Young Rissa

by F. M. Busby

  “You’ve done a good day’s work,” said Liesel, “but all right.”

  He rose and walked toward the kitchen. Rissa called after him, “My thanks again, Ernol. I will see you tomorrow morning — and well rested, I hope.” He nodded but did not turn.

  Liesel shook her head. “All this young talent, and I never have time to keep tabs on who deserves a better job. Rissa, I’m glad you spotted this one for me before he got totally stuck in the servant mentality.”

  “He’s not stuck in anything,” said Sparline. “He follows status rules, is all. Raise his status, and he’ll adjust like a shot.”

  “Rissa, what do you think?”

  “Your status system, Liesel, is not clear to me. But about Ernol, Sparline is right. He has great potential.”

  “Well. Good.” Liesel stood. “Back to work for me, too. Still no word from Hawkman; maybe I’ll find his call on record.” She walked away, into the hall and then out of sight.

  Rissa’s coffee was cold, and she wanted no more. She felt drained, unready for the exercising she had planned. She sat, aware of Sparline’s gaze but saying nothing.

  Finally the other spoke. “The times don’t fit.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You met Bleeker, this and that happened — not to slight what did happen — you came out, and that’s all. Took you a long time to get home, I think. How’d you go — via the Slab Jumbles?”

  “No.” Sparline’s concerned expression belied her flippant words. “We stopped on the way — there was a clearing. I rectified my omission of yesterday. And I am glad I did.”

  “So I guessed right about him!”

  “A lovely romp, you said? Very much so — or he would be, if — you see, my body has never responded fully to any man.”

  “Rissa, I — I mean — ”

  “Nor to any woman, for that matter. But my gladness — that is for Ernol’s pleasure in our coupling.”

  Sparline’s laugh was shaky. “I didn’t know — I’m sorry. But as long as you didn’t feel you were being used — ”

  “I have been used before; perhaps I will be again. But it is not mere use when it is of my own choice.”

  “No — I suppose not. Well — as Ernol said, and Liesel — there’s work to do. Excuse me?” Rissa looked after her, wondering if she had said too much. Finally she shrugged — did it matter?

  In her room she dressed for exercise. Outdoors, she deliberately ran herself out of breath — then, panting, she practiced the most demanding of her skills. She leaped and dove, fell and landed rolling; she swung her legs in kicks that stretched tendons near to pain. Against a thick tree trunk she made the high kick that somersaulted her backward to land crouched, facing the tree to kick again or change attack if need be. Never did she pause to catch breath, but soon her lungs caught up to her pace and she knew she would not lose to fatigue.

  She ran again — not sprinting now but moving easily — bobbing and turning, stretching herself free of tensions, breathing long and deeply to fill her lungs with the moist, clear air. When she had enough and turned for a final run back to the Lodge, she could not feel a stiff or sore muscle. Aside from a few bruises, she realized, she had not felt so fit since her training days at Erika’s.

  Back in her room, she bathed — but in water not much more than tepid, rather than the heat of the day before. She was on a fine edge now; too deep a relaxation might lose it. There was a balance, she had learned — now was the time to keep it, very carefully.

  Emotionally that balance was precarious; she decided not to risk it. She sent word to Liesel that she would take dinner and next morning’s breakfast alone in her room. And she placed her orders for those meals — what she would have, and when.

  The rest of the evening, except for eating dinner, she spent in meditation. And now, rather than shutting her anxieties away, she was able to dissolve them. An early hour found her ready for sleep.

  Rissa woke slowly, stretched and yawned. She rolled over to doze longer; then the thought stabbed her: It’s today! She spread her limbs, muscles flaccid, until the premature adrenaline subsided. Then she rose and began to prepare.

  Her nails were shorter than she wished; she filed those of thumbs and middle fingers to the best points she could manage, and cut the rest short.

  Her breakfast, a light meal but sustaining, came on schedule. She had a free hour before departure time; she used it leisurely, and when she went downstairs, found herself untroubled by the thought that she might never see that room again.

  She listened, heard voices from the dining room and smiled. Of course — where else would they be?

  Five awaited her; she felt disappointment that none was Hawkman. Liesel, Sparline, Ernol, and two strangers. The large one, built like a bear — that would be Splieg, who poleaxed bushstompers with his bare fist. The smaller, thin-faced with a crooked nose, must be Lebeter the knifester.

  Before any could greet her, she raised a hand. “Good morning, and let me say something quickly. For what is to come, the mental state — the concentration — is most important. So with no thought of discourtesy, may I ask that none speak to me until we are in the arena, and then only of the combat itself?”

  One by one they nodded. Low-voiced, Liesel said to the others, “She’s right. I’ve heard of this — never saw it before, though. All right, I’ll say no more.”

  She led the way outside and to an aircar larger than the ones Rissa had seen here before. “You’re familiar with this model, Lebeter?” The man nodded. Liesel put a hand to Rissa’s shoulder, squeezed once, then turned and walked away.

  Lebeter took the pilot’s chair; Splieg sat beside him, leaving the broad rear seat for Rissa to sit between Ernol and Sparline.

  The sun was bright, the clouds few as Lebeter took them through the gap and turned toward One Point One. Rissa felt the weight of the silence she had imposed; in her peripheral vision she saw Sparline and Ernol watching her. Unable to be comfortable, she wriggled. Finally she took Sparline’s hand on one side and Ernol’s on the other. After a few moments she noticed that all three were breathing deeply and in unison. For the rest of the ride she relaxed with closed eyes.

  The aircar landed; they approached the arena, a fenced enclosure with guarded gate. Sparline looked in first, turned and said, “Hawkman’s inside. I’m afraid we brought you to no purpose, Lebeter — sorry. Roam as you will, but stay fairly near the aircar — we may be leaving in more hurry than we expect.” The man waved a hand in half-salute and walked to sit beside the car, his back against a landing wheel.

  “Formation,” said Sparline. Rissa found herself surrounded as they walked forward and through the gate — Sparline and Ernol in front and Splieg behind.

  Inside, as she strove to make a pattern, to identify those present, there was no help to relaxation. She first saw — and heard — dal Nardo; at the far side he shouted at a black-robed figure flanked by two in gray. Sparline muttered, “Harassing the referee already, is he?”

  Alongside dal Nardo, Rissa saw two men and a woman, none familiar to her. And half-hidden, behind a hulking shape entirely cloaked in robe and hood, stood Blaise Tendal. She blinked and saw Hawkman Moray approaching, followed by a tallish, slim man wearing a mask-hood. Hawkman and Sparline clasped hands, and he said, “We’d better do it. You tell her.” Rissa could not hear her reply.

  She looked further. The other two — the woman in white was, of course, the doctor, and beside her Rissa saw a girl with short tousled fair hair. The girl turned and she recognized her briefly-met friend, Felcie Parager. Felcie’s eyes went wide.

  “Oh, Tari! I was afraid it might be you — but I hoped it wasn’t!”

  “Breach of terms!” Dal Nardo roared it. “Officials supposed to be neutral! I claim foul!”

  Felcie cringed. “Sir — I didn’t mean anything — I only — ”

  Some things, thought Rissa, are more important than keeping to a plan. She pitched her voice to carry. “Claim and be damned to you! The
girl expressed nothing outside the rules.” In the sudden quiet she said, using a more normal tone, “And shut your great mouth. Your bellowing is not seemly before the event proceeds.” She turned away, disturbed to find herself near to shaking with rage. She could not afford this much stimulation so early — she took deep, slow breaths and began to calm again.

  Sparline took her arm and leaned to speak softly. “Not to distract you, but afterward — after you win, Rissa! — don’t be alarmed, or hesitate, at what you’re asked to do. It’s politically important, and no demand on you. All right?”

  Confused, Rissa said, “I suppose so — I trust you.” An arm hugged her shoulders and she looked up to see Hawkman’s smile.

  “All right, are you?” he said. “I’ve heard good things of you.” He moved away and consulted with the black-robed referee. Then that person spoke.

  “It is time. Tari Obrigo challenges Stagon dal Nardo, to the death. Weapons, none. Clothing, none. Seconds and other agreed parties are present. Now, if they wish, the opponents may speak. Challenged party speaks first.”

  Wearing a maroon robe, dal Nardo stalked to the edge of the marked circle. Beside him, covered by a shapeless cloak and hood, came the person none had seen. “Here’s what I can do,” said dal Nardo. “You’ll see! But first I’ll tell you, Tari Obrigo — you walking piece of fertilizer!” He laughed, and to Rissa the sound came like the stench of death.

  Then he talked. One by one he named the parts of her and what he would do to them — break this, crush that, bite away one thing, gouge out another — on and on, his harsh voice rising as he detailed a vivisection by hands and teeth. Then he paused and laughed again. “Maybe you don’t believe. I’ll show you. Here’s what I do only in practice!” And he pulled the cloak off the creature beside him.

  The sounds from those around her drowned Rissa’s gasp. Dal Nardo’s exhibit was a woman, tall and muscular — but she looked as though she might be better dead. Blood dribbled from a puffed, purpled socket that might or might not still hold an eye. Bare, bloody patches marked the scalp. Bruises and gaping cuts covered limbs and torso; one breast hung — a flattened, blackened mass — half-torn from the chest. An arm swung crookedly; the gaping mouth showed only a few broken teeth behind swollen, bloody lips. Below a raw cut closed by crude stitches, blood also stained the belly. And — and — shaking her head, Rissa closed her eyes and turned away. Dizzied, she fought to hold her vomit.

  A supporting hand gripped her arm; Sparline’s whisper hissed in her ear. “It’s a fake, most of it! Plastic and makeup! I recognize her — a professional kill-fighter from the Twin Worlds — she had only one breast when she came here; that messy-looking thing is pure phony.

  And the belly — the stitches are real, but the wound isn’t. Same with the eye, I’ll bet. The arm’s real — I hope she charged him plenty to let him break it. Rissa — ?”

  Her eyes opened; she straightened and shook her head. “Thank you

  — I am all right now. He is truly worth killing, is he not?”

  Again dal Nardo spoke — now of what he would do while his opponent was helpless but not yet dead. “Top and bottom, fore and aft — ”

  She turned to Sparline. “This, that he says, is legal?”

  “If death is, so’s rape. That’s how the code sees it, anyway.”

  “I — did not know. Is it, soon, my time to speak?”

  Across the way, it was dal Nardo who answered. “I’m finished. If the fertilizer wants to squeak like a mouse, I can wait and hear her out.”

  Rissa stepped forward, so that none stood between them. She paused — was it worth her while to speak? Yes! She nodded.

  Then she spoke. “As when I first met you, dal Nardo, you talk a great deal. I shall waste less time than you. If I squeak like a mouse, you — as I told you at our first meeting — shit like a bull, but from your mouth.” She saw his face swell and redden. “Ah — I anger you. That is good — your blood near the surface, easier to shed.”

  She breathed deeply — it was nearly time, now, and she would need reserve oxygen. “Thank you for warning me of your sexual intent. I shall make certain you are unable to fulfill it.”

  She paused once more, then shook her head. “That is all. Let us prepare and meet.” She turned to Sparline. “The grease — on my hair, a great deal of it.” She stripped and stood, air moving against her skin, while Sparline rubbed the oily gel into her scalp and down her hanging hair.

  “His belly looks tempting,” said Sparline, “but don’t bother. Under that fat, he’s rock hard.” Rissa nodded.

  Ernol said, “Look! She’s putting adhesive on his hands!” Rissa watched; whatever substance was being applied to dal Nardo’s palms, the brush did not come away easily. “That’s a big advantage, any time he gets a grab at you.”

  “Then grease me all over, Sparline — except for palms and fingers, of course, and soles of feet. There is more than enough to do it. Quickly, Hawkman — Ernol — help her — for the referee is preparing to call time.”

  She felt their hands spread the chilly grease over her; she looked across and saw dal Nardo rise and move forward. He shouted, “What are you doing? Another foul! This wasn’t mentioned in the terms.”

  “If it wasn’t mentioned,” said Hawkman, “then certainly it isn’t prohibited. Any more than that stuff on your hands.”

  “Then I, too, will be greased!”

  The referee spoke. “Do so, and quickly.”

  “I must have it brought.”

  “You are limited to what you did bring.”

  “They have plenty. I demand some of theirs.” Rissa laughed. Dal Nardo glared, but he said no more.

  The referee looked once more at each of them, and made sign to begin. Rissa could not shake hands; she touched fingers to her friends’ foreheads and stepped forth.

  Dal Nardo stood, waiting. She approached him, so close and no closer; he did not move. She stopped also. Still he made no move. She said, “I see the bull is constipated.”

  Then he did move, and it began.

  He rushed like a bull, too — but he needed time to brace himself and launch his great bulk. So, like a matador she waited almost until he reached her, then dove toward and past him — at an angle, her hip grazing his as her right hand clawed for his groin. She felt her nails catch and pull away, too quickly for real damage. But as she rolled and came up facing him, as he turned also, she glanced quickly at her hand and saw his blood.

  She looked to dal Nardo; he put a hand to his heavy, loose-hanging scrotum and looked at his stained fingers. The hand shook as he held it out, fingers spread. “I’ll reach this into you, and tear out — “ Not waiting to hear the rest, she leaped and caught his outstretched thumb in both her hands. Swinging up, braced on his reflex-stiffened arm, she doubled her legs against her belly — then smashed both feet toward his face. She felt one heel slip off to the side but the other caught him squarely, and pushed her up and over. Somersaulting, she kept her grip and felt the thumb give — she let go and landed on her feet, moving backward, almost falling.

  Nose gushing blood, dal Nardo charged. He was almost upon her, but she saw the thumb bent to the side and back. She stood fast and chopped at it, then crumpled and rolled directly into his path. The gamble worked; roaring with pain, he tripped and fell over her.

  She sprang up to face him, but this time misjudged his speed; he was up and moving toward her. Before she could dodge he backhanded her across the mouth and smashed the edge of his good hand into her side. She fell heavily, and from the pain she knew his blow had cracked or broken a rib — perhaps more than one.

  Spitting blood she scrambled, trying to get away and up; she sensed his kick coming and ducked her head but felt something gash her cheek. Desperate now, she rolled again; through the roar of others came Ernol’s shout. “The edge! Stay inside!” She scuttled sidewise, away from dal Nardo’s looming shadow. Finally she was on her feet; ignoring pain, she feinted a kick at his crotch and — as he fa
ltered — side-stepped, moving away for a moment’s respite.

  A shout — “Behind you!” Without thought she turned; a hand threw dirt in her face. Coughing, blinded, eyes running tears, she turned and ran — five paces, no more — then turned again and tried to listen for dal Nardo as she knuckled dirt from her eyes. But over the shouting, she could not hear.

  “Foul! Hold, dal Nardo! Your man can’t get away with that!” Then, blearily, she could see. Splieg stood, huge fist raised like a maul, the other hand against dal Nardo’s chest. And she saw Tendal skulking behind dal Nardo’s seconds, wiping his hands together.

  Without volition her hoarse croak came. “Dig your grave, Blaise Tendal! If I live, you are a dead man!”

  Behind her, Ernol shouted, “And if she dies, you’re twice dead!”

  The referee clapped hands together. “Are you ready?” Splieg gave dal Nardo a final push, making him stagger back a step, then walked out of the circle.

  “I am ready,” said Rissa, and looked again to dal Nardo. Now he moved more slowly — he had spent his greatest speed — but still he stalked her. A good time to attack, she thought — but her eyes streamed and her breaths came coughing. So she moved in and out, to the sides and back again, feinting and lunging, taking one great blow for every two or three of her lighter ones — and, in balance, losing ground.

  Her face ran blood; her side throbbed with pain. Her greased hair had fallen forward, partially, and she could not risk touching it, pushing it back.

  She was losing. So she attacked. But first she shouted. “It is time, dal Nardo!” She saw him stiffen, and set her mind to carry out the plan, no matter what it cost her.

  A feint to the groin; his good hand countered. Almost at the same time, she stabbed for his eyes and engaged the injured hand. Then she brought her free hand up, backed by a full body lunge, as though the stiff fingers could pierce his throat and emerge behind.

  His head jerked to the side; her thrust slipped off the larynx. He grunted and locked his heavy arms around her. Blood trickled from his mouth, and she knew she had not wholly failed. But now his chin was down; she could not reach that spot again.