The Battle of Corrin

We are trained to fight with swords, with strength, and with blood. But when the thinking machines send an invisible enemy against us, how are we to defend ourselves or the rest of humanity?
— SWORDMASTER ISTIAN GOSS
When Istian Goss and Nar Trig arrived on Ix after the plague, there were no machines to fight, and almost two-thirds of the human population was dead. Fields and storehouses of food had burned in uncontrolled riots; cholera had gotten into the water supply; cascading storms had destroyed homes, leaving the already weakened survivors with no shelter. Many of those who had recovered could barely walk, crippled by the aftereffects.

The human race was hamstrung, fighting for its very survival, and had little energy or resources left for making inroads against the real enemy.

In the months since leaving Honru, the two new swordmasters had engaged combat robots twice in minor space battles. With the Army of the Jihad, they had surrounded and boarded two giant Omnius battleships, which they then seized and converted for human use. But the Scourge had killed so many soldiers and forced the cancellation of so many planned military strikes, that the pair of mercenaries spent most of their time in rescue and recovery operations.

Fortunately, the engineered retrovirus burned through its victims swiftly and then died out. Now, a month after the last reported case of sickness on Ix, Istian and Trig could help without undue risk of becoming infected themselves. Neither of them had any melange left.

In the early days, Ixian crews had used heavy digging equipment to deposit the numerous bodies in empty cave shafts, then sealed the openings with explosives. Recently, though, Martyrist fanatics had risen up, objecting to even the powerful excavating apparatus, targeting the heavy machinery as painful reminders of the destruction that thinking machines could cause.

When Istian commented that the Martyrists were unreasonable and shortsighted, Trig merely fixed him with a stony stare. The underlying strength of the Jihad had always been emotional, a motivating force that drove humanity forward. Passion pervaded the minds of military commanders and compromised the careful battle plans they tried to establish. “Their beliefs outweigh their need for convenience,” Trig said. “They are strong in their own way.”

“These people are a mob, and they are angry.” Istian propped his hands on his hips and turned his bronzed face to the sky. The air was filled with smears of smoke from the fires the Ixians had lit to purge plague-tainted shelters and destroy leftover machine wreckage. “There will be no controlling them. Maybe it’s better that we let them unleash their fury so that, like the Scourge, it burns out of its own accord.”

Trig shook his head in sad frustration. “I can comprehend the need of these people, but this is not something for which any swordmaster is trained. We are not babysitters….”

Later that day they came upon a group of glassy-eyed Martyrists who carried an array of confiscated pulse-swords and hand weapons, many of which looked battered and in poor repair. Other weapons didn’t seem to function at all, but the people grasped them as if they had found treasures.

“Where did you come by those weapons?” Istian said. “Those are designed for swordmasters who have been trained extensively on Ginaz.”

“We are swordmasters like you,” said the leader of the group. “We found these weapons among our dead. The hand of Saint Serena guided us to them.”

“But where did they come from?” Istian asked, skirting the religious question. Apparently, they were willing to make exceptions in using technology so long as they could turn it against thinking machines.

“Many mercenaries have died here over the years,” Trig pointed out. “From the first conquest of Ix when Jool Noret destroyed the Omnius, to the second defense when Quentin Butler drove back the thinking machines, and now from the Scourge. Plenty of mercenary equipment must have remained here unclaimed.”

“We have claimed it,” the leader said, “and we are swordmasters ourselves.”

Istian frowned, not wanting to see the proud name of his brethren cheapened by these pretenders. “Who taught you to become swordmasters, according to the high standards of Ginaz? Who was your sensei?”

The man scowled, giving Istian a haughty look. “We were not trained by a domesticated thinking machine, if that is what you’re asking. We follow our own guidance and vision to destroy machines as well as you can!”

Trig surprised Istian by taking the ragtag group seriously. “We do not question your determination.”

“Simply your finesse,” Istian added, in a sharp tone. These people would wield sophisticated pulse-swords as little better than bludgeons or gardening implements.

“The Three Martyrs inspire us and guide us,” growled the leader. “We know where we must go. There are no longer any demon machines on Ix, but with our ship we will go directly to Corrin to fight Omnius Prime and his evil robot minions.”

“Impossible! Corrin is the central stronghold of the thinking machines. You’ll be slaughtered outright, to no purpose.” Istian was reminded of what had happened following the first robotic attack on Peridot Colony, Trig’s family home. A group of impetuous jihadi soldiers had disobeyed orders and struck out on their own to attack Corrin. All had been killed by robot defenses.

“You are welcome to come along if you wish,” said the leader, startling Istian.

Before he could laugh in disbelief, he noticed a hard set to his comrade’s face. “Don’t even consider it, Nar.”

“A true swordmaster should always consider an opportunity to fight the real enemy.”

“You’ll be killed for sure,” Istian said.

Trig appeared angry with him. “We all know we are going to die. I have been prepared for that since I trained on Ginaz— as have you. If you carry the spirit of Jool Noret within you, why should you fear a dangerous situation?”

“It’s not just dangerous, Nar— it’s suicide. But even that is not what makes me speak against it, but the sheer pointlessness. Yes, you may kill a handful of combat robots before they strike you down, but what good will that do? You will make no progress for the cause of humanity, and Omnius will simply rebuild his machines. Within a week it’ll be as if you had never gone to Corrin.”

“It will be a blow struck for the Jihad,” Trig insisted. “Better than standing here watching survivors wallow in misery and squalor. I can’t help them here, but I can do something by fighting against Omnius.”

Istian shook his head. The leader of the Martyrists seemed as stonily determined and fervent as before. “We will be happy to take one swordmaster with us, if not both. We have a spaceship. Many ships were left here when Ix was quarantined and the qualified pilots died. We were interdicted from flying to uncontaminated League Worlds, but that is not relevant now.”

Istian could not stop himself from challenging them. “So you want to destroy all machines, except for pulse-swords and spaceships, because you find them useful? Your plans are just folly— “

“Are you afraid to join me, Istian?” Trig’s voice had a disappointed edge.

“Not afraid, but I am too sensible to do it.” With the spirit of Jool Noret came not only fighting skills and indomitable bravery, but also wisdom. “This is not my calling.”

“It is mine,” Trig insisted, “and if I am killed fighting the demon machines, then my spirit will grow stronger and be reborn in the next generation of Ginaz fighters. We may not agree with these people, Istian, but they see a truth and a way that you’re unwilling to recognize.”

Saddened, Istian could only nod. “The mercenaries of Ginaz work independently. We have always done so, and it is not for me to say what you must or must not do.” Looking at the ragtag group of zealots clutching their collection of salvaged weapons, he suggested flippantly, “Perhaps on the journey to Corrin, you can teach them how to use those.”

“I intend to do so.” Trig reached out to clasp his friend’s hand. “If Saint Serena wills it, we will meet again.”

“If Saint Serena wills it.” But in his heart Istian knew that it was a weak hope. “Fight well, and may your enemies fall swiftly.” After an awkward moment, he gave his longtime friend a brisk, brief hug, knowing he might never see Nar Trig again.

As his comrade marched off, head held high, leading the group of self-taught fighters, Istian called after him one last time. “Wait, I have a question for you!” Trig turned and looked at him as if he were a stranger. “I never asked before— what was the name on the coral disk you drew from the basket on Ginaz? Whose spirit moves within you?”

Trig hesitated as if he hadn’t thought of the question for a long time, then he reached to a pouch at his belt and withdrew the disk. He turned it so that Istian could see its polished surface— completely blank, without any name at all. Like flicking a coin, he tossed the disk to Istian, who caught it in his palm.

“I have no guiding spirit,” Trig said. “I am a new swordmaster. I make my own decisions and my own name.”






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