Chapter 4 - Against the Innersphere -
- Echos of Failure -[]
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Tranquil, Kerensky Cluster
Clan Space
The scent of antiseptic filled Liliana's nostrils as her eyes fluttered open, the hum of medical equipment and the steady beep of monitors gradually pulling her back to consciousness. Her body felt heavy, the weight of exhaustion and lingering pain from the battle still pressing down on her. Memories flooded back-the Dark Caste ambush, Krysta's Warhawk crumpling under fire, and the cold, unrelenting rage that had gripped her as she tore through the enemy ranks.
She tried to sit up, but restraints held her down. Panic flared for a brief moment-she was confined, trapped. The sharp wail of the monitors responded to her struggle, and a med tech hurried over, activating the comm-link on his wrist.
"She is awake," he announced, his voice detached and professional. "Inform the Kit Master."
Liliana's eyes roamed the med bay, taking in the sterile white walls and the familiar rows of medical stations. It was the same as it had been during her training days. But it felt wrong, like a ghostly echo of a life she had moved beyond. She was a Star Captain, not a kit-she had earned her bloodname in combat, and yet here she was, once again waking up in the med bay of her youth.
The hiss of the door opening drew her attention, and her heart clenched as she saw the imposing figure that entered. Kit Master Kürst, his broad frame and severe expression unchanged. His pale, steely eyes, so reminiscent of the coldness of a predator, locked onto her with an intensity that spoke of both curiosity and scrutiny. Those eyes had overseen the rise and fall of hundreds of kits, and now they were fixed on her.
"Kits Fürst," he said, his voice low and measured. "It appears you still draw breath." With a wave, he dismissed the med tech, who swiftly exited, leaving them alone.
Liliana's breath caught in her throat. She had not seen Kit Master Kürst since before she earned her bloodname-before she faced Krysta in the Circle of Equals. The duel had been brutal, and she had emerged victorious, finally claiming the right to bear the Fürst name. To see Kürst now, here, felt like a step backward, like she had been pulled back into a nightmare she thought she had escaped.
"Kit Master," she replied, her voice hoarse, raw from the battle and the unspoken emotions boiling within her.
"You exceeded expectations," Kürst continued, his expression impassive. "Your combat report is… interesting."
"Interesting, quiaff?" Liliana responded, trying to keep her tone neutral as she tested the weight of his words.
Kürst's lips twitched slightly, though not in a smile. "Aff. The technicians reported a complete failure of your Timber Wolf's targeting systems. Such a malfunction should have rendered you ineffective, an easy target for the Dark Caste. And yet, their warriors could not land a single shot. You moved through them as if you anticipated every strike, as if you had fought them a hundred times before. You fought not as a kit, but as a veteran-a warrior who has earned her bloodname."
The words hung in the air, and Liliana felt her chest tighten. She forced her breathing to remain steady, her mind racing. "I do not understand, Kit Master."
Kürst's gaze sharpened, and he stepped closer, his presence imposing. "Neg. You do not." His eyes bore into her, scrutinizing her every reaction. "I have fought hundreds of battles, Kits Fürst. I know the difference between instinct and experience. What I saw in your performance was not the work of a mere kit."
Her blood ran cold. The rage she had felt, the precision with which she had moved, and the way she had torn through the Dark Caste warriors-it had not felt like instinct. It had felt like the memory of a thousand battles, each movement precise, calculated. She had fought like that before, as a Star Captain, during the fall of Huntress.
Kürst's eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering in their depths. "You fought with skill and ferocity far beyond your years, beyond your training. Even the technicians cannot explain the failure. They call it an anomaly." He paused, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But I am not so easily misled."
Liliana knew the gravity of his words. Among the Smoke Jaguars, there were no coincidences, no unchallenged anomalies. Everything was a test, a measure of strength or weakness. And anything that deviated from the norm was scrutinized, often eradicated. She was walking a fine line-one that could end with her being labeled a threat.
"I fought as I have been trained, Kit Master," she replied, forcing her voice to remain steady. "I fought as a Smoke Jaguar."
Kürst studied her, his eyes cold and calculating. "Perhaps. But if that is the case, you have surpassed your training in ways that are… curious." He straightened, his expression a mask of neutrality. "This performance will not go unnoticed. The next Trial you face will be more severe. You will have to prove that this was no fluke."
Liliana felt a chill run down her spine. She had been given a reprieve, but it was clear that she was now under scrutiny. The Smoke Jaguars respected strength, but they feared anything that defied explanation. If she continued to perform beyond the expected limits, the Clan might decide she was a liability and liabilities were purged.
"I understand, Kit Master," she said, keeping her tone neutral, masking the turmoil beneath her calm exterior. She knew that any hint of defiance, any perceived instability, would be her undoing.
Kürst's eyes flickered with something like satisfaction-a confirmation of his suspicions, perhaps. "Good. You understand the stakes. Strength is the only path to survival. We are Smoke Jaguars, the apex predators. We are the heirs of Kerensky's legacy. Show weakness, and you will be discarded."
"Aff," Liliana whispered. "I will not fail."
Kürst turned to leave, but paused at the door, his back to her. "One last thing, Kits Fürst." He glanced back, his eyes piercing. "The way you fought-there was no honor in it. You fought like a beast, like a predator without restraint. Fury has its uses, but it must be controlled. A true warrior wields rage as a weapon, not as a crutch."
His words lingered, sharp and unyielding, and then he was gone, the door hissing shut behind him. Liliana lay back against the bed, the weight of her situation pressing down on her. She had survived the ambush and her outburst, but she knew the trials were far from over. The Smoke Jaguars would test her again, push her beyond her limits, and if she showed any sign of instability, they would not hesitate to eliminate her.
She stared up at the ceiling, the sterile white tiles contrasting with the blood-soaked memories of Huntress and the betrayal she had witnessed there. She had seen her Clan burn, its warriors reduced to ashes, and now she was back-thrust into the past, forced to relive the trials that had shaped her into the warrior she had become.
But this time, she swore to herself, she would not let history repeat itself. She would rise. She would endure. And when the time came, she would shape the Smoke Jaguars in her image-with or without the approval of those who watched her so closely.
"Strength above all," she whispered, her eyes hardening. But as she lay there, the silence of the med bay was deafening. Liliana lay there, staring up at the stark white ceiling. The sterile lights above cast cold shadows across her face, and the constant hum of machinery filled the air, blending with the rhythmic beeping of her heart monitor. She felt the heaviness of the moment seep into her bones, weighing her down. She had always been a fighter, a survivor, but here, beneath the cold gaze of the lights, she felt the truth gnawing at her-she was utterly alone.
Her fingers curled into the fabric of the sheets beneath her, clenching until her knuckles whitened. The memories of the ambush played over and over again in her mind, each moment replaying in brutal clarity. Krysta's Warhawk collapsing under the barrage, Erich's Mad Dog exploding in a fiery plume, Sorina's desperate screams as her Hunchback IIC crumpled under fire-these were not just comrades, they had been her sibkin, the closest thing she had to family.
And she had failed them. Again.
The realization was like a weight in her chest, pressing down, making it hard to breathe. She had been given this second chance, this inexplicable return to her younger body, but it felt like a curse. She was forced to witness their deaths all over again, powerless to change the outcome. What good was her knowledge, her experience, if she could not protect the ones who mattered most?
The soft murmur of voices from outside the med bay filtered through the walls. She caught snippets of conversation-med techs discussing her condition, warriors passing by, their voices detached and indifferent. They had no idea of the storm raging inside her, the torment that consumed her.
She had faced the fall of Huntress, watched Lootera burn, her Clan shattered and hunted like animals by the Spheroids. She had felt the rage, the helplessness of being unable to save the Smoke Jaguars from their demise. And now, she had been thrust back to a time when she should have been able to make a difference-to save her star, her friends-but she was still helpless. No amount of knowledge or skill could change the course of events that seemed doomed to repeat themselves.
Liliana's gaze drifted to the restraints that still held her down. A bitter smile twisted her lips. She was a prisoner-of the med bay, of her own memories, of a timeline she could not escape. The beeping of the monitor was like a metronome, marking each second that passed, each moment she lay there, alone and powerless.
The thought of Krysta lingered in her mind, a wound that refused to heal. Krysta, her rival, her equal, the one she had defeated to earn her bloodname. In the moment of victory, she had felt a rush of triumph, a sense of destiny fulfilled. But it had been hollow. Krysta's death was a shadow that haunted her, a reminder that even when she succeeded, there was a cost. It was the same feeling she had felt on Huntress-victories that tasted like ashes.
Liliana closed her eyes, the images of her star's final moments searing into the darkness behind her eyelids. She could hear their voices, each one a ghost whispering from the past. They were her family, the only family she had ever known, and she had led them into death. The darkness welcomed her, pulling her deeper into the memories she wished she could forget.
The med bay was cold, but it was nothing compared to the chill that gripped her soul. She had been bred to be a Smoke Jaguar, forged to be a warrior without hesitation or remorse. But here, in this sterile, empty room, she felt none of the strength that should have defined her. All she felt was the ache of loss, the emptiness that came from knowing she was alone-truly, utterly alone.
Her Clan was gone. Her star was gone. And even if she survived the trials that awaited her, even if she continued to rise through the ranks, what was the point? She would only be climbing a ladder built on the graves of those she had loved, a structure that would ultimately lead to the same ruin she had witnessed as a Star Captain. The Smoke Jaguars were a dying breed, their legacy reduced to ashes, and no amount of skill or fury could change that.
Tears burned at the corners of her eyes, and she fought to keep them from falling. Smoke Jaguars did not cry; they did not show weakness. But here, in the silence of the med bay, there was no one to witness her failure, no one to see the cracks in her armor. She felt the hot sting of tears slide down her cheeks, and for a moment, she let them fall.
"What am I fighting for?" she whispered to the emptiness, her voice barely audible above the hum of the machinery.
There was no answer. There never would be. The med bay, with its cold, clinical sterility, offered no comfort. It was a place of healing, but it could not heal the wound in her heart, the void left by the loss of everything she had ever known. She was a warrior displaced, fighting a battle she could not win.
And yet, somewhere deep inside, a small voice whispered, You are a Smoke Jaguar. The words were meant to be a comfort, a reminder of her strength, her purpose. But they felt hollow now, a mantra that could not fill the emptiness.
Liliana turned her head, staring at the door where Kit Master Kürst had stood. His eyes had been cold, calculating, as they always were. He had seen potential in her, potential that terrified her. She knew what that potential would mean-more battles, more tests, more death. And for what? To earn the approval of a Clan that no longer had a future?
The tears stopped, and the cold settled in again. She felt numb, the weight of everything pressing down like a shroud. She was not afraid of death; she had faced it on Huntress, had stared it down in the cockpit of her Dire Wolf. But this-this endless cycle of loss and repetition-was worse than any battlefield. It was a prison, one that offered no escape, no redemption.
Her eyes drifted shut, and she felt the darkness close in, offering a brief reprieve from the torment. She let herself sink into it, the only solace she had left. Maybe, for a little while, she could pretend that she was somewhere else-somewhere where her star was still alive, where Krysta was still her rival, and where the Smoke Jaguars still stood strong.
But she knew, deep down, that even in her dreams, the truth would haunt her. The past was a cage she could never escape. And as she slipped into unconsciousness, a single, bitter thought echoed in her mind:
Smoke Jaguars do not die quietly. But they die all the same.
The darkness was a temporary solace, but it did not last. Liliana drifted in and out of consciousness, her mind caught between the cold clarity of her memories and the numbing void of sleep. It was the beep of the monitors and the soft shuffle of footsteps that finally drew her back to the surface.
She blinked, her vision hazy, but she could make out the figure of a med tech moving about the room, adjusting the machinery and checking her vitals. The technician was a middle-aged man, his face lined with the signs of years spent in service to a Clan that saw him as little more than a tool-a necessary part of the war machine but nothing beyond that. His eyes, though weary, held a warmth she had not seen in the eyes of her fellow warriors.
Liliana stared at him, feeling the weight of her status as a warrior. As a Star Captain, even in the body of a kit, she was a predator-a hunter bred and trained for war. To those beneath her, she was both a figure to be feared and respected, but also a reminder of the oppressive hierarchy that defined their existence. Smoke Jaguars did not regard those of the lower castes as equals. They were tools, servants, meant to serve the will of their warrior masters. And yet, as the med tech went about his work, there was no fear in his eyes, only something that seemed almost like pity.
He glanced up and caught her gaze, offering a tentative smile. "Ah, you are awake again. That is good. Your vitals have stabilized." His voice was calm, gentle-so different from the harsh, clipped tones she was used to.
Liliana's instinct was to snap back, to remind him of his place. But the exhaustion, the weight of everything that had happened, left her feeling drained, hollow. She watched as he continued his work, his hands moving deftly over the equipment.
"Why do you care?" she asked, her voice rough, almost a whisper. "You are not a warrior. This is not your concern."
The med tech paused, his eyes meeting hers with a calmness that disarmed her. "No, I am not a warrior. I am just a med tech. But that does not mean I do not care." He tilted his head, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "It is my duty to tend to the injured, to make sure warriors like you can fight another day. Whether I am a warrior or not does not change that."
Liliana frowned, feeling a mixture of confusion and resentment. "You speak as if it is noble work. But you are just following orders, quiaff?"
"Aff," he agreed, but there was a sad smile on his lips. "But we all follow orders, do we not? Warriors follow the orders of their superiors, and we, the technicians, follow the orders given to us. The difference is, our orders do not lead us to glory. They lead us to days and nights of hard labor, repairing machines and tending wounds, knowing that tomorrow, those same warriors might be back here-or not come back at all."
She studied him, the weariness etched into his features, the way his hands moved with practiced efficiency. This was not the face of someone seeking glory or honor. It was the face of someone who had seen too much, who had accepted his place in a system that used him and gave nothing in return. And yet, there was no bitterness in his voice, only a quiet acceptance.
"I do not understand," she said, her tone sharper than she intended. "What do you gain from this? You are nothing to the Clan-just a tool, a servant."
The med tech sighed, his eyes distant as he adjusted one of the monitors. "Perhaps. To the Clan, I am nothing. But that does not mean I see myself that way. I am not blind to the ways of the Smoke Jaguars. I know what warriors think of those of us in the lower castes." His eyes flicked back to hers, and she felt a shiver at the depth she saw there. "But we, too, have our own pride. We are the ones who make sure your machines run, who patch you up when you fall, who build the infrastructure that allows the Clan to exist. Without us, there would be no war machines, no warriors. It is a different kind of strength."
Liliana felt a pang of something she could not name-shame, perhaps, or guilt. She had always been taught that the laborer, technician, and merchant castes were beneath her, that they were inferior by design. But looking at the med tech now, she saw something else. He was a part of the Clan, just as she was. His strength lay in endurance, in the quiet determination to keep going, even when there was no glory in it.
"You… seem content with your place," she said, feeling the words stick in her throat. "How can you accept such a life, knowing that the warriors will always look down on you?"
The med tech's smile was sad but sincere. "We accept it because we must. Because if we do not, everything collapses. The Clan needs warriors, but it also needs us. We are all parts of the machine, even if our roles are different. Some of us-" he hesitated, his eyes distant for a moment before he continued, "-some of us have seen enough of war to know that there is no glory in it. There is only loss."
Liliana's chest tightened, the weight of his words pressing down like a shroud. "Loss," she echoed, her voice barely more than a whisper.
"Aff," the med tech said, his gaze softening. "I have seen warriors return broken, their bodies shattered. I have seen others who do not return at all, leaving only the memory of who they were. You warriors chase glory and honor, but we see the cost. We see the blood and the pain and the emptiness that remains when the battles are over."
He paused, and she could see the sadness in his eyes, the resignation of someone who had borne witness to too much suffering. "I have patched up warriors who were no older than you, Kits Fürst. I have seen them leave the med bay with fire in their eyes, ready to prove themselves again. And sometimes, they come back. But more often, they do not."
Liliana felt a lump form in her throat. "Why do you do it, then?" she asked, her voice trembling with an emotion she could not contain. "Why bother helping us if it is all for nothing?"
The med tech met her gaze, and there was a quiet strength there, a resolve that reminded her of the warriors she had fought beside. "Because it is not for nothing. Even if the Clan sees us as tools, we still have a duty-to the Clan, to the warriors, and to each other. If I can save one life, give one warrior the chance to rise again, then perhaps it is enough. It is my way of finding honor, even if the Clan does not recognize it."
Liliana was silent, her mind a storm of conflicting thoughts. She had always believed that the only path to honor was through strength, through battle, through victory. But this man-this med tech who would never see the inside of a cockpit, who would never know the rush of combat-showed her another side. The laborers, the technicians, the merchants-they did not fight for glory. They fought to survive, to support, to keep the Clan moving forward, even when it marched toward its own destruction.
"Thank you," she whispered, the words foreign on her tongue. "For… for your duty."
The med tech offered her a small, genuine smile. "It is my honor, Kits Fürst." He finished his work, the machines settling into a steady rhythm. "Rest. Your body needs time to heal. And when you are ready, you will rise again. That is the way of the Smoke Jaguars."
As he left, Liliana lay back, staring up at the ceiling. The silence of the med bay felt different now-heavier, and yet somehow warmer. The man's words echoed in her mind, mingling with the ghosts of her past and the doubts that gnawed at her heart. She had always believed that strength was the only way, that the warriors were the only ones who truly mattered.
But perhaps… perhaps there was more to strength than she had realized.