by Glenn Smith
He made a run for it, dashed through the open doorway and jumped the stairs, but with his next step the Naku was on him again. He went sprawling face-down to the sidewalk and the full weight of the Naku came crashing down on top of him seconds later. “You will pay the price for your fool-hearted, cowardly attack!” the Naku proclaimed.
Dylan gasped for air as the enraged warrior grabbed him by his clothing, lifted him up off of the sidewalk, and literally threw him back into the abandoned building. He tried to jump quickly back to his feet, but his chest flared with burning pain and he froze on his hands and knees, just for a moment, to catch his breath. It was a moment he didn’t have. Before he could even begin to react to the Naku’s thunderous footsteps, the beast booted him square in the ribs. The force of the kick lifted him clean off the floor and flipped him onto his back.
“You didn’t just call me a coward to my face last night, Cortan!” Dylan reminded the hulking berserker through gritted teeth, hoping but at the same time doubting that it might make some kind of difference. “You yelled it out for everyone to hear! I couldn’t just let that pass, could I?” The Naku grabbed him up by the front of his jacket and pinned him against the wall. “I would’ve been the laughing stock of the colony.”
The Naku stepped in and put his face so close to Dylan’s that their noses nearly touched. “When I finish with you, you will yet be the laughing stock of the colony,” he quietly promised. “You just will not be alive to bear the shame.”
“Why, Cortan? Just because I broke your nose?”
“Because you attacked without issuing a challenge! You acted dishonorably, and shamed me with that same dishonor!”
“What the hell do you think you just did?”
He drove his knee into Cortan’s groin as hard as he could. The Naku grunted through clenched teeth and grimaced with the pain, but never lost his grip. He took a step back and pulled Dylan away from the wall, then slammed him back into it, knocking the wind out of him.
“You jumped me from behind, Cortan!” Dylan managed to complain through the pain in his ribs. “Without warning! And I don’t remember hearing you issuing any challenges last night before your attacks on those other guys, either!”
“My presence there is the challenge!” the warrior bellowed. “I strike first! That is the way the game is played!”
“Sounds like a coward’s game to me,” Dylan commented.
The Naku drew a hand back and belted Dylan across the mouth, then released him and let him drop to the floor. “You are the coward!” he exclaimed, standing over him.
“Not from where I stand,” Dylan told him as he started to get up.
“You will not be standing anywhere for much longer!”
Dylan got his feet underneath him and stood up, then suddenly slammed his knee up into his opponent’s groin once more as hard as he could, getting more of a reaction this time. Then he drove the heel of his hand into the Naku’s unguarded face, and the cracking of bone had never sounded so good. The howling Naku fell backwards to the floor with a resounding thud, hands clutching his tortured, bleeding nose.
Dylan made another run at the doorway, but the Naku caught his ankle and rolled, twisting it until Dylan had to either fall or let his ankle to be broken. He fell, and the Naku was on him yet again a second later.
“You should not have come here!” the warrior shouted as he again grabbed his inferior opponent. “The death you will suffer will be a long and painful one!” He threw Dylan across the room, bouncing him off of the opposite wall, but this time Dylan was able to land on his feet, though just barely. “I am going to enjoy this.”
“I thought you already were,” Dylan remarked.
The Naku grinned with anticipation as he pulled out his torbit, the vicious double-bladed dagger carried by all Naku warriors. “Make your jokes, Terran,” he said. “Die with them on your lips.” He added something in his native tongue that sounded like some kind of proverb, then held the dagger in front of him so that Dylan could get a good look at it. But just as he was about to pounce, a sound like someone thrusting a shovel into a pile of dry sand came from behind him. Cortan straightened with a sickening grunt, his eyes wide with shock and disbelief. He reached back behind him with his empty hand, collapsed to his knees, and fell forward to the floor, still clutching his dagger. The hilt of another one just like it stood protruding from the center of his lower back, surrounded by thick, oozing, bright magenta blood.
Dylan gazed at the large black handle in disbelief as he caught his breath, but only for a moment. Someone had obviously stuck it there, and that someone was still standing between him and the doorway, silhouetted by the artificially enhanced sunlight beyond. Dylan could easily tell even before the figure stepped to one side that he was another Naku warrior. The frightening outline was unmistakable.
This one was nearly a head taller than Cortan. Or, perhaps it was just the way he carried himself. Proudly, like a leader who commanded respect and was used to getting it. His skin was darker than Cortan’s, but his long, thick mane, while streaked with black in places, was mostly gray, as were his heavy whiskers.
He bent down and unceremoniously yanked the dagger from Cortan’s back, causing his muscles to spasm in response to tortured nerves. He wiped the bloody blade across his gauntlet, then slipped the weapon into its sheath on his belt. Then he crouched down, flipped the fallen warrior onto his back, and waited for him to die. When he finally did, his killer reached down and closed his eyelids.
“Aren’t you supposed to be cutting out his heart or something?” Dylan asked, referring to what he’d heard was a Naku warrior tradition.
The second warrior looked up at him, then stood. “What did you say?”
“That is what you do when a warrior dies, isn’t it?”
“The cutting out of the heart, as you call it, is for warriors who die with honor, not for this mat-maned snow beast.” He emphasized the insult by kicking the dead warrior in the head—an act that apparently signified the contempt in which he held the deceased. “I should remove his genitals and feed them to your Terran dogs!”
“Then I guess no one will cut your heart out when you finally kick the bucket, will they?” Dylan commented. And why not? He wasn’t going to leave this room alive anyway.
“Kick the bucket?” the warrior asked him. “What do you mean?”
“You snuck up from behind him and stabbed him in the back,” Dylan reminded him. “He didn’t even know you were there. Hell, I didn’t even know you were there. He just told me that to attack without issuing a challenge is the act of a dishonorable man.”
“Did you understand the Naku’ven phrase that he quoted to you?”
“You mean, ‘Tanez del...’” Dylan began, shaking his head.
“It was what you would call a... a proverb, I believe is the word... about the satisfaction of revenge. But he failed to remember that once the que’nah is sworn, then revenge must be gained in the zhin’tahg—a ceremonial battle between opponents equally armed. It is one of our people’s most ancient traditions, and to dishonor that tradition is to defecate on our heritage. Therefore, I have done what I was required to do and there is no dishonor in it.”
“What’s the kay...”
“The que’nah. The secret oath of vengeance, sworn upon the blood of one’s ancestors. Cortan swore such an oath against you for what you did to him.”
The oath of vengeance. The woman had mentioned that last night. “So you came here to finish honorably what he started dishonorably?”
“Were I here for that purpose, you would not be alive to speak to me now. No, I was selected only to oversee the zhin’tahg.” He pointed at the dead warrior. “But now, because of his dishonorable actions, I am free to warn you of his oath.”
“Warn me?” Dylan asked, not completely understanding. “But he’s dead. Why warn me now? For that matter, why warn me at all? What do you have to gain?”
“Once sworn, the que’nah is for the life of he against
whom it has been proclaimed, and it must always be honored, even when sworn by an outcast. When one who has sworn it is killed before the zhin’tahg takes place, then it falls to his chosen successor to pursue it and carry it out. But by his actions today, Cortan has again dishonored himself and has dishonored the que’nah-zhin’tahg as well. By tradition, his death should be the end of it. But, as our ambassador’s chief bodyguard, Cortan had many allies, and many of them owe him much.”
“Are you telling me they’re still going to repay those debts, even though he’s dead?”
“Those who value their honor above misguided loyalties will not. However...”
“However, those who don’t are still going to come after me,” Dylan concluded.
“I believe that likely to be so. Cortan has brought dishonor to the que’nah-zhin’tahg. My warning you of it has cleansed it and honor has been restored to the tradition. My duty is thereby fulfilled.” He raised his right hand, palm toward Dylan, and said, “May your Gods be with you,” and then bowed slightly, turned, and walked out.
“That’s just great,” Dylan said to the empty room. Then he took a long, slow, deep breath to test his ribs and decided that they were all right. He was a little sore otherwise, scratched and scraped, slightly bloodied, but he was pretty sure the Naku hadn’t broken any bones. Thank God. He glanced at his wristwatch and was surprised to see that it was already almost seven o’clock. He needed to hurry to the hangar before his pilot decided he was a no-show and disappeared. He rushed out, picked his crew bag up off the ground, and headed down the side street. After a brief search he found Private Hangar Fifteen, keyed open the door, and stepped inside.
The Comet-class civilian cruisers had been widely popular in their day. He’d remembered reading about them in history books the moment Geoff had mentioned that his ship was one of them, so had fully expected to find an old, beaten up, and rather unattractive vessel. But what he saw in front of him now was so old and beaten up that it was almost frightening. It looked like some kind of giant bug with short, stubby legs and two overly-long arms raised over its head in surrender. Granted, the twin jump nacelles at the ends of those arms looked relatively new, and the arms themselves were actually reinforced pylons that had clearly been modified to handle their design and the stresses to which their use would subject the hull. But the rest of the ship, at least what Dylan could see of it, was badly pitted and weathered, with traces of bare hull and weapons impact points showing through the faded, painted-on eagle design in numerous places where newer, as yet unpainted hull plating hadn’t yet been attached.
“I’m going into deep space in that?” he asked himself aloud.
“It’ll get us wherever we’re going,” Geoff’s sister told him from her perch in front of the ship’s nose hatch. Dylan looked up at her as he approached the vessel and found it a little hard to believe that she was the same woman who’d propositioned him the night before. She was dressed in a light blue flight suit that was fastened nearly to the collar and decorated with a variety of colorful, official looking patches. She’d pulled her hair back into a simple ponytail, but what Dylan could still see of it appeared to be a considerably darker, more natural shade of blond than what it had been. And except for a few light touches in just the right way, she’d forgone makeup altogether.
“Are you sure?” he asked as he started up the ladder to join her. “It looks pretty beat up.”
“It takes every spare federal we can get our hands on to keep the old girl spaceworthy. If she doesn’t live up to your standards of beauty, well that’s just too bad.”
“Hey, relax. I meant no offense.”
“Besides,” she continued, looking him over as he stepped up onto the platform. “She’s not the only one that looks beat up. What the hell happened to you?”
“I ran into a little trouble on the way,” he replied generically. “Nothing too serious.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’ll recover. It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“I hope not. Come on.”
She led him through the airlock and into the ship’s main deck, a long, fairly narrow and somewhat cramped room full of cabinets, a food prep unit, a small table with only two chairs, and a couch. “This is obviously the galley,” she said. “The flight deck is above us on the upper level, and lockers and bunks are this way,” she then added, pointing aft as she started walking in that direction. She led him around and past the gangway that led up to the flight deck to the back of the ship, where two levels of three bunks each were built into the starboard bulkhead and six lockers stood side-by-side to port. “The last locker is yours.”
“This little ship actually has room for six people?” he asked as he opened the locker she’d pointed to and started emptying his crew bag.
“What did you expect for an eighty year old ship?” she asked. Dylan looked back at her, hoping he’d heard her wrong but knowing that he hadn’t. “Excuse me,” she said defensively, “but beautiful new yachts don’t come cheap, you know!”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to. Look, asshole, if you don’t like our ship you’re free to go try to hire another one! But if you want us to take you on this mysterious deep space voyage of yours, shut up about how small and ugly our ship is! Got it?”
Dylan sighed. He was going to be spending a fair amount of time with this woman and her brother. He really didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot. “Got it,” he replied. “And I’m sorry. I meant no offense.” Feeling as though there was something more bothering her than just his opinion of their ship, he added, “That goes for last night as well. I really am sorry about that comment I made.”
She studied him closely, as though she were trying to decide whether or not she believed in the sincerity of his apology and should forgive him. Finally, she responded. “All right, forget it. But just for the record, you don’t know a damn thing about it, so do us both a favor and leave it alone.”
Dylan grinned slightly. “I will.”
She hesitated for a moment, then added, “I’m sorry I called you an asshole.”
His grin grew into a full smile. “That’s okay. I deserved it.”
“I’m glad you agree,” she told him, but before he could decide whether or not she was joking, she added, “And don’t worry about how old our ship is. Geoff brags about her with good reason. Over the last couple of years the Star Eagle has been completely overhauled. It just needs a good paint job.”
That was about the understatement of the century, but Dylan didn’t say anything more about it. He hung his empty crew bag on a hook and closed the locker door, then asked, “Where can I get cleaned up? I doubt you and your brother will want me bleeding all over your ship.”
“The head’s in the back, but Geoff’s working on it right now. There’s a sink in the galley you can use. Want some coffee?”
“Yeah, that sounds good.”
She turned and started walking forward again.
“Listen,” Dylan said, following her. “Since we’ll be traveling together, I think we should at least know each other’s names. I’m... Eric.”
“Nicole.”
“And your brother, Geoff. He’s the pilot?”
“He’s one of them. How do you take your coffee?” she asked as she reached into one of the overhead cabinets for a pair of mugs.
“Black,” he answered. Then he asked, “One of them? So there’s someone else coming?”
She filled the first mug, turned and handed it to him, and then filled the other. “Actually, there are three more people coming,” she told him as she sat down at one end of the table. “The ship can sleep six, so we take six.”
“It’s going to be a long voyage,” he reminded her. “Can the ship sustain six people for an extended period of time?”
“It couldn’t have when it was new. It was originally designed as strictly an interplanetary vessel. But with all the modifications Geoff has made and the upgraded equipmen
t we’ve added, we shouldn’t have any problems.”
Shouldn’t have? He kept that to himself. “So, who else is coming?” he asked instead as he set his coffee down on the end of the table across from her. He took off his jacket and draped it over the back of the chair, then turned to the sink to clean himself up.
“Our younger sister, Stacy, and Geoff’s two best friends, Carlos Garcia and Verdai Gen, the other pilot. They should be here any minute.”
Dylan looked back over his shoulder. “Verdai Gen?” he asked her. “What kind of name is that? Naku?”
“Yeah, he’s Naku,” she answered, nodding. “Why? You some kind of xenophobic?”
“Not at all,” he assured her, shaking his head. “Just curious.”
She accepted his explanation without further question and shrugged off the whole issue. “Okay, well... Gen is his given name, so call him Verdai.”
They fell silent while Dylan finished cleaning himself up as best he could—he would have preferred to take another shower to wash all the dust off, but the galley sink would have to do for now. He finished washing and then grabbed a couple of disposable towels and dabbed them over his scratches and scrapes, then sat down to enjoy his coffee. “Tell me about them.”
“Here,” Nicole said, handing him a napkin. “Your lip is still bleeding.” Dylan took the napkin and held it to his mouth.
Just then Geoff came forward, wearing a flight suit much like Nicole’s but in a darker shade of blue. He spotted Dylan sitting there and stared at him for a moment, then asked, “What happened to you? Insult someone else’s sister?”
“That’s enough, Geoff,” Nicole spoke up. “He’s already apologized for that.”
Dylan looked up at him. “Something like that,” he answered, not caring to explain.
“I’m not surprised. You got the money?”
“No need to beat around the bush, Geoff,” he commented as he reached into his jacket. “If you want something you should just ask.” He’d meant it as a joke, albeit a richly sarcastic one, but when he held the federal notes out to Geoff, the younger man snatched them out of his hand without response and started counting. Apparently satisfied that he held in his hand exactly a tenth of the price they had agreed on, he stuffed the notes into his thigh pocket, backed off a couple of steps, and then turned and headed up the gangway to the flight deck, closing the noisy sliding access hatch behind him.
