by B. V. Larson
Looking around, I was confused. Where was the enemy? They all seemed to be down, bleeding.
“TIME!” Deech boomed from above us.
We backed off, tossing our weapons down. The fight was over.
The last Germanica fighters tried to rise, but they couldn’t stand. All of a sudden, I got it: Kivi had been running around, smacking kneecaps. She’d put down three that way.
The enemy fighters weren’t all dead, or even mortally wounded, but they couldn’t stand up unaided. In comparison, we’d lost Harris and no one else.
“Varus WINS!” Carlos shouted at the top of his lungs.
I shook my head at him. Now that the action was over, he was all full of grins and war-whoops.
The scoring committee took their sweet time getting to our pit. Armel, Turov and Deech made up the three judges.
Both Armel and Turov looked like they smelled something bad when they walked up to our pit—something real bad. In their defense, they probably did.
“Let’s see,” Deech said with a faint smile on her lips. “What’s the count here? One, two, three… four Varus still standing?” She managed to sound surprised.
My good arm rose up, and I shook my fist overhead.
“And… oh my, where are your Germanica troops, Armel?”
“They’re nose-down in the sawdust, that’s where!” I shouted at them.
The tribunes both gave me a brief glare, so I forced myself to shut up. It was hard to do. Nothing seemed to get my blood pumping more than an arrogant officer like Armel.
“All right then,” Deech said. “That’s a score of four-up, plus six-down. The total score for Group Nine is ten points.”
“What?” Armel demanded, whirling around on one sharp boot heel. “I know you have a sense of humor, but this isn’t the time or place for comedy, Deech.”
“I don’t understand.”
That was a lie. As a near-professional liar, I could see that plain as day. Deech wasn’t good at lying, most people weren’t. Oh, she could spot liars a mile off—but that wasn’t the same thing as coming up with your own convincing twists to the truth.
“Let me spell out the situation for you,” Armel told her. “Five men entered this pit on each side. That means the Varus score is nine, four standing, plus five down.”
“Ah,” Deech said. “You’re right, I did make an error. I forgot to count Sargon over there. With him added to the group, Varus would have eleven.”
Armel’s face reddened. He took in a long, deep breath and blew it out again, making his whispery mustache flutter.
“Are you saying these things only to irritate me? If so, it’s most immature.”
“Tribunes,” Imperator Turov said, stepping between them. “This is unnecessary. Why argue about the score—unless it decides the winner?”
Both officers looked down at her. Even wearing heels, Turov was a head shorter than either of them.
“Unfortunately,” Deech said, “it will make a material difference to the outcome. Clearly, as the third judge and our commander, the choice will come down to you, Imperator. How should we score this contest?”
Turov walked to the pit and looked over the fallen. Orderlies from the bio unit that was on duty to handle the event were helping the wounded and carrying off the dead.
“I choose Varus,” Turov said at last. “They put on a better show. That’s what these aliens want in the end, isn’t it? A good show?”
After rendering her verdict, Turov headed back toward the comfy seats. Her hips rolled as she walked—even more than usual. That had to be an effect caused by her new boots.
Armel fumed, and Deech managed not to smile.
“The score is final,” she said, “and with this second contest, it’s conclusive. Varus tied with several groups in the first heat, but the second was a clear victory. We don’t need to continue.”
“Only because they applied low blows,” Armel complained bitterly. “Let us pray their alien counterparts will have weak knees to strike at!”
“I sincerely hope that they do,” Deech said.
Armel turned on me, and he looked wrathful for a moment, but then his face softened as new idea overcame him.
“James McGill…” he said. “Never has a man so richly earned the fate that awaits you and your unit. In the end… well, I truly hope you don’t come to regret this triumph. That would be a shame.”
“Uh… thanks, sir… I think…”
Laughing, Armel whirled and marched away. When he’d gone, I turned to Deech.
“Sir?” I said, “I’m not sure I understand this whole thing. We’re to face aliens next? Is that it?”
“Yes,” Deech said, and she looked down at her scoring chart. “I… I’m sorry you weren’t properly informed. Every legion was called upon to choose a cohort as their champions. Of course, it wouldn’t do to have full units brawling at once, so we reduced the cohorts to small teams.”
Winslade stepped forward and spoke up. “Tribune?” he said, “I’d like to point out that I’m not actually in the direct chain of command between you and McGill, here.”
“That’s right,” Deech said. “Graves is in charge of this cohort. But the Imperator made a special request. Your name was placed on the roster as a representative high-level officer. She said something about it being good for your character.”
Winslade looked pale, as if he’d been slapped. He pressed his lips together so hard they looked bloodless and puckered.
“I see,” he said.
I got it, too. Turov had put Winslade in the doghouse. Who knew what he’d done to deserve it in her eyes? It could have been anything from failing on a private mission to forgetting to rub her feet at night.
“Burn…” Carlos said quietly behind us.
Sargon smacked him, which was a good thing, because that way I didn’t have to do it.
“What’s next then, Tribune?” I asked Deech.
She glanced over at the visiting dignitaries in their comfy seats then turned back to me. Was it my imagination, or was she checking out Armel the same way I’d been checking out Turov? It was a chilling thought.
“Take a break,” she said to my team, “and heal yourselves. There’s to be a banquet in your honor tonight.”
“A banquet?” Sargon asked, perking up. “I love good food.”
“Excellent,” Deech said. “You’ll learn more tonight, but this whole thing is somewhat shrouded in mystery. It was arranged by the Mogwa, after all. We’re players in this game—but we aren’t pulling the strings.”
Deech looked back toward Xlur, and I stared with her. A crowd of kiss-asses surrounded the alien, talking and sipping drinks. I hoped they’d enjoyed our spectacle of violence, which had apparently served the Mogwa as entertainment. From my position, they appeared happy.
“Look at them,” Carlos said, “all sucking up to Xlur. He’s got something like sixty toes, you know. I bet they’d lick them all if he asked.”
Glancing after Deech, I saw she’d moved on. If Carlos was going to start saying rude things, that was probably for the best.
“Should I smack down this specialist for you again, Centurion?” Sargon asked me.
“No…” I said. “No… because he’s right. I also want to apologize to everyone on my team in advance.”
“What for?” Sargon asked.
“In case it goes really badly,” Winslade filled him in.
“It’s tits-up already, if you ask me. It’s all Kivi’s fault, too. Damn girl, did you have to be born so tricky?”
“I’ll kneecap you tonight,” she said, “then you can ask me that question again.”
Carlos laughed and grabbed for her. They began making out, and I smiled remotely. At least they were happy.
For now.
-11-
To my way of thinking, an invitation to a banquet is something a man just doesn’t turn down. Heck, when the mess hall laid out the daily spread of chow, I was always the first in line. Always.
&nb
sp; So, it came as no surprise to anyone that knew me that I was up front at the officer’s mess that same night. My arm was in a sling, but that was just to immobilize it. The bio people had done their wet-work and shot me up with happy-drugs to boot. As a result, I was in a pretty damned good mood.
“Hiya, Imperator!” I called as Galina joined me in line.
She ran her eyes up and down my lengthy person and narrowed them.
“Are you drunk, McGill?”
“No sir! I’m a winner!”
She sighed. “Yes… I’m glad you’re happy about that.”
“What kind of a hellhole meat-grinder have we won, anyway?”
Her eyes flashed back to meet mine. “Who has been talking to you?” she snapped.
I blinked, not quite getting it. “Uh… lots of people. Mostly, they’re congratulating me on the beat-down we gave Germanica. Did you realize that Legion Germanica is one of the most hated outfits on Earth? The public looks up to them, sure, but the other legions—”
“Shut up.”
“Yes sir.”
A few minutes passed, and more people kept filing in. At last, to the rear of the procession, I saw flapping movement.
Xlur’s six limbs churned, and all four hand-like appendages hit the ground in a unique pattern. Only a Mogwa walked like that. To me, he looked like a cross between an ant and a chimp walking on all fours.
“Sure is strange to think about,” I said, eyeing him.
“What do you mean?”
“That some kind of bug-monkey critter like that can boss us around on our own home planet.”
“Don’t talk like that,” she growled at me. “Ever.”
“Right, Galina. Sorry.”
“I’m your superior officer. You will address me with respect, McGill.”
“Oh damn! I’m sorry, your first name just slipped out.”
Turov eyed me critically for a moment. “I think I made a mistake inviting you to this event. Just about anything might fall out of your mouth tonight. I think you’re going back to your unit.”
“Aw now, come on, Imperator! Don’t do that, I’m really looking forward to some good chow.”
Before she could answer, an unwelcome voice called out loudly from the rear of the line. It was none other than Tribune Armel.
“There he is! We are in great luck! Come, Chief Inspector, you simply must meet an amazing person. He’s a rising star from Legion Varus. He’s only a Centurion now, but mark my words, someday James McGill will run Varus. Some say he does so already!”
“Oh, hell…” I said in a low tone.
“That red-assed bastard,” Turov hissed at my side.
Jumping ahead in line, Armel marched past a dozen frowning officers like they weren’t there. At his side was the wobble-gaited Xlur.
Coming up to the head of the line with Turov and me, Armel gave us both a wide grin. We nodded stiffly in return.
“Tribune Armel,” Turov said. “It’s such a surprise to see you escorting the Inspector. I thought Equestrian Drusus was going to perform this honor.”
“I was under that impression too, Galina,” he said. “But apparently, Drusus had other pressing matters to attend to.”
Galina gave him a brief, hate-filled stare. She didn’t like people using her first name, especially if she outranked them.
Tribune Armel had a single sunburst as a rank insignia, which was more or less equivalent to a one-star general of the past. Turov, for her part, had two sunbursts. Drusus, the commander at Central, wore three.
“Well, in any case,” she said, forcing her face to soften, “we are greatly honored to see you at our table, Inspector Xlur.”
For his part, Inspector Xlur had been taking it all in. He was an arrogant prick of an alien, but he wasn’t dumb. Not by a long shot.
“Turov…” he said, working his tapper briefly. “Yes, I’ve found the reference. We’ve met before. But what is this oversized beast? What did you call him?”
He indicated me with a single pointing finger among many.
Turov and Armel both opened their mouths to answer, but I beat them to it.
“I’m Centurion James McGill, sir,” I said. “It’s an honor.”
Xlur’s eye-groups went to his tapper again. “Yes… the McGill-creature. I recall an encounter from the day of my… accident.”
“Ah-ha!” Armel hooted. “So, you’ve met McGill before, have you? I’m sure you must have a very favorable opinion, in that case. I like to call him a shining gem, hidden at the very core of Legion Varus.”
“You are an odd being,” Xlur said to Armel, then he turned back to eye me again. “Unfortunately, I lost some of my memory files that day, probably due to the inferior networking systems on this dark, backwater planet. In any case, I can’t remember any details about the McGill.”
“Dinner is served!” Turov announced, opening the velvet rope that held us all in check.
A flutter-fingered waiter rushed us, waving us back, but when he saw the ranks on those epaulets, he retreated and shut his mouth tight.
Turov showed Xlur to a table and waved a hand at me and Armel, indicating a different table. “You two will sit over there.”
“No!” Xlur’s translator box boomed suddenly. “I wish to regain something of my prior thoughts. I will dine with the McGill—and this odd, loud being as well.”
Turov showed her teeth in the tightest smile I’d ever witnessed. “Of course, Chief Inspector. The banquet is in your honor, after all.”
We took our seats around a beautifully laid out table. The silverware wasn’t only silver though. There were gold handles on every knife, fork and spoon. But that wasn’t the most amazing element of the ensemble. What really got me was the glassware.
Grabbing up what looked like the stem of a chalice cut from a solid gemstone. There was no glass, just the stem. I waved it at a passing waiter, who immediately approached.
“What would you like, sir?” he asked me with an accent that reminded me of Armel’s.
“Give me some of the red stuff,” I said.
He snatched up a dark green bottle and tilted it to pour. I let him pour it seemingly into my hand which gripped the iridescent stem.
My chalice was a fancy alien-made device. The intelligent glass sensed the falling liquid, and a field flickered into life. It captured every drop of wine, and formed a swirling globe that caught the light of the candles in our centerpiece as well.
“Hot damn,” I marveled, “would you look at that? I’ve heard about this kind of mug, but I’ve never held one in my hand before.”
“Taste your beverage, McGill,” Armel said. His chalice was half-empty already. “I want to hear how much you appreciate this particular variety of ‘red stuff’ as you call it. You should be aware that it cost Hegemony several thousand credits a bottle.”
“In that case,” I said, “maybe you shouldn’t gulp it so fast, sir.”
His eyes darkened, and his face turned red, but before he could shout at me, Xlur spoke up.
“Turov,” Xlur said. “Do I understand your system of ranks? Are you in command here?”
“You are correct as always, Chief Inspector,” she said.
“In that case, I’m appalled. You allow your subordinates to speak as they wish. Is that a failing in your leadership, or an affectation?”
“I’m sorry if they’re bothering you, Chief Inspector. Should I have them silenced?”
The way she said this last word gave me a pang of concern. It didn’t sound like she meant she was going to lightly scold us.
“Normally, I would demand it,” the Mogwa said. “But tonight I want to experience the confusion and filth that is Earth. I’m curious about your dim-lit ball of dirt. For some reason I keep hearing about it, although I can’t fathom what the fuss is about.”
“We are the Empire’s local enforcers in Frontier 921,” Turov said, clearly deciding to take Xlur’s words in the best possible light. “We’re proud to have served the Empire so w
ell.”
“What an inconsequential statement,” Xlur mused. “Perhaps it’s my translation box. It fails to perform well when interpreting fringe languages.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Turov purred. “Perhaps I could have some of our best techs see if they could fix it?”
“Absolutely not,” Xlur said stiffly. “That would entail a breach of licensing laws.”
“A pity.”
About then, to everyone’s relief, the food showed up. We were served wonderful dishes, including sea-brisket, squab and venison soup. I’d never tasted anything like it—and it was all good.
Xlur even seemed to be enjoying his food. He tried a few earthly flavors, particularly enjoying the squab.
“Is this a flying insect?” he asked.
“A bird, Inspector,” Turov answered. “It does fly, however, yes.”
“It’s excellent. You will have a thousand of these transported to my personal ship by morning.”
Turov’s eyes flew wide, but she recovered quickly. She popped her hands together, and a waiter rushed to us.
“What is it, sirs?”
She relayed the request without so much as a smile or an apologetic shrug. The waiter looked sick, but he nodded.
“I’ll see what the kitchens can do.”
He raced off, and I could only imagine the hubbub Xlur had created with his off-handed request. A few minutes later, I saw waiters deployed all over the mess hall retrieving every squab they’d laid out on other people’s plates. This caused some complaining, but after a few whispers and pointed fingers indicating our table, dissenters quickly fell quiet. Everyone knew our Mogwa guest had the right to eat our firstborn children, if he’d wanted to.
After the food was consumed, Xlur stopped listening to Armel and Turov. He instead eyed me with a cluster of optical organs.
“You’re quiet,” he said to me suddenly. “That’s unusual.”
“Uh…” I began. “Well sir, I’m the low-ranked man, and I don’t want to step on the words of my superiors.”
“A wise rule of conduct,” the Mogwa agreed. “But it’s a rule that you’ve rarely, if ever, practiced.”
