The universe constantly challenges us with more opponents than we can handle. Why then must we always strive to create enemies of our own?
— SWORDMASTER ISTIAN GOSS
Though a horrific tsunami had killed most of the population and scoured the archipelago of all vegetation, after nearly six decades thick new jungles covered the islands of Ginaz. Gradually the people returned, eager mercenary trainees who wanted to learn the swordmaster skills developed by the legendary Jool Noret.
Ginaz had always been a breeding ground for the Jihad’s mercenaries, great warriors who fought thinking machines on their own terms, with their own techniques, rather than adhering to the regimented bureaucracy of the Army of the Jihad. Ginaz mercenaries had a high casualty rate— and a disproportionately high number of heroes.
Istian Goss had been born on the archipelago, a member of the third generation of survivors of the catastrophic tidal waves, brave souls who struggled to repopulate their world. The young man intended to spend his life fighting to free enslaved humans from the evil machines; it was what he had been born to do. As long as he could father several children before he lost his life in the Jihad, Istian would die content.
Chirox, the multi-armed combat mek, strode forward on the beach, his supple metal body erect. He turned his glittering optic threads toward the current batch of trainees. “You have all finished your curriculum of programmed instruction.” The mek’s voice was flat and unsophisticated, unlike the more advanced thinking machine models. He had never been designed with more than a rudimentary personality and communications capabilities.
“All of you have proved adequate against my advanced fighting methods. You are suitable opponents for true thinking machines. Like Jool Noret.” Chirox gestured with one of his weapons arms toward a small rise on the island where rough lava rocks had been built into a shrine that held a crystalplaz-encased coffin. Sealed within lay the battered but restored body of Noret, unwitting founder of the new swordmaster school of fighting.
All of the trainees turned to look. Istian took a reverent step closer to the shrine, accompanied by his friend and sparring partner Nar Trig. With wonderment in his voice, Istian said, “Don’t you wish we had lived decades ago, so we could have trained under Noret himself?”
“Instead of this damned machine?” Trig growled. “Yes, that would have been nice, but I am glad to be living now, when we are much closer to defeating our enemy… in all of his incarnations.”
Trig was a descendant of human settlers who had fled Peridot Colony when it was overrun by thinking machines eighty years ago. His parents were among the hardy settlers now attempting to rebuild the colony, but Trig himself had found no place there. He felt a deep and abiding hatred for thinking machines, and he had given his time and energy to learning how to fight them.
Unlike Istian, who had golden skin and rich coppery hair, Trig was squat and swarthy, with dark hair, broad shoulders, and powerful muscles. He and Istian were equally matched as sparring partners, using pulse-swords designed to scramble the gelcircuitry brains of combat robots. When Trig dueled with the sensei mek, his anger and passion grew inflamed and he fought with a berserk abandon that made him score higher than any other student in their group.
Even Chirox had commended him after one particularly vigorous sparring session. “You alone, Nar Trig, have discovered Jool Noret’s technique of surrendering entirely to the flow of combat, erasing all concern for your safety or survival. This is the key.”
Trig had not been proud to hear the remark. Though Chirox had been reprogrammed and now fought on the side of humanity, the young man still resented robots in all their forms. Istian would be glad when he and Trig left Ginaz, so that the other man could turn his ambition and fury against a real enemy instead of this surrogate opponent….
Chirox continued to address the group of young and determined fighters. “Each of you has proven by fighting me that you are worthy and prepared to battle thinking machines. Therefore I anoint you as warriors of the Holy Jihad.”
The combat mek retracted its weapons appendages, leaving only two manipulating arms on the top so that he looked more humanoid. “Before dispatching you for service in the Jihad, we will follow the traditions of Ginaz and complete a ceremony established long before the time of Jool Noret.”
“The mek doesn’t understand what it’s doing,” Trig muttered. “Thinking machines can’t grasp mysticism and religion.”
Istian nodded. “But it is good that Chirox honors what we believe.”
“It’s simply following a program, reciting words it has heard humans speak.” Nevertheless, Trig stepped forward with all the other trainees as Chirox marched through the soft limestone sand to three large baskets filled with etched circular chits made of coral, like a treasure hoard of coins. Each small disk was either blank or inscribed with the name of a fallen warrior from Ginaz. Over many centuries of fighting Omnius, the mercenaries believed that the holy mission was strong enough to keep their fighting spirits alive in a literal sense. Each time one of them was killed in combat against the robots, his spirit was reborn in another potential fighter.
These trainees, Istian Goss and Nar Trig included, supposedly carried within them the dormant soul of another fighter waiting to be reawakened to continue the combat until final victory was achieved; only then could the ghosts of those dedicated warriors rest in peace. The baskets of engraved chits had grown more and more full as casualties piled up over the long course of Serena Butler’s Jihad, but the numbers of volunteer trainees also increased, and each year new candidates accepted those fighting spirits so that the drive of humanity grew more powerful with each generation, becoming as relentless as a machine itself.
“Each of you will now select a disk,” Chirox said. “Fate will guide your hand to reveal the identity of the spirit that lives within you.”
The students edged forward, all of them anxious, none of them wanting to be first. Seeing the hesitation of his comrades, Trig glanced expressionlessly at the combat mek, then bent over the nearest basket. He closed his eyes and plunged his hand in, rummaging among the small disks, finally grabbing one at random. He pulled it out, looked at the face of the disk, and nodded noncommittally.
No one expected to recognize the names, for while there were many legendary figures among the mercenaries, many more had died leaving only their names. Buried in vaults on Ginaz were records of all the fallen fighters. Any new mercenary was welcome to dig through that enormous database to discover what was known about the spirit inside of him.
As Trig stepped away, Chirox commanded the next trainee to make his selection, and the next. When finally Istian stepped forward, one of the last, he hesitated while curiosity and reluctance trembled through him. He did not even know the identity of his parents. Many Ginaz children were raised in crèches, communal training groups with the sole focus of developing fighters that would earn honor for Ginaz. Now at last he would learn the name of the intangible presence that lurked within his DNA, the spirit that guided his life, his fighting skills, and his destiny.
He reached deep into the second basket, moving his fingers, trying to determine which disk called out to him. He looked up at Trig and then over at the expressionless metal face of Chirox, knowing he had to pick the correct one. Finally one smooth surface felt colder than the others, a sensation of connecting with the whorl patterns on his fingertips. He pulled out the disk.
The other unclaimed chits fell back into the basket with a clatter, and he looked down for the answer— and he almost dropped the disk in disbelief. He blinked. His throat went dry. This couldn’t be! He had always felt proud of his abilities, sensed the greatness within him, as all trainees claimed to feel. But while Istian Goss was talented, he was not superhuman. He could not live up to an expectation like this.
Another trainee bent over to look, seeing Istian’s stupefied reaction. “Jool Noret! He’s drawn Jool Noret!”
Beneath the discord of gasps, Istian muttered, “This can’t be right. I must have drawn the wrong one. Such a spirit is… much too powerful for me.”
But Chirox swiveled his metallic torso, his optic threads shining brightly. “I am pleased you have returned to us to continue the fight, Master Jool Noret. Now we are a great stride closer to victory against Omnius.”
“You and I will fight side by side,” Nar Trig said to his friend. “Perhaps we can even surpass the legend you must live up to.”
Istian swallowed hard. He had no choice but to follow the guidance of the heretofore silent presence within him.