by A K Lambert
Anna continued, ‘Professor Thorpe doesn’t tolerate any disruptions in his lectures. How does Grace annoy you, Jon?’
‘She has her methods,’ Jon said guardedly.
‘And what are you up to this weekend?’ Ken asked Grace. ‘On that big country estate of yours.’
‘I’ll be playing hide and seek with my dog on Saturday, and spending the day doing martial arts on Sunday.’ She pretended to do a karate chop on Ken, being very girlie about it.
‘That’s why we love you, Grace. You’re so weird,’ Ken laughed.
‘And,’ Anna jumped in, ‘when are we going to get an invite to visit you there? You know we’re all dying to look around.’
‘Soon, I promise you.’
Their odd dynamic worked well. But there was one subject that they all agreed on, and that was that Jon shouldn’t be there.
He had a gift, and it wasn’t sociology. It was riding his bike. Ken had been pushing on the subject for some time now.
‘Given any more thought to the offer from the Fortune race team, mate?’ He was putting Jon on the spot again. ‘They’re not going to keep asking forever.’
‘I’d love to, but that would mean quitting university. You know that, Ken.’ Jon said, a certain shortness in his reply.
Ken didn’t care. ‘You have a duty to use that god given gift of yours, out there against the rest of the world’s best downhill cyclists.’
‘Seize the moment, Jon,’ Anna added. ‘Follow your dreams.’
‘College will always be here for you, Jon.’ A very rare opinion from Nigel, who up until now had thought of bike racing as a superfluous pastime, compared with academic studies. ‘Grace has her group of oddballs here to look after her while you’re gone.’
‘Was that almost a joke, Nigel?’ giggled Anna.
Even Grace was smiling. She never got involved in these discussions, as it would break her heart if Jon left. Krankel’s too. But even she was starting to see the time had come. She was also aware that she was probably the reason Jon hadn’t left already.
While Jon was away from the table, she promised the others she would speak to him over the weekend, ‘If I have time between doggie hide and seek, and Kung Fu fighting.’
Chapter 20
The Final Test - Cadre 188
Zerot - 190 Years Earlier
* * *
Birjjikk strode into the underground Combat Arena for the final time. The amphitheatre-shaped cave, carved into the granite rock, was a place she knew only too well. The six giant celestial monoliths spread evenly around the arena had borne witness to the butchery she and her fellow academy comrades had carried out here over the last ten years of their training. Six pens stood between the monoliths, holding Birjjikk and her five remaining comrades. The outer gates were still locked. Two hundred elders looked on. She stood there, as she always did, looking up at them defiantly, her gaze sweeping past those who would judge her today. As always, most of them avoided direct eye contact, feigning disinterest. But today, that would be the furthest thing from their minds.
Today the Final Test would decide who would become the leader and Player of Cadre 188, the next team to enter the Zerot Killing Games.
Birjjikk’s gaze moved to her comrades.
Opposite her was Graffojj, the one apart from herself to declare his intentions to lead. She would have to kill him if her leadership was to mean anything.
Aligned with her bid were Carffekk on her right, and Denttikk on her left. Carffekk was a very able warrior but had shown the potential skills of a master planner. Birjjikk had seen this ability early in their training and had spent many years cultivating a relationship with him. All of the great Cadres of the past had two common denominators, a brutal and ruthless leader and a master tactician. Denttikk was a beast of a woman and had hero-worshipped Birjjikk ever since her first display in the arena. She had taken instantly to the bear and took on the duty of caring for it. They became inseparable. Kindred spirits. But when Birjjikk was about, the bear only had eyes for her. Denttikk had always thought of herself as the best warrior of the group. One of the strongest she may have been, but she lacked finesse, and she never understood that. But Birjjikk was fond of her—in the same way that she was fond of the bear—and more importantly, trusted her.
Opposite her in Graffojj’s camp was Henkk to his left and Cumbajj to his right. Birjjikk would have had Henkk as her fourth team member—he was solid and trustworthy she felt, even though he’d chosen Graffojj today. Cumbajj hardly made it to Birjjikk’s consideration. She was vicious, but would never be a good team member. She always seemed to have a different agenda. She only made the final six because of the inferior skills of the remainder of the academy.
The object of this last foray into the gladiatorial arena was to choose a Team Leader. The unwritten protocol was that the adversaries for the position should fight to the death, and their aligned colleagues should play no more part than to ensure none of the other support players interfered. Non-interference was very rare, though, with emotions running high and the emerging feelings of the Brukkah breaking through. Things would often get out of control.
The Brukkah. All Zerot strove to attain it, but it was their curse too. For full sexual arousal, a Zerot needed to reach the Brukkah, and the only way this ancient race could get to that stage now was to kill. For most, frenzied killing was the only way to reach it. The Killing Games were designed to facilitate this.
Swords, daggers and handheld shields were the only weapons allowed today. All technology ordinarily available to them—which was formidable, their last twenty years of training had taught them that—was prohibited.
The outer gates opened, allowing the six young Zerots to enter the arena. They slowly walked to the centre and formed a loose circle. Birjjikk and Graffojj stepped forward until they were face to face. They drew their swords and crossed them formally. A small nod of the head from each of them acknowledging the formalities complete, and they stepped away again, rejoining the circle. They would now await the chief elder to start the proceedings.
Birjjikk studied Graffojj. She had fought him a thousand times. They knew one another inside out. As the two best warriors of the class, they had enjoyed trying to beat each other, no matter the means, laughing at and taunting one another in the process. They knew each other’s every move, could read every feint, could predict the other’s next move, attuned to the merest physical precursor movement. But now it was for real. To the death. Knowing that this day would eventually come she had held back some of her most daring moves. Fighting sequences she had spent endless hours perfecting alone and in secret, away from any prying eyes. She would be a fool to think he hadn’t done the same.
They both had Fangorn swords: a narrow and delicate single edged blade made for speed and accuracy, with a gentle curvature attained by hardening and quenching each layer of steel. The protracted polishing process made the blades gleam, the cutting edge the sharpest known to the Zerot. An elongated, jewel-encrusted hilt allowed single or two handed use.
The elder nodded, and a Grunz struck a huge gong to signal the start of combat.
Birjjikk crouched slightly and began circling Graffojj, feeling the others edging back to give them both room. Her opening gambit would be to lead with an advanced practice routine and see how he responded.
She set herself for Galka 9. A light thumb and forefinger grip, letting the weight of her sword create an angulation with her arm. Feeling for solid footing in the gritty sand of the arena, she lunged forward, slashing at Graffojj’s right side.
She felt the minuscule shift of his weight as he made a circular parry, deflecting her sword away neatly.
He countered with a straight jab that found only Birjjikk’s waiting shield.
She fended off his blow, and watched her short, sharp stab at his midriff easily parried by his shield.
Birjjikk stepped back, discarded her shield and with the same hand withdrew her dagger.
Galka 9 to the l
etter. Graffojj was happy to play the game for the moment. Did he have a plan, wondered Birjjikk? Or was he hoping she would tire first and make a mistake? She was obliquely aware of the other four, all shouting encouraging support to their would-be leader. Denttikk’s thundering voice was drowning out the others.
Galka 9 was finished off as well as a complete cycle of Gargalka 6, all carried out at blinding speed and incredible accuracy. Birjjikk remembered the words of advice from her sponsor Sammanna, of the Rebutti Dynasty. ‘Feed the men enough wire to allow them to garrotte themselves.’ Over the last ten years or so, she had done just that. And always making her technique appear slightly inferior to his. Always looking more tired and out of breath after training sessions. Millions of little ways to make him feel superior and invincible. At the end of each day, she would repeat the day’s training, enacting excellent technique and stamina.
After two more training cycles and little sign of Graffojj taking the initiative, Birjjikk took charge.
Now was the point where she would show her superiority—time to get inside his head. She left the practice routines and went into free play, slowly speeding things up, and sharpening her attacks. Graffojj dealt with this comfortably, but Birjjikk caught the momentary widening of his eyes—surprise at her change of pace. She was pleased with this and continued ramping things up. After another couple of engagements, she backed off, stepping back a couple of paces. They circled each other until Birjjikk reached her shield. She holstered her dagger and picked it up, making sure she kept eye contact with him, displaying supreme confidence. Win the mind game first, and the fight will follow, Sammanna had taught her.
She noticed Cumbajj acknowledge what must have been the faintest of instructions from Graffojj, and she started moving closer to Denttikk.
Is this his play? Is he planning some outside interference to break my rhythm and give him a winning advantage?
Birjjikk edged around to keep Cumbajj in sight. She was planning something now with Denttikk, hands gesticulating followed by the briefest of pushes to her shoulder. Whatever Cumbajj had in mind, Denttikk was taking the bait.
Graffojj launched an attack, which Birjjikk defended easily, and he continued Galka 2. She was disappointed with his lack of initiative, but decided to act out this latest practice routine until she fully understood what was happening in the wings. A few moments later she realised that she had misjudged Graffojj, this routine would have them changing positions halfway through and Denttikk and Cumbajj would be directly behind her. She could revert to free play and maintain her position but decided to stay with the routine and see what played out.
Halfway through the Galka 2 and Graffojj lunged to Birjjikk’s left, looking for an inside opening for a blow with his knife. She parried with her shield. He turned away from her swivelling 180 degrees so that could attack her sword hand. She followed his movement and parried again with her shield. Her back was now to Cumbajj.
She slowed the pace slightly to give herself more reaction time.
A brief glance behind her caught Denttikk shoving Cumbajj away. Giving the momentum Cumbajj needed to fall towards her and in the process, take her legs from under her.
She turned back to Graffojj. His eyes were on Cumbajj, and his body was tensing, ready for a death lunge.
Birjjikk was ready though, and as Cumbajj was about to sweep away her legs, she leapt, performing the start of a backwards summersault.
Her mind was set.
Graffojj was diving in for the kill.
Her rising left foot glanced off the flat face of Graffojj’s lunging sword.
She twisted, allowing her shield to deflect his sword further and felt his balance falter.
His side was now vulnerable. Birjjikk was still twisting, her sword nearly in position to deliver a death blow.
She couldn’t help grinning at how easy this was.
But her grin disappeared as she saw Denttikk dive in after Cumbajj; now aware of the tactics she was employing. An unwitting Henkk, sword drawn, was just about to drive it into Denttikk, thinking her the villain.
Birjjikk had a decision to make. Win the fight or lose a friend.
She thrust her sword downwards, driving it deep into Graffojj’s side.
As she rotated further, she lost her grip on her sword, now firmly lodged in his torso and caught sight of Henkk’s sword piercing the flailing Denttikk.
As Birjjikk completed her summersault, she found herself facing Henkk, his blade recovered from the dying Denttikk. Her eyes were enraged, and she was pushing him back with her shield, her other hand reaching for her knife. Henkk’s demeanour was stoic. His posture suggested he knew he’d acted correctly and wasn’t going to raise his sword to the Cadre leader. As she drew her knife, Carffekk stepped between them, facing Birjjikk.
‘Kill him, and we only have three in our Cadre. Henkk was acting honourably, he knew nothing of Graffojj’s plan to beat you.’ He watched as the rage slowly drained from her.
She stepped away from them and turned to her opponent and her friend, both dead on the arena floor. A sheepish Cumbajj had gotten up and was dusting herself down, unwilling to meet her eyes. Birjjikk turned and looked up at the Elders, raised her arms as if ready to scream, but didn’t. She bowed, but nothing about the gesture conveyed respect.
She motioned for the three remaining to join her. Carffekk, Henkk and Cumbajj complied. Cadre 188 was now complete. She led them out of the arena as their leader and Player, ready and eager to join the Killing Games.
Chapter 21
The Dory Family Trip to Earth
Preenasette - Trun Rizontella - 2009
* * *
The military apartments to the south of the Allacrom Central Command Centre in Trun Central Territories were as bleak as the surrounding landscape. Aesthetics were not at the top of the architect’s list during this development. Made from dark grey granite slate, they stood in endless rows of six-story blocks. All that broke up this monotonous continuity was the interweaving elevated mono-tram lines, all heading to and from the north: to the Command Centre, the Space Hub and the training barracks.
Kean DeMancer was making his way to his father’s house. His mother Lizetter made sure he visited her ex-husband as least every ten days, since joining the Reticent Guard he was apt to find reasons not to go. He approached the ground floor apartment of block 2506H apprehensively and spoke into the voice recognition entry system. A moment later and he was walking into the kitchen where his father was drinking Comfier tea. The layout of the apartment was identical to his mother’s, but it couldn’t be any different. One was a home, the other a place to sleep and eat.
‘Hello, Father,’ he said, helping himself to Cransome juice from the cooler.
His father, nose in some military document, looked up and smiled. A craggy, old wrinkly smile, but one with warmth. ‘Good morning, son. The gods of probability have ordained that we both get the same off-world posting. Who would have expected that?’
Kean breathed an inaudible sigh of relief. It appeared he would be spared the ritual admonishment from his father for not joining the Trun Squadrons after completing his military training two years before. He was expected by all and sundry to follow in his father’s footsteps, but, to his father’s disappointment, he chose a more covert career as an Infiltrator in the Reticent Guard. He hated the pomp and ceremony that was part and parcel of the Squadrons. He also wanted any advancement to be attributed to him, not who his father was. The main reason though, was that he was happier working alone than in a team, and in the RG that was considered a prerequisite.
He answered, ‘Yes. Who would have thought?’ His father looked very solemn, lacking any of his usual verve. Even when he was chastising him for abandoning family tradition, he did it with a certain charm and dramatic flare. That was missing today. ‘You don’t look happy about this posting, Father. Aren’t you pleased?’
‘No. He looked up, and Kean thought with surprise he was looking his age, something he was excel
lent at hiding. ‘I’m not. I’m the second in command of the Trun military, and I’m dragged away at a critical phase of the war with our aggressive neighbours to go and apprehend a teenage princess, for goodness sakes. I have at least two dozen men under me capable of this.’ He was getting flustered, his cheeks turning a dark sapphire blue.
Kean was confused. ‘Why has the Supreme Commander asked you, then? It seems strange.’
‘Zander hasn’t asked me. The order came from the Council. He was outvoted.’
Kean knew that politics had become prevalent in the Trun military over the last few years, but knew better than to press his father on the matter. He changed tactics. ‘Do you know what my role is? My superiors have told me little.’
‘That’s because your superiors know little. They’re being frozen out of the decision-making process, as are we.’ Kean had never seen his father open up like this before and was starting to think that some of the vague rumours whispered by so many might well be true. His father continued, ‘I know what your assignment is, but it’s not my place to tell you. The Supreme Commander will tell you in a few days time. He considered that. ‘What I can say is that your RG training will stand you in good stead, and I think you will do very well.’
A rare compliment.
‘You will be part of an advance party travelling by TW Sphere,’ his father continued. ‘And I will follow with a much larger military complement, a TC cruiser most likely. I’ll probably arrive a year or so after you.’
