and caste rules will apply. Goodbye."

"Wait."

She turned wearily. "Another question?"

"One more."

She spoke like a queen bestowing a favor. Her tone made him feel helpless, inferior. This must be what it was like, he thought, to realize for the first time, the caste difference.

"Do you know," he said, "that had I been in your position, seeing you vulnerable in the melee, I would never have attacked you?" She sighed.

"I thought you might say that. And I admit having given the matter some thought. Aidan, I know you would not have . . . not have attacked me in such a circumstance. But perhaps that shows the essential difference between us, the one that made me a MechWarrior and you a Tech. I took the opportunity that you would have refused. Perhaps you were not destined to be a warrior."

"Marthe, you have become so—"

"I have not become anything. I am a warrior, and that is everything. You have had your question. Now I must leave."

He let her go. What more could he say to her? All he could do was lie in bed, refighting the Trial over and over in his head, wondering if he—had he seen Marthe coming—would have shot her down in self-defense. He was not sure he could have, although in his thoughts he killed her over and over.

Was she right? he wondered. Was it destined that he not succeed in the Trial to become a Mechwarrior? Yet he had come so close. If Marthe had not intervened, he would have defeated the Hellbringer,he knew it! He could probably also have taken out the already-wounded Warhawk.Even if the Dire Wolf hadlumbered into the battle, he would have had a chance at it, too. Well, that was perhaps getting too carried away. The one victory was certain, the others he could fight in his mind for the rest of his life laboring away as a Tech.

Aidan shuddered at the thought. He had never even considered being assigned to a subcaste. Marthe might have been able to accept whatever came, but Aidan was not so comfortable with that attitude. He had to accept it, yes. It was, after all, the way of the Clan. But he did not have to like it. He did not.

As he eased into sleep, a new thought came to him: Did he have to accept it? It was the way of the Clan, yes, to fulfill the proper role. But people walked away, did they not? If he could get help, or learn schedules, or something,he could hitch a ride on some ship going away from Ironhold, pursue life in some other place, find new uses for whatever skills he proved he did have. Clan society held wanderers in almost as much contempt as bandits, but what had he to lose anymore? So far, he had known only the sibko and then the life of a cadet. Perhaps there was another life out there for him among other parts of the Clan, among other Clan worlds.

Did he think these thoughts or were they just figments on the threshold between waking and sleep? As Aidan drifted off, the questions dissolved into dreams where he fought mighty battles—sometimes in BattleMechs, sometimes on his own, sometimes in bizarre vehicles or on fantasy animals. He kept wi